Category: Musings

A Writer’s Pathway

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After over a year of planning the plots and ladders of The History of Ruth (H.o.R.) as an anthology, it has come to my attention that it needs expansion into a novel to do it justice. The idea for this particular story has been floating around my mind since 1999 when I was walking through the quad at U.M.B.C. in Baltimore, Maryland. That was when Ruth made herself known to me, and she’s been a naggy little bitch in the back of my psyche for decades now. Seems like a lifetime ago, and, in a way, it was. Back then, I was a different person, unable to articulate all of these things going through my head in a way that would make sense to anyone else. Unable or unwilling to share due to countless excuses. In those subsequent years, the story has been built and broken down more times than I can count. 

Back then, I thought that there needed to be a special alignment of time, space and energy that would propel this (awesome!) idea onto paper like some magical cosmic vomit in a series of epiphanies. After all, if it was not an interesting concept, it would not have haunted me all these years. As you can see from my lack of publication (except this blog space and my weirdo short fiction), that alchemy has not occurred yet. Instead, I was left molding a marble statue all this time, chipping away at it with a teensy chisel as time permits. 

*insert hand motions of tapping a chisel and a chink-chink-chink sound effect* 

That is the reality of writing–not the magic cosmic spew. Sure, some writers get struck by lightning and churn out a draft, then polish it and dispense for mass consumption with (what seems like) little effort. But, the reality is that, to master something, one needs to practice, practice, practice. Yup, bo-ring. Nose to the grindstone and butt in chair, day after day will win the prize. What is the saying? Ten thousand hours to mastery? Wonder where I am in that. By giving up the illusion that I am special freed me to write more and better and to be able to share it with others. Sure, I am still self conscious about it. But I am no longer scared that it isn’t perfect–whatever that means. 

I am a believer that there is a greater reason for the delay. It must mean that something did not feel right. Coming up with the ideas is never the issue. The fight is getting it translated from mind to the page. If I just wrote the first thing that came to mind, which I have done a thousand times, then pushed that out in the world, then it would probably fall flat and seem ingenuine. By accepting that it will be a pain in the ass and just getting it done bit by bit, it removes the emotions and taboos I built around writing that make it seem mystic. There is still emotion around writing, but I learned to channel that into the story, instead. 

A few weeks ago, I signed up to have my writing critiqued by others that actually write. This was the first time that I have asked for formal critique of my work, except for academic writing. Before, I would just have people read the self-edited stories and get general feedback. For the upcoming critique, I took the wrap-around story for my anthology that I had been stewing for over a year (above) and pulled it, coming up with a new wrap-around story just a week before the critique. I spent the day before and the hours preceding the video call restless and nervous. What if I am a terrible writer? What if it doesn’t make sense? What if they tear me apart? Did I do wrong to nix the other wrap-around and, instead, present something that was constructed in a flash? Don’t I need massive preparation to make something of worth? All of these concerns swirled around my jittery brain. 

The critique came and went. I survived. The group had a ton of helpful comments that let me tighten up my story, making it much better. I thought afterward, “See! You always freak out, but then everything ends up okay in the long run.” The new story was actually a much better fit for the anthology and gave me a whole new angle that I did not consider before. I thought about going back to my blog/website and changing my introduction and a few posts regarding H.o.R. being the anthology wrap-around. Instead, I am leaving it to (hopefully) inspire others who want to write to show the evolution of ideas/work and that it is a process that varies between people and has no defined speed. If you want to write, then write. Because that is what makes you a writer. 

The whole process is definitely taking longer than I would like, but, honestly, I don’t want to let it go until the story and characters absolutely ring true and I get it in the best shape I can prior to professional editing and/or publishing. Besides, I decided that I will do illustrations, which is taking some time. I want this, and every project, to be something that makes me feel happy, angry, scared, energized–everything, the same way I feel when I read works by talented authors. I want to emulate that phenomenon and share it with the world. I want to laugh out loud at the funny parts and exclaim, “Wha???” aloud at the plot twists while reading a book. You know what I mean…when your partner gives you the side eye because you seem to be talking to your book at the intense parts. There is no greater joy than being in the moment, taking a person out of their reality for a while, getting sucked into a story, eliciting goosebumps, chills or nausea right at the moment at which it was intended. 

