Rocks

A round of Words in 80 DaysA proper check-in this time, woohoo go me. I’m still not over the ickies, but they boy is, and no shit, that’s even better than me being well.

So I’m amusing myself to no end, my contrary nature never ceases to amaze. I set out this round to specifically not write fiction, to focus on expository, and wouldn’t you know it, fiction is all that’s coming.

“I write because I don’t know what I think until I read what I say.” ― Flannery O’Connor

That’s part of it, I think. I need to work out what I think on certain subjects, and it’s easier to do that in fiction than non. Plus, I doubt many people actually give a fuck about my opinions and thoughts on the metaphysical, so why stress trying to write a cohesive essay, why not just make up a story around it?

I did get some expository in, just over 1,000 words, but I’ll be honest, it was a scheduled piece, it wasn’t just ‘hey let’s write this thing’.

So goals:

Word count is 12,889. If my calculations are correct I’m still about five days ahead of the game. Fucking a. I’m so proud of myself 😀

Also ran not one but two pieces in the magazine this week. Feast or famine, I tell you. Next week it will probably be back to famine. I’m absolutely consistent in my inconsistencies.

At any rate, I am on target all the way around. Go dog, go!

 

 

Head Like a Hole

A round of Words in 80 DaysIt’s tempting to blow off another check-in but it’s been way too long since I have. I spent last weekend being horribly sick (what the fuck is up with being sick this year?), and this week both digging out from under it and being strangely productive in other areas. In other words, no words. Or, not many.

Although I just looked it up, 1698. Which is definitely more than not many. So grand total is 10171, which is right about on target?

Oh shit, just did the math on that, I’m still running over a week ahead. we’re 42 days in and I should be at 8400.

Yay. Maybe having my graphics card shit the bed  desk won’t totally wreck me. Thank the Gods my writing is all stored on the external drive. Smart thinking there, Brenda.

It’s also tempting to back out of here without mentioning my unwritten goal … which means, of course, that I’ve not hit it. Truth is not only have I not hit it, I’ve not even come close. It’s not for lack of trying, I have an electronic trash can slap full of electronic balls of paper. Everything I try to write gets stuck, and it’s so hard to hush up the asshole in my head who loves to tell me I have nothing relevant to say to a group of clever and bookish women, since I’m neither.

So word count, great, article count, sucks like an Electrolux. But I’m here, and I’m even going to say hi to the fb group (finally). I’ll still count it as a win.

There Aren’t Enough Sunday Song Titles/It’s Now Monday-Monday Anyway.

364 in draft

2700 in fiction

5409 accrued

8473 Grand total.

More than halfway there, and that’s a good feeling. I’m really surprised at this week’s fiction output. I hadn’t planned on it, it just popped in to visit one day, and what else can you do with that except roll with it?

And you know, the more I do it the more I realize what my main problem is getting longer pieces of fiction finished. It’s not momentum or interest (or lack thereof), it that I tell myself the story in big scene chunks, and then have no fucking clue how to stitch the big pieces into a finished quilt. And after so long of trying I just chuck it and go on to something else.

~*~

One unexpected thing I’m learning from the check-in is no matter how much I want to embrace the social aspect of it, I can’t get past being a big ball of fail. I swear I’ve forgotten how to social. I read a good portion of the check-in posts, but when I try to follow through with the comment aspect I kind of freeze (same thing on the fb page). It’s just not a fast, simple thing, leaving a comment  on any kind of piece. Even answering comments on my own, I suck at it, it takes me forever, and I just don’t have forever to spend on the commenting. It’s the age old dilemma — do we live in the moment, or live-blog the moment  Do I write, or write about writing?

Which is the long way to say I really wish I was better at connecting with everyone doing the challenge. Maybe that can be part of the goals next round.

Snippet — The Questions Scene

It was Alex’s turn to wake up in an empty bed. He knew it before he opened his eyes, reaching across the mattress to make sure. He opened his eyes when his fingers touched cotton. He smiled when he saw his shirt. She left it the same way he had, draped across the pillow as a deliberate act to mark her place, to let him know she was coming back. Of course she would, it was her house and her bed, but still, he understood this was now a private message system between them.

He thought about going back to sleep, but then he noticed the balcony door was open. He couldn’t help but wonder what she was doing out there, then couldn’t help but think what it would be like to lay her down among the flowers and use his hands to paint her with moonlight.

