Thanksgiving

Thankful for jah.

Spent most of the day reconstructing the lost pairs of Christmas mix CDs that were wiped out in the crash. I can't locate the pair of burnt 2005 audio CDs and I didn't make a copy of 2008. So whatever I remake from memory won't be the original, but who cares? Outside of the one Secret Santa from last year, I don't think anyone is going to care/notice. This is mostly something I do for myself to help get through the holiday season.

Growing unlikelihood of a Pulp update tomorrow but we'll see. Happy Thanksgiving.

Dayjob

Ended up at a temp assignment that has Severe Security blocking me from the internet, which is a complete 180 from what I'm used to. Ergo, the lack of updates to this site as well as a general ennui towards anything after the bus/hike back home. Not that I'm complaining, mind you. Just telling you what's going down.

Man, we'll see if I can get anything up for Wednesday/Friday. Can't be much of a man to say that anything else will happen besides that. Don't want to be a Dude.

Pulp 006

Bonnie of the blue eyes, standing at the end of her world overlooking ours; a girl who carries around in her pocket a life without scars, crime, hunger or pain.  I stand beside her, close enough for the ocean to smell not of wretched sewage but of the clear waters I swam as a boy. Bonnie is a special chest in a Grandmother’s attic, unlocked and full of all treasures and happy photographs. Bonnie’s eyes see magic things and when she’s around, that magic comes out. Always welcomed into house and home, always given a special seat at the bar for the drink will be crisp and the food that more tasty. Bonnie, ah. What turned you away from this world? What pain was so strong that it spurred you from us and into a world where you are never weighted down by sorrow? And if ever that answer revealed, will this world disappear, no more than a bubble or a drop of dew in the sun?

“Yours is a face that brings the lame to dance,” I say. “And now I see it sullen and your hands full of flowers.”

She looks at me. The smile is there but it’s struggling. How I came privy to know her to be bound to this duty is a story for another day. But she is a Maiden who must cast her flowers out to sea when the last call is made and the only taxi in service is that one black cab driven by good Ol’ Sam. Death, sweet charity. Death has come and here stands Bonnie, hands full of white blossoms kissed at the tips with a star of red.

She turns and tends to her duties, he end of that bargain made. I ask her who the flowers are for.
“Michael Tanner.”
“Mikey?” The name’s a crashing thunderbolt to the mind and I see that old coot Mikey slapping his knee with face blushed by beer and bawdy joke. “Mikey Tanner? Mikey Tanner's dead?”

She doesn’t nod. She watches the slow parade progress out towards the cut-off of the point, to waters full of dragons and angels alike.

“He will be, Waylon. But not for a long, long while.” She hooks her gaze onto me. “He’s in trouble, Waylon.”

“What do you mean?”

In her outstretched palm, she presents me a flower. “Find where these grow, and you’ll find him.”

Grinding

Taking the week off to adjust to the new dayjob. Will return this Friday where there will be a Pulp update.

Duck!

Personal Philosophy

Significant Objects

I missed the announcement of the Slate Significant Objects contest. One of the more wittier historical fiction pieces won, and subsequently, brought in fifty-four dollars for the knickknack on eBay. Pretty good. Congrats to Matthew Wells and the runners up.

Below the cut is my entry. I haven't read it since I submitted it so it is reproduced in full, possible hidden errors and what not. 

Oh NoNo 02

I figured this would happen - puttering out shortly after starting. Really, haven't written jack after the first two days. Instead, I've been distracted or my attention has been required elsewhere than belting out the wordcount on a novel that I just decided to write at the last minute.

Makes sense why some folk decide to plan in October. As a cynic, I would ask 'Why do they need November to write that novel? Why not do it any other time?' which is keen to asking 'Why do we celebrate Halloween in October? Why not some other day?' The answer is that anyone can write a novel any time they want, and people do. Everyone who writes a novel sets aside a month or longer to writing it. This organized effort into turning November into a National Writing Month is just some way to help those with less discipline (e.g. me) into actually writing the damned thing. Though, as I said, it's not really working.

One of my writing partners says she needs twenty-one days of momentum to really get going so that's my goal at the moment. I start a new daily job on Tuesday so my spare time will be reduced (probably for the better.) I've been on a 101-day weekend. Time to go back to work. With the reduced idleness, hell. I might get more done.