There are no shortcuts through the tough stuff. Keep at it! Scenario drawing of another long-brewing story called The Narew Project. Eventually, this one will be released along with the other story podlings.

Day in the Life

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Let me start this by clearly stating that I appreciate all of the hard-working delivery folks. Thank you–especially in this time of need when many people cannot (or should not) be out shopping! I went to the post office today to pick up a package. This is a grueling affair on a normal day in the Bronx, NYC. Today, it is in the 80’s, humid as a jungle between rain showers and in the middle of a pandemic. 

Let me show you an example of social distance in the regular world: 

I_ I _ I _ I _ I _. 

Then, there is social distancing in the Bronx:

LLLLL. 

In addition to the sweaty reality of standing in line inside the balmy, recycled air of a government office, a drunk schizophrenic stands leaning on the counter near the front of the line. He mumbles gibberish, carrying on a conversation with an unseen person. That would be absolutely fine, usually–this is the inner city and homelessness and mental health are historically abominable. The thing that makes me nervous is the guy has a sudden crescendo in his garbled speech, stands upright (albeit in a light sway from the empty 40 oz. he left at the door) and reaches down to his right belt loop to his knife holster. He pulls the knife out, fisted in a hand that bounces up and down in the air, threatening his unseen acquaintance. That invisible asshole must have said something mean. 

I am at the front of the line and stand still, watching for signs if he will come at us. The line of folks behind me flattens against the wall. Dumbasses–don’t make sudden movements in front of a mad dog! Knife-guy has crazy eyes behind his blade when he looks in our direction, but I realize that he may not really register any of us standing there. The post office workers raise a tired eye at him behind their thick plexiglass and carry on their business. I stay still and observe, deciding that, if he lunges, I am gonna drop to a crouch and either punch him in the nards or do a badass low roundhouse kick and take his feet out from under him then tie him up with my headphone wires. The first would be better as I am out of shape and would most likely pull my back out attempting a spin kick, land on my face and get stabbed in my spine. 

Crazy eyes put the knife away again, continuing his unintelligible conversation. Then, he wobbles toward the end of the line with 8 pairs of eyes crawling on his movement. He uses his hands to drum an arrhythmic beat on the wall as he heads to the back corner of the room behind the last person. He puts an elbow on the back wall and leans against it, palm against the side of his face, still muttering away. 

Meanwhile, I approach the register to retrieve the package that they refuse to deliver to my doorstep (the whole point of home delivery). I appreciate it that they don’t want my stuff to be stolen if left outside the apartment building, but I have consented for them to leave my packages at the door and accept the risk. I have told them this multiple times and they promise that the delivery guy won’t do it again. Mmm-hmm. I know for a fact that they don’t even ring the bell as I am waiting for the package at home ALL DAY. I got the alert that it was “delivered” but the doorbell never buzzes. Then, magically, a “missed delivery, come get your shit” sticky note somehow appears on the entrance door of the apartment. It is coffee and vitamins, for goodness sake, hardly the Hope Diamond. I should make a complaint again, but I hate doing that. If I do, I now have the proper fodder: Post office trips not only eat my time and soul, but apparently put me at risk of being stabbed.

It could happen anywhere! Real-life nursing school homework from a colleague, 2020.

Marinating

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Bronx, June 2020. Still stuck in it.

I awoke early this Saturday morning to what sounds like the soundtrack for The Omen. Why are dreadful, frightening opera/chorus pieces being blasted through someone’s stereo at this time of day? I look to the light clinging to the walls around my curtain to guesstimate what time it is. The sunlight seems far after dawn, its hands creeping through the window, waiting to gain purchase and pull itself inside. It seems grey today, flat, without warmth.  

That is where bitter lies. Between the sheets and blankets, sweating on itself into the morning hours. Turning over for a fresh spot without calm, always in motion, even in dreams. It is exhausting, causing strange headaches and pressure in the sinuses from the altitude. Too dry up there. Should have hydrated better before we died for the night. Instead, like the Grey House, I wait in mummy form. I don’t mind, until it chases away those who are watching and waiting. Oh, don’t test me. I will outlast them all, lying here. There are many things that we have learned to allow around us instead of interacting and attempting to affect everything. Too much to stick a finger in, so I let it flex inward instead. As the tissues dry, each finger curls in invitation to lie down and be calm, patient. Ten soldiers at rest, pointing at me. 