But since he had no idea what she was actually doing out there — or even if she was, the door could be open for many reasons — he paused long enough to pull on a pair of briefs. He walked quietly, not wanting to startle her if she was having a quiet moment.

She was, just not like he had envisioned. As soon as he saw her his mind started snapping photos, even as he tried to figure out exactly what he was seeing.

She was sitting in the middle of the deck, in a modified lotus position. Her hands were palm up and raised to shoulder level, her face turned up to the moonbeam that surrounded her. All that was fine and good, but the more he looked the more it looked like moonlight was actually radiating up from her palms. That couldn’t be right, but even as he blinked he realized he could see the air swirling around her, smoky colored tendrils that wrapped around her.

Alex closed his eyes, both to preserve the image and clear his eyes. When he opened them the illusions were gone, it was simply Katie meditating in the moonlight. He stepped back into the bedroom, not wanting to intrude. He thought again about going back to sleep, but the image in his head was asking politely for a canvas. Since she was occupied, he might as well be, too.  He moved his shirt back over to his pillow and went downstairs to find some paint.

He was well into the painting before he heard her footsteps coming up behind him; it was coming together with surprising speed. Alex was used to painting fast, it was one of the things that allowed him so much output, but this was even faster than usual.

He didn’t stop when she got to him. She stood quietly beside him, just far back enough to not engage his peripheral vision. She knew about living with painters. She stayed just long enough to realize what he was painting before moving off to the kitchen. If they were both awake she might as well fix some food.

Katie cooked fast like Alex painted fast; talent, years of experience, and an exquisitely organized kitchen helped her fix meals in record time. By the time he came into the kitchen she was plating up home fries, bacon and biscuits.

He knew by now to not try to help, he would only hinder her well-oiled machinery. He sat at the island and watched her work.

Katie couldn’t stop glancing at him as she finished setting everything out. Did he mean to be looking at her so intently? She couldn’t quite read the expression on his face. Then again, she was bright enough to add things up and guess what was on his mind. She knew it was just a matter of time before he’d start asking the questions Carlene had already asked.

Alex hadn’t planned on asking her any questions, but when had plans stopped anything since he pulled into her driveway?  He opened his mouth to bite a biscuit and instead found himself asking the question lodging in his head.

“So how much of that was my eyes playing tricks on me, Katie?”

She wanted to play dumb, to buy time, or maybe just make sure they were talking about the same thing, but she knew damn well what he was referencing. The more he had painted it the more he found questions, and who else could answer them for him?

“None of it, Alex.” She waited a moment, long enough to be sure the info cleared the circuits. He nodded, acknowledging he had already come to that conclusion.

“That was lack of forethought on my part. I should have put up shields as soon as I sat down, but I …” she paused, running the moment through her head. “I didn’t think of it, to be honest. I didn’t have time to, and truth be known Gods probably wanted it that way.” She started to add more, but made herself stop. He had to do be the one to say it.

“You really are a witch.”

“Yes. Although what you saw wasn’t exactly witchcraft, just metaphysical energy manipulation.”

“Which you use for witchcraft.”

“Which I use for witchcraft,when I am casting spells. But I also use it for meditation, and for grounding energy, or raising it.”

“Are you the reason I’m here?” The words were no sooner out of his mouth before he realized what an ignorant question that was. Of course she was the reason he was here, he didn’t need to know that. He just needed to know if she was the reason he pointed his car in the direction. Or why Boone Howard pointed him here. He started to elaborate but Katie held up a finger. She had a look on her face, one that could have been anger. Or fear. He thought maybe it was anger.

“No, but apparently my Grandfather is.”

Yes, definitely anger.

“Tell me what you know, Katie. Tell me the truth.” Alex tried to keep his voice neutral, with very limited success. He didn’t know if he was scared or pissed or heartbroken. All of the above probably. All of it was showing around the edges of his voice at any rate.

She cocked an eyebrow at that, ready to throw a plate at him for even suggesting she might lie. He cocked one back,  not giving an inch. She knew his fucking history goddammit,  knew the seven kinds of bullshit he had to deal with from obsessive fans or cold-hearted starfuckers. He wanted nothing more than to believe in her, but self-preservation made him hold out.