Pulp 005

     Sunlight. A second morning. A short turn left and the outside world is visible, perhaps a hundred yards. My guide shies away. This is as far as he goes. I rifle through my pockets and come up with the stale bread wrapped in a clean handkerchief. 

     “I thank you.” The bread is held out and the boy feels it in his hand. He breaks off half and returns the rest to me. I watch him take a few steps back towards his world. It’s a world of night and gas-lights, of swamps and deadly things unfit for the surface. This might be as close as he comes to seeing the sky, this cavern leading out to a world so white and blue.

He’s gone forever before I turn around and make my way to the day. Air weighted with humid spray and the tinge of salt hits my face and I know I’m out near the ocean. It’s a far peak that this drain pipe leads me to, nowhere near beaches or boardwalks.

     “I’ll have to catch a train back,” I catch myself thinking before reminding myself that there is no ‘back.’ Bloody Ben’s visit didn’t rob me of a home, only clued me in to what I already knew. It was time to move on. There’s no settling down for me.
 
     I swat at nothing, bumbling out a bad curse too dumb to fly in this air. Too heavy. Too weak. I start to climb around the pipe and down to the rocks near the water. Slippery rocks for a fool’s foot. Charity! I nearly crack my skull with a poor decision, stepping on a rock that moved! A stone crab that would like to snip-snip away one of my toes. Not today!
 
     My feet sink slightly on the strait of sand leading from the drain pip back to civilization. The embankment is low enough that after a few long stretches of my legs, I can see over and find only roads and grass. It’ll be a long walk back so I’d rather take my stroll seaside.

     It’s the first moment to rest and relax, the first time to feel warm. Really, the first time I can breathe, really breathe. It’s good, real good. It’s my favorite feeling, to slap my chest and stare out into this wild world. If I had a laugh within me, I’d toss it out, a long net of joy cast out to the sea, caring not what I may or may not haul back.

     I gnaw on a corner of the bread, hard as it may be, to quell the grumble from my gut. I pick up a stone to skip across the water and count how many wishes will be granted today but stop. A woman stands by the tide-line, in a tangle of flowers in her hands. She might appear young in appearance but goodness, how old is she really?

     “Walyon,” she says without looking at me when I come up to her.
     “Hello Bonnie.” The heaviness is back in my shoulders. I could use that laugh now. In her hands are the white flowers from a funeral’s mourning. “If you're casting your flowers out to sea, means somebody isn't with us anymore. Tell me, who's had died?”
     "He isn't dead," she says, turning her head to look me dead-on. "But soon he will be."

Duck

In lieu of an update, I shall give you a duck.

Small Gift

Here's a bit of a cop-out for today's essay, but with Halloween now gone, Christmas has invaded. Might as well jump on the bandwagon lest get run over by it. 

Zerks Log 05

Here is another episode of 'Zerks Log,' the premier project from StoryForge Labs.

You can see 'Zerks Log,' in its entirely, at www.Zerkslog.com, where you can watch in high quality, subscribe to it on iTunes and see some behind the scenes material. Feel free if you want to skip ahead and watch all episodes.

Zerks Log 04

Here is another episode of 'Zerks Log,' the premier project from StoryForge Labs.

You can see 'Zerks Log,' in its entirely, at www.Zerkslog.com, where you can watch in high quality, subscribe to it on iTunes and see some behind the scenes material. Feel free if you want to skip ahead and watch all episodes.

Oh NoNo 01

I wouldn't be so tired after 2k words if the fuzzy-four legged alarm clock didn't ignore the switch to Standard Time. It's been a long time since I got up at 6am, especially on a Sunday. After taking care of the loudmouth's breakfast, I got a head start on the usual b.s. that I do before sitting down to write. I'm done with the daily quota and if I am awake enough, I'll add a little to it. 14k is due by next Sunday so whatever headway I can get on, I'll do what I can.

I like what I've written so far. Not going to talk shop until the revision process. I've made that mistake before. Never discuss the pie until it's done cooking or some ridiculous saying. Quick, somebody get a Farmer's Almanac. Somebody get me a pillow. I'm going to take a nap.