Between the headaches and waves of nausea, two eyes peer steadfast out of the other hole in the blankets. The swinging of the fan blades creates wind tsunamis with its movement back and forth. I see two white dots in a field of black, the reflections appearing there, moving in tandem to follow any new focus. The slight air current makes them blink out of existence for a millisecond, making me wonder if I am seeing them floating there at all. 

Emergence from blankets reveals a face around those eyes with their specks of reflections. The tiny worlds in her hair get blown about in annoyance by the air, so she ties it back, even though it’s short. Now, if she moves her head in an abrupt way, the tiny ponytail wiggles like raw chicken pulled apart and hanging by a tendon–like the articulations in a leg or a wing with the quivering fat and skin following in the breeze behind the mass. 

Or, was it a him? They are all the same. All in one, those that hide. Either way, don’t press on its belly or else it will spew back up the snot it’s swallowed all this time. It is rather unfortunate to taste it once, let alone twice. Let it pass past the sphincters and let it be done.

Down Below

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I am so far not liking the supernatural elements of Penny Dreadful: City of Angels (CoA). Are they supposed to represent spirits, demons, good/evil and/or to mirror division of the races and the fear that gripped LA at that time period? All of it is mostly about people drama. The first Penny Dreadful series was straight up fun with monsters and evil. We all already know that people are evil. The new series does have cool costumes, though. Guess I need to continue to watch to find out how it will evolve. Oh wait….

I can’t! I needed to cancel my premium subscriptions because my greedy provider decided to significantly increase my monthly bill without explanation. Price gouging is not any urban legend here in New York. I get it, we are all under duress. Personally, I really need the TV (and/or streaming services) to take my addled mind off of the crapball situation that the world is persevering at the moment. The stories on my screen or in pages are some of the only things that make me feel better–or, at least, let me forget everything for a while. This is one of the reasons that I write–to gift that little slice of forgetfulness of the world to myself and others.  

Back to the CoA commentary, though. The soundtrack is quite good from what I can hear so far, sort of reminds me of the vibe of an Universal Hall Pass song, “Katrinah Josephina” (below). I will most likely seek out the CoA soundtrack for background listening while writing once it presents itself. 

The next item of commentary is on one of the killings that occur in the series that was quite realistic and exceptionally graphic (spoiler alert-ish, so beware). First of all, I must say that it is quite difficult to gross me out. Loving the Horror Genre as I do, there are only a handful of scenes over years of material I’ve enjoyed that have made me wince or get a little nauseous. Besides, after years of healthcare in both Baltimore and New York, plus working in Emergency Departments, you can imagine I see things that are horrible on moral, spiritual and physical levels in real-life, too. 

The scene that made me pleasantly disgusted was the killing of a member of one faction of the other by slitting his throat with a switchblade, which was wielded by an inexperienced youth. Generally, when throats are slit on movies/TV, it is a straight and unwavering sort of cut–deep and final. Those actors usually grasp their neck across a wound that resembles a choker-necklace made of blood as they make gurgly noises. More often than not, there is an open expression of surprise on their face as blood seeps through their fingers before they fall to the ground to die (and the bad guy inserts a witty comment right there). To be fair to the actors, I suppose I would also be surprised if that happened to me.

The one from CoA is different than the norm above, which is exactly why I liked it. This is what I would imagine it would really be like; needing several cuts and sawing through the sinew of the neck to ensure the vessels were caught. There was no mercy in it, just frantic sawing and stabbing, like a brutal butchering of an animal to make sure that it was dead, or else it may turn around its accusing eyes on its assailant. For the CoA scene, they may have well used a spoon with all that effort it seemed to take to cut through this guy’s neck. I’m thinking someone needs their switch blade sharpened. Well done, whoever thought of that one–I am glad that there are still creative ways to gross us out. 

As taken from ZeraFang’s YouTube post

It Will Get Better (orignal post April 29, 2020)

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It generally takes some filtering to decide what goes up on the blog. Out of goofy rants and stories, there is also an undertone of genuine curiosity for life with its dangling thread of darkness wafting in irregular spurts in the breeze that my hand attempts to grasp along its voyage. That thread is tied tight to that poofy balloon of All That Goes On In The World Up There, which threatens to, one day, lift us away above it all. Until it does, it floats on across the landscape–at a critical mass going no lower or higher–just, moving forward. Curiosity does not always communicate into correctness. It is part of something innocent and wide-eyed. There remain posts when the mind is cut clean and blah-blah-bleeds to the page like the top of the head coming off of Canadian South Park Characters when they talk. 