“The other night at the bar Boone told me when you showed up in the bar in Nashville my grandfather spoke up in Boone’s  head and told him to let you play Mandy, and then told him to send you to me.” She wanted to add more, an angry avowal that she had no clue about any of it until after Boone saw them together. She kept her mouth shut,  refusing to give into the idea that she had any explaining to do here.

It didn’t last. Katie was simply not the kind to hold her tongue for any reason. She always wore her anger on her face, too, same as her heart.

“I didn’t cast a goddamn spell on you Alex. Or Boone. Or any fucking body else, including my fucking dead grandfather. I haven’t reached out to any ancestors in the last few years. I never fucking asked anyone to bring you — or anyone else, for that fucking matter — to my fucking door.”

Alex held out his hand across the table. Katie knew he wanted her to put her hand in his, but she couldn’t, not yet. First she had to fight the urge to stab him in the palm with a fork.

That came through, too, the way her anger did. For one brief second Alex knew exactly what she wanted to do. Instead of being mad he smiled, in delight and dare-you.

“If it will make you feel better to stab me with a fork go right ahead. I’m sorry I hurt you by implying you would lie. Just like you need to remember I’m just another man, I need to remember you’re not just another fan.”

Instead of grabbing her fork she reached over and touched her index finger to the middle of his palm. She didn’t try to shield herself, letting her anger give him the slightest zap. Well, maybe not so slight, she realized, as a small ball of pissed-off energy punched into his hand like a b-b. Oops.

Alex’s fingers twitched and his eyes widened, but he kept his hand still and his mouth shut. He deserved that, and she looked like she had something to say.

“But I am, Alex. Your music is right up there with food and shelter for importance in my life, and has been for the last ten years. When I came around the corner and saw you on the porch …” she paused, trying to find the words to explain what a monumental mind-fuck it had been.  The moment spun out and all she could do was look at him, hoping maybe he’d be able to read her mind. Or her face, at least, he seemed to be pretty spot on about that.

“I imagine it was a lot like the first time I walked out on a stage and saw 10,000 people staring back at me. You know what you’re seeing, it’s just doesn’t compute.”

“No, it didn’t. It didn’t compute at all, and then you said my name …” she paused again, trying to gather herself because she was about to cry, of course she was, if there was one guarantee in life it was that she would cry when she least wanted to. She blinked a few times but wouldn’t drop her gaze from his, wouldn’t let herself take the easy way out.

“I’ve spent ten years listening to your voice sing me to sleep and then you show up on my doorstep and say my name and it was as right and as primal as the sounds of my babies’ first cries. ”

She had managed to keep the tears from her eyes, but not her voice. Moonshine and moonlight filtered through velvet and opium smoke, that’s all Alex could come up with and for a moment he was dumbstruck, trying to figure out how he could paint it or weave it into a piece of music.

“Katie, did it ever occur to you your voice sounds just as right to me?”

No, it hadn’t, but how the hell should she respond to that? Before she even think of options Alex closed his hand around hers, his long fingers easily covering her fist. With everything else gong on she still had to take a second to marvel over that. She had big hands — man hands, some asshole or another once spat at her — and the idea that his could engulf hers touched her like little else had.

“Say it, Katie.”

“Say what, Alex?” She tried to make her voice light, to feign innocence or obtuseness, and failed spectacularly. Her voice sounded scared and horrified and desperately happy, and how she managed that neither knew.

He held her hand, held her gaze, and held his tongue. He wasn’t going to beg or demand. She’d either do it or not, and all he could do was wait for her decision.

To say it in bed, during mind-blowing sex, well that was one thing, but to say it here, in the bright light of a kitchen rather than the candlelight of a bedroom, during conversation rather than copulation, to say it in this moment meant there would be no running from it, no backing down.

She waited, hoping someone would speak up in her head, her guardian spirit or dead grandmother, even once of the harpies that never seemed to shut up, but no one did. She was on her own with this.

Katie closed her eyes for a moment, to clear her head and open all her senses. The warmth of his hand around hers was making it easier to gather her courage. She opened her eyes, and would there ever come a day that she would open them and see him looking right back at her and not want to die of surprise? Not for a long time, she thought, considering it wasn’t that he was looking at her, but how. She wasn’t the only one wearing her heart on his face, and she had to wonder how in the world she never saw it before.