Then, there are the timid that come vigilant to the spot where they think the thread will travel with best guesses and lots of calculations and numbers. They lie down and wait for it’s tail to wisp over the face. If it does, then there is instant understanding of where to go to get the next clue. The chase commences when the wind blows alternative directions. We cannot all run around grasping. Nor can all of us lie down to be the backs upon which the saved shall tread. Most of us are just moving forward just like that balloon, day to day, patching a path in front of us one step at a time without realizing from what material of the path is made.

An old colleague died by suicide and it made me pause. In this world, and in healthcare, we seem to just go from one task to the other, doing the best we can with often no thanks and often many criticisms. We act tough, but are only human ourselves. We need to remember that, though our job is to help people, that we need help from each other, too. There is help out there. If you need it, don’t be selfish–reach out for it–to family, friends or even strangers. You can get through it.

UPDATE March 31, 2023: Now the U.S. Suicide & Crisis Lifeline https://988lifeline.org made it easy to connect by allowing emergency access by dialing 9-8-8 instead of dialing the full number! Click the links above or below to access help or call 9-8-8 to get connected with services.

Home
Someone is ALWAYS there to listen!

Time Warp

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Yellowstone National Park, 2016

Every year I seem to get stuck in a time warp as the end of the year comes, usually starting in October. During this time, as the weather cools, time alternatively crawls or leaps in unpredictable patterns, making me dizzy and irritable. I often lose track of time–sometimes even full days–as there is no set schedule for my work days and they all run together in a rolling blur. Days grow shorter and people seem to either become more withdrawn or more restless. That vibe can permeate even when it is meant to be a happy time during the holidays. This listless forward motion is cut with moments of gratitude, such as stopping to watch a sunset, or witnessing a random person helping another in need, a kind word, etc. Sometimes those things get lost in the background chaos, too. 

Starting somewhere at the end of January, the Darkest Depths are found. Several months are spent clawing back out of the Hole in Space and Time that morphs together with trippy lights and sound effects like, “wha-wha-wha-wha”. Or, maybe, “wier-wier-wier-wier”. Or, some smoosh of those two noises as I fall down its silo. It’s hard to concentrate on life duties while all of that distraction is occuring internally. It takes effort just to be awake some days. The walls of the Depths are made of gelatin. Irregular hand grips can be seen, distorted below the refraction of the gelatin’s surface–so, I know there is a way back out. It’s impossible not to have gooey, cramping fingers due to holding so tightly in fear of the surface peeling away from its matrix with me in tow. When the piece pulls away from the wall, it tears with its handhold and me dangling from it, gently bending like a flower petal heavy with a raindrop. When this occurs, grip is usually lost and I find myself slurped right back down into the dunghole from which I just crawled. Damn you, gelatin. 

I look up to the darkness at the end of the silo and start the climb again, trying to forget how far I got last time before I fell. Each trial must be seen as new pursuit. I try to maintain curiosity or else I would just stay at the bottom and await starvation. 

I generally feel like I am missing something during this time period, but can’t put my finger on what that would be. It seems as if I am searching for some greater meaning in the end of one year to the next. The ability to remain calm becomes very difficult with all that introspection over what Was (or Was Not) done and all of the things that are still on the TO-DO list that stares me down, awaiting action.  Add that to even more crowds and people that are stressed, and the external struggle is real, as well. Especially in the city. As the world gets bigger, I need a smaller focus. Thoughts turn to look at the world and myself. As the crowds surge, I tend to withdrawal. I consider where I am in life and where I fit into all of this. This generally turns to replayed thoughts, fatigue and worry sometime after the new year. 

The goal of each passing year is to let this all go, which is a work in progress. Life is about progression–moment here, moment gone. It is much easier to be aware of my responses to all of this as I age. The point is to be aware, but not fixating. If I get stuck in the past, or am constantly considering the future, then I miss the miracles happening right in front of me.

Scary S**t from Childhood

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I just realized that I want to be the lovechild of the Boulet Brothers, David Wong and Terry Gilliam. “You gon’ be a lonely girl,” she just told me. But, I don’t care. I am what I am and I have to finish my shift. The only Being forced to live with me is ME and I cannot get bogged down in minutiae right now.

Moving on:

The topic is “scary shit” from an American childhood in the 80’s. It was special back then, as the media was pushing us to touch and feel, getting out of our TV Home comfort zone. Stop-motion, clay, puppets and slime, special effects, epic landscapes, gore, fantasy and functional makeup–really interesting and flashy time with Art, as always. 

Feel free to comment as the Wells of Childhood Traumas are everflowing/never dry. Yes, the Wells are capitalized as if it is a place. Those who have visited there know it. I may not have experienced what you did, but I can feel the hurt and shame, just the same, and can identify with you as a human. We were standing at the Wall together, wherever you were. I See YOU and I Hear YOU. You are NOT alone. I shall seek this common thread…

Fruit Bat! Maybe this little lovely can cheer us up. Image from imgur itseffinrae

People, weez are yer people (Gollum voice, Dork2). Here goes. Yes, I know my mind works in a strange way. I have gotten thus far in life. It is tough to be different. It is supposed to be slightly uncomfortable. I can amuse myself if it comes down to it. After everything, it seems an almost flippant response; it fastens me to thinking, and thinking can sometimes be the flatulent enemy. Gas filled, all of us. Need to treat ourselves better and/or get over ourselves. OK, task at hand…

Skooooorry stuff, y’all. Built me to what I am today. Look it up in the endless web and synthesize your own view from the perspectives of the past. Could you imagine a similar existence than we belay? Bet Not. In the South, we can go very dark in past deeds. It is so thick that I can hardly walk with these coagulated webs. I abduct my arms to view the damage of the layers. But we don’t linger long because the future is waiting…Don’t get caught up!

Yes, I realize, this is becoming a little strange, but humor me…

Chide-hood FKT 4Eva (Yaasss Marky Mark) Lszt:

Seeing bubbles before my vision was my first memory, looking up, through their distortion to the heavens on a cloudy day. I think that I was 3 years old, maybe smaller. I vaguely have the sense that people are drinking tea as I die. An idea that it may be around April. 

Hmph. Figures I’d die in the Spring. Friggin Spring. The goldfish swam above me and my eyes lazily went up towards the Heavens that Remained Ambivalent. Bubbles break the surface while I commented, unable to enable speech, but clear in diction to me. Eyes moved to look at the gloom around me. The coolness on my eyeballs was slightly reassuring as new tissue gets exposed to air–or, Wait! No air. In the water, there. The globes of my eyes rotated on their axis. There is pressure as I moved eye muscles towards the clouds, sinking down. This moment may have been the end until my Grandmom pulled me out of their small Koi pond. 

Yes. Beautiful. Life. And Death! Beautifully destructive to continue the churn of awareness. We must be some type of warriors. The world has always had a curious disposition since that point. 

Again. Moving on! Focus, please, Fool [smacks back of my head]. 

*clears throat*

List of 80’s scary Shit (if you were alive then, or a weirdo Horror/Fantasy aficionado, then you may recall) in no particular order:

–Death of the Emperor and the scene of Chamberlain screaming while being disrobed in The Dark Crystal (1982)

–Death of Queen Admira in The Hugga Bunch Movie (1985)

–The Wheelers and those whack-assed Rocks in Return to Oz (1985)

–Large Marge, of course (Pee-wee’s Big Adventure, 1985)

–Dumbo’s trip with the Pink Elephants (1941 and re-released by Disney seemingly once a generation to scare the living shit out of people anew; Be like “Aw, little dude, you are abused and really high, don’t freak out, It’ll get better. Hug Mama.”)

–Heffalumps and Woozles (The Many Adventures of Winnie the Pooh, 1977)

–The Helping Hands and Trash Lady from Labyrinth (1986)

–Stuck behind the glass and Jabberwocky scene in Alice in Wonderland (1985)

—An American Tail (1986) “There are No Cats in America” song 

—The Secret of NIMH (1982). Nuf Said.

–Gmork with his eyelids pulsing up and down with evil delight, representing the Nothing in The Neverending Story (1984). And the scene with the horse? Ugh, broke my heart.