Because now you’re seeing him when he isn’t trying to hide it, Katie. This is for you.

And wasn’t that idea the biggest mind-fuck of all?

She held her other hand out across the table. Alex smiled and wrapped his around it. He waited patiently. He knew it was there, he could read it in her, could see it perfectly. He was asking a lot, he knew that, and if she was going to be brave enough to give it he damn well could be polite and patience. He could wait.

At the last moment she tried to pull herself back a bit, but by then she was already in motion, running down the hill to throw herself off the edge of the world.

“I’ve loved you for so long now I can’t remember what life was like before I did. It started with your art, but it’s you that sealed it, the way you always give every single bit of yourself for it. The way you open yourself up at every chance. The way you use your voice to stand up for what’s right.” She had to pause, to catch her breath and center herself, she was hitting free-fall now and she had to be careful.

But he was looking at her so intently, just eating up her face with his eyes, storing and feeding at the same time, and looking just as happy and scared as she felt. Her breath caught and for a moment she forgot how to breathe.

“And now you’re sitting here looking at me like that, I’m scared and vulnerable and I swear I think my heart might just explode out of my chest and kill us both with the shards and for the life of me I don’t know what to do because fairy tales just aren’t true.”

Alex smiled wide and raised an eyebrow.

“If witches are real, why aren’t fairy tales real as well?”

Katie gaped at that, caught off guard and unable to think of a comeback.

“If all you have to answer that with is ‘just because,’ well, you better know that won’t fly, darlin’. If you can believe in magic you can believe in fairy tales.” He squeezed her hands and leaned forward. “You can believe that I’m in love with you. That I want you with me.”

She opened her mouth a few times, and simply couldn’t make anything come out. She was completely at a loss for words, or any clear thought on what to do next.

Alex opened his hands and laid them palm up on the table, right next to hers. Katie looked between his hands and his face a few times. Alex composed his face into serious lines, putting the softness away for a moment. He wiggled his fngers at Katie, and when she didn’t move he moved a hand to pick hers up, He placed her palm to his, t0 the hand on the table, then put his hand back down and wiggled the fingers again.

Katie knew what he was doing of course, but he didn’t. Or, he thought he did, he thought he understood what he was doing and what he was asking for, but she was pretty sure he had no clue. There was only one way to point that out, though, so she placed her other hand on his, making sure their palms had a good seal. She didn’t do anything else, just looked at him, eyebrows raised and waiting patiently.

Optimistic – Sunday Check-in

I keep missing the Wednesday check-in, so I think I’m going to just make a point to ignore it for a while. Once a week is going to have to do.

I wonder too if has anything to do with not getting a whole lot of writing done? I’m still fighting with the crud and finding the fucks to give takes more energy than I can spare.

I did get a couple of things written this week, so it’s not a total bust. Nothing for P-Mag yet — my struggle there is a constant hectoring voice that I just don’t have anything relevant to say to the readers. I can’t pretend to be a journalist, so what am I doing there?

See? I’m doing it again, letting doubt creep in and stain up my thoughts. Not good.

Anyway, word count is up to 5409, which still has me almost a full week ahead of schedule. Yay.

Now if I can just get everything else in line I’ll be golden.

On Memory

I find myself trying to excavate memories, chipping around the edges of what I do remember, looking for something else that may be poking out and within reach.

It’s tricky. I worry about damaging what little I do remember. I worry even more that I’ll find something I don’t particularly want. Here there be monsters, I think; I remember just enough to know this is true.

For the first  ten years of my life I have what’s probably less than a years worth of memories. And I’m using “memory” loosely — it doesn’t include many long  detailed ones. Most are snippets, a fast snatch pulled from the ether. Here’s an example: Virginia,  Christmas time, sometime before I was 7 – an impression of a big, mid-century shopping center sign, and a few bars of Judy Collins singing “Both Sides Now.” That blink of an eye somehow ties in with my favorite  Christmas ornaments, so I put both things together and assume it’s a memory of a shopping trip.

Mid-century fabulous

Mid-century fabulous, even in the new Millenia

It was years before I realized it wasn’t like that for everyone. I can’t say I’ve ever been really angry about it — from the first realization that I was memory deficient I understood there was likely a very compelling reason for it.