–(Indiana Jones is a repeat offender and one of my all-time favorites.) The death of the Nazi dude in Raiders (1981) and then again in Last Crusade (1989) with the cup of Christ. I probably should have been more freaked out by the Temple of Doom (1984) when that guy gets his heart ripped out/lowered into the fiery pit in undead sweaty panic. Instead it freaked me out more that there were flies all over the food that the villagers that sent Indy to his adventure were eating with their fingers. (OCD and first world innate psychosocial entitlement strikes again, I guess). Then, the alligators rolled around in glee while feasting, huzzah!

–“Perils of Punky” 2-part Punky Brewster (1985) crisis that I tried to pretend didn’t happen

—The Navigator: A Medieval Odyssey (1988). Yeah, probably the whole thing.

–Death in Adventures of Baron Munchausen (1988)

–Beta in The Last Starfighter (1984)

The 80’s were when we started talking to the computer, the Void in an android form. We got used to, as I am now, finger fucking computers to write words and process the crazies that flow out of the head. Like poking your finger in the clay of the Earth with a “pffft” to break the crust on top and the energy escapes from underneath. IN-teresting.

Instead of paper or just acknowledging a presence, we are again in the age to touch. We have you, dear electronics. Wrangle reasoning if you can. Touch screen, touch people. 

This is certainly not an exhaustive list. Feel free to comment if you have others.

WermHole

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Apathy can only project you so far until you Peter out in the swamps of irritation and begin to pitch and bail the dinghy while knowing you are going down. (Sorry Bandi, you know I Love You, Baby. *wink *wink. You too, Judit–double wink* for those who know us). This facade is a nonsense part of life and marriage, thank you for understanding in advance. You da, You da bess.

The situation set before us is actually a horrendous state if you are only feet from the shore and you just don’t want to ruin your outfit, however, the macro to SURVIVE kicks in and you are on your way. [This is planned.] But, gosh, it sure feels organic. I can be fooled by sandworms and gags, but the feeling is left idling on the stove in a simmer. It is impossible to ignore or compromise your Safety–whatever that means for you and me. 

I am generally not liking the feeling of bouncing or belittling, having experienced it far too many times myself and would rather we both just have fun. But, there is a dense implication here. And one that should not be ignored. Each person should air their feelings, don’t linger, but say what you mean for a change. It is super uncomfortable and feels like the apple peeler against the arms, but, you will settle in and be better in the long run. Let Auntie Kristie tell you about it. Let Auntie Matthew tell you about it, too. Cross pollination is what built the world of bees and people. Let it Bee. Haha…sorry, just couldn’t help myself. 

I see you, and I just want to Pause you in your armor, give you a smidgeon of the overwhelming incompetence that I am fielding right now. Bring you back down. Then, you would understand, that we can both bail the boat because the issue is not right or wrong, but a different question altogether. Speaking of the Altogether, I leave you with the amusement of Orbital: Meltdown, with whom I spent many days listening in the Woods and running for my life. 

Thanks and credits to Serotoonladder for posting the Orbital Vids.  

In all seriousness, Have a plan B. If that plan does not include people, then, make it so! Use your God-given awkwardness to exclaim, “I’m here, I’m Queer!” Oh, wait, that just sounded like a great rhyme. Love ya qweenz, but I have to get back on topic. Y’all. You already know. There is nothing you can do for a sinking ship. Do not waste your energy. Funnel it into something that you love and go ‘head and LIVE. 

Yer Yarn on Black Friday

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Mockup ideas for my History of Ruth Anthology

The question was asked, “Where are you in your yarn?” My face doesn’t move, but my thoughts pull free from the backs of my eyeballs as if somebody snatched my brain right out of my occiput. My eyeball nerves spin around each other, more rapid by the millisecond like helicopter blades, creating a migraine between my ears bad enough to think the Devil decided to use them to do hemp weaving. The cyclone motion created by my whirring eyeball nerves drives its spiral down into my guts into that empty space not meant to see the sun and I feel like diarrhea. Yes, you got it. Both the thing and the act.

Please remove your happy face from my direct line of sight. I am not the golden calf and don’t have time to placate you at this very second. I am waving my hand at you like you are in front of the TV. Or perhaps a strange safari communication technique. I just want to write, because I feel like…

…if I don’t…

…the less clicks the keyboard sticks, the more sure that my heartbeat sputters words, like cholesterol dulling each dwindling beat on the hardwood floor. The words splay like jacks around me, clacking their little pointy ends along their way away from me. Oozing and pointy, little letters trying to escape.  

I peruse the day that lay before me and consider that I may be taking things a bit too dramatically. So, I take off my sweatshirt and hang my head upside down on my bed so my short hair swishes the floor as I shake my head clear from the overwhelming black blanket of the Hole (the place that I fall through and lose track of time while writing).

Ah, yes, there it is. Despair. Thin and long. Stretching out to infinity so that you squint enough that your eyes go bad, an active aging through its acts. Where does it end? Never does! Ha! Just like the character in Ender’s Saga (by Orson Scott Card), tracing the path and counting the grains of the wooden floor until infinity comes to claim me. But, with much less insight and popularity. 

Self imposed goals and paths. Self imposed tortures along the way. Such is the task of the writer. Like taking a putty chisel to the well-thickened semi porous residues of the white plaster waves inside my skull. You could probably grow flowers inside there. But, that’s another story. 

“My ‘yarn’?” I say, laughing with a smile like a conspirator. “Going just fine. Wish it would stay in one place enough to catch on to something linear. Water wiggle thoughts.” I hesitated a beat, then said, “But, it’s ok to not grasp them completely. Just allow myself to be amused and see what I grab that day. I always think I have time to ponder them later if they are worth anything, and I hope I do. Sometimes good ideas come in pieces.”

I think that was too much talking for my coffee companion. They ask for a meet and greet and I am standing in line while waxing poetic like a backwards Barbara Walters. Least I didn’t cry. But there is still time.

The Red Dot

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The Red Dot haunts every frame of every application, website or any computer shit/blah-blah electrocommunication with which you shall interact. This “Red Dot” is the name given to that minuscule electronic task that gnaws at the soul of the day. The message, flag, marker, jellybean, etc. It is something undone, something that remains outstanding. It is a torture device implemented by the Powers That Be in order to create a sense of anxiety and forward motion in modern society.

I hear myself speak on this topic and am already laughing to recall outspoken proprietors that had a similar view and came before me. They used words such as “arcane,” and “byzantine,” to describe modern computer systems, just as those before them likely did. It creates excessive huff and puff, but, really, we are kooky, friendly, and the most loving people you shall meet. We just don’t like unnecessary clicking. 

But! Back to the task at hand! The Red Dot that is the pinnacle of human conditioning! It forces a person to move forward with whatever it is that the marker represents. Yes. Done. Mark in the sand. What’s next? This phenomenon is A.K.A, “Light a fire under your ass.”

Why Red Dot? Mother Computer is hovering over the mountain of this Toilet of a Time Period, alternatively relaxing and squeezing her pelvic floor muscles to express the unnecessary fluids that no longer belong. She thinks that this ordeal is private, but we are all watching, of course. She stands, immense at the top of the mountain, palms together above her, red flowing through the constraints of the body of geology, and shaking the frame from the pain.

“To Do”. Yes, we all know. To DO. Not to sit for hours liking Facebook posts and clicking your fake nail on your screen while gossiping about the nature of the Lakers in order to get a hit. 

Are we at a GWAR concert, at work, an art exhibit, political debate or are we now discussing the end of the world as we can plan? One shall never know, You Sicko. I wink at you through the computer. Let’s discuss in person sometime. 

That Red Dot of doing things applies to every job, everywhere. There will be some flag or other means of communication to tell you “To do.” This thing is done, that thing is done. Pass along. Get on the conveyor. Just go. 

Be aware, though, that they represent very important things in some instances. If time is not taken to realize the impact of actions, or to diffuse a bubbling problem, then you should prepare for explosion. But, the check box persists and is now sending its opinion through your computer… 

It is in the periphery, you know it has to be done, but it won’t come forward or sink away. Deal with it. Then move on. Such is life.  

The rat in a cage may push the button for drugs instead of nestling into an area to find comfort. I am pretty sure that I just threw a bunch of historical, psychological, observational and controlled-trials together to make a sort of greatest hits mashup. Hey, this stuff can happen. We should know how people react to it, right?! [To better control them, most likely.]

The point is, is there any difference between addictions and your tasks? Think of how hard it is to say “No” to the Red Dot. It is human nature. We want to complete tasks. 

Not saying it isn’t our fault. But not saying it is, either.  

Conservatoire National Supérieur de Musique et de Danse de Paris, 2018
Paris, France, y’all.