I’ve always been of the mind that I’m doing just fine without those years of memories, so why fuck around and take a chance on falling into a pit full of broken glass?

Yet here I sit, on the other side of a big ass span of years (and attending fully functional memories), wondering if there’s a way to maybe pick out a birthday or a Christmas.

I sometimes think it would be nice to remember what it was like to wake up on Christmas morning. I assume I was excited, that there was a sense of magic or good old-fashioned present greed. What was it like to come down the hall and see the presents under the tree? What was it like to unwrap them?

I want to know, about Christmas and the first day of school and birthday parties and vacations. I want to be able to look at a photograph and put a three-dimensional memory with it. Pictures of those first ten years are like looking at pictures from a magazine. The only reason I know they’re real is I recognize the people in them.

You know, for all the years I’ve spent thinking about these things, here’s something I’m just now putting together, an angle that I’ve never really thought of before.

The memories I most want to recapture are all memories that most likely happened inside my house. The memories I do have? Are almost exclusively from school or Granny’s house, or public locations.

Safe places, in other words.

And doesn’t that tell me all I need to know about trying archaeology?

Right now I can believe I was once excited and awed, holding hands with my sister as we crept down the hall to see the presents left for us. I can believe that even living with a monster in the dungeon I was able to find moments of magic.

I need to let the memories stay buried with his bones. I’m not missing anything I really need.

True Faith

It’s easier for me to talk about my sex life than it is the state of my faith. I’m pretty sure that says something about me, but I couldn’t tell you what, exactly.

I need to talk  write about faith the same way I once needed to write about sex. I just have no idea how to go about it.  I’ve written — and tossed — reams of words trying to explain it. None of it works.

So I’m here with a chainsaw, hoping to get to the meat of the matter. I’m willing to shave some extra skin just to get the subject on the table.

I didn’t want to be a person of faith, so I tried my best not to be. That didn’t work. No matter how I tried to ignore matters of the metaphysic I would always work my way back to it. It was a long process, mainly because I spent so much time looking at other people’s opinion’s on what  The Great Answer is. After many years of saying “well that doesn’t make much sense to me” I finally started asking myself what made sense.

I stopped asking the universe what I should (could? would, even?) believe and started asking myself.

To be honest I haven’t gotten far. To be very honest (and as much as I hate to do it, snag a metaphor from the Bible) I’ve actually been somewhat of a Jonah.

I started with a very basic idea of things that made sense and started working with that. And it did work. I discovered what true faith means — what it means to me, this is my UPG, doesn’t have to be yours too — and I was in a very happy place spiritually.

See, here’s the part I always choke on, the thing that’s always hardest to really talk about.

I was in a good place spiritually with my homemade heathen faith and then on two separate  occasions some … fuck, I don’t know, some energy, some thing, spoke to me.

The first time it spoke into the room and told me exactly what I needed to hear to make a very big, very serious decision.

The second time it spoke into my ear and is directly responsible for my last (in every sense of the work *knock wood*) pregnancy. Of course we never really know what would have happened had we chosen a different path in the forest, but I’d be willing to bet everything except my children that without a voice speaking into my ear to suggest what a wonderful Christmas present it would be to forget the second part of coitus interruptus, I wouldn’t be sitting here looking across the room at my Ferocious Beastie.

So yeah, not only did I have faith, I had proof. And I’ve spent the last five years or so running away from that proof, trying to tell myself it was all in my head.

There have been some mitigating factors, most notably a horrible case of postpartum psychosis and the subsequent two-year cruise on The Good Ship Zoloft. When your chemicals go haywire and your brain tries to convince you your newborn is possessed by demons, being comfortable with the idea of spirits speaking to and guiding you isn’t easy. Add to that the numbness of being I experienced while medicated, and you have a good recipe for swinging between abject fear and no fucks to give.

I’ve tried everything I know to talk myself out of the surety of those voices speaking to me. I simply can’t, the same way I could never find a way to completely embrace atheism (or even agnosticism).

I’ve come this far so I might as well keep going.  A few months ago I decided to pick up the remains of my faith and try again, see if I could plug back in after all this time.

Not only was I able to plug in, as soon as I did the voice spoke to me again.

“Welcome back. We’ve been waiting.”