Note...

I'll be away for awhile...

All Work That Is Play.

We're seeing the porchlight with Wrong Tree #1. Just a couple more turns and we're there. It would have been ideal to have birthed this thing in the first week of the December, but everyone involved with this (all three of us, hey Jarrid, hey Ralph) have worked and had fun and worked some more as often and as hard as we can.

And I should say that many of the writers for this first issue have worked just as hard. Many were asked to submit their work and took the time to pen material just for this journal. We couldn't be happier or more humbled to have worked with these individuals, and those who had pieces picked up by us through open submission.

The excitement is strong in me. Vibrant. Real. Tangible.

Bob Marley Had A Drummer.

Been chewing a lot of gum today. Chewing gum and thinking how I should probably submit something to Thirst for Fire pretty soon. But for now it's just the chewing.

There's a story of mine and an interview with me at PANK right now so have a look, friends.

Been feeling a shade dark and a shade stormy the last couple of weeks. It happens from time to time. Not much can be done. Truth is, I don't mind it too awfully much.

I tried to knock a squirrel out of a tree today with a rock but only grazed its tail. It was hovering about twenty feet above me, fixed on the limb, making strange rabid sounds. Its fur was ratty and the sound it was making . . . rabid, I tell you. Crazy. One cannot take chances and, also, I really wanted to know if I could take its eye out from twenty feet.

Yeah, it's mean.

Happy birthday, Carlton Barrett.

Our Esteemed Guest Of Honor.

Good morning, afternoon, night.

Skies the shade of shale, fat with shale, with weather. Will there be weather tomorrow? Tomorrow will there be weather?

Our esteemed guest of honor says there will be weather, wind and clouds the fine, fine color of smeared eye shadow.

Storm.

Monday In Confusion Town

I'm generally confused most of the time. At one time, this blog updated automatically to my Facebook whatthehellever, but I disabled that and now I'm rolling along.

No idea why I disabled, exactly. But the result is that I again feel as if I'm talking to a much smaller audience. I see there are seven good people who have signed up as folks following this blog, so I suppose you are the audience. That's just fine with me.

How is this confusing? Not really sure, but here I am...Mayor of Confusion Town. Confusion town would have no street names, pets would wander the outskirts with pinched looks on their faces. Dogs, cats, hamsters. Think of that, the hamster with a pinched look on its face. Where is my blessed wheel, the hamster might say to me, the Mayor.

"You have no wheel," I would answer.

The hamster would cry and, for at least that moment, Confusion Town would become Sorrow Town, if only for the little hamster who I will name Gunnershock.

But, yeah, I stay pretty much confused. The above is an example of where my mind kind stray to when left unattended and deprived of rest. It's not always bad. Sometimes I make friends like Gunnershock.

In addition to wandering pets, there might be a Director of Communications for Confusion Town, except his job would be to go about town making sure no one made sense of anything. He would be busy and so would be paid well.

"Think you've got a parking space picked out?" Happystill the Director might ask.

"Yes, thank you," the driver might answer.

At this moment Happystill the director might throw yellow paint into the parking space, creating the needed confusion. Two levels, do doubt -- where to park now and why did Happystill throw yellow paint in my space?

Happystill would say nothing. He might even leave them while speaking, in mid-sentence no less and then...........

The Firebug.

Nerves a bag of sharpness, bag made of slowly peeled away hide, sharpness the long slices of glass from a window broken long ago.

Through the window you watched the field burn away. You pulled wind through the jagged mouth of the window and dripped red-black onto the carpet. It was best when the field caught fire first at the edge and then across the middle until the smoke covered all the world, protecting only you, its creator.

It was your hand through the window, your hide peeled back from the knuckle. You, the firebug. It was you all along.

They even blamed you for bleeding.

I Just Can't Help Myself So Get Out Your Tiny Violins.

It's hit and miss, mostly. There are days when I can't figure out a single reason to write another word, then there are stretches, months at at time, when I can't stop. The work feels so urgent and important then.

Today I'm looking for a reason.

There are times when writing just doesn't seem to be serving a practical need in my life or the life of anyone else I care about. Practical. It's a nice, clean word, and completely irrelevant in the world of art. I have two degrees, one of which is the highest degree that can be earned in my field of study, and I'm plugging away at two jobs and still going under.

Practical.

It would have been practical of me to pick up a trade skill along the way. It would have been smart to have escaped from the university on my first night, tossed my books, my writing, my oh-so-lofty ideals of intellectualism and found a hammer, a welding torch, a pair of pliers. I should have been thinking bricks and mortar, but instead I was in the clouds, prepped to be blindsided. I should have been studying tools and trade instead of writing stories.

Regret's not the right word, but it's close.

Whining is the right word. Feel free to say so.

Kuzhali Manickavel Makes the Good Words.

Just read some things by Kuzhali Manickavel and want to now go back and rewrite about three quarters of all my material. This lady can do some storytelling.

Here's a story by her in SmokeLong Quarterly. Put some sunglasses on before reading, though. And here's the interview SLQ published to accompany that story.

And here's some more of her storytelling that moved like a word tiger through my brain.

Enjoy.

Also, I don't live here....



I live here....

The William Elliott Whitmore Test.

This is William Elliott Whitmore. Listen to his music or suffer from lack of ear candy.

Also, I was in need of a test to see if I could post a picture up here.

The Best Time To Buy An Ant Farm or News From the Lit World.

A few things to mention briefly:

There is some crackling good stuff at the new decomP.

This guy, Alan Stewart Carl, is a writing beast. Don't believe me? Read this.

I had a story up at Metazen a few days back called "The Body Ricardo." Thanks to Frank Hinton and team for throwing that up.

JMWW editor Dave Erlewine interviewed me. Find it here. Thanks Dave and Jen Michalski, two of the good folks.

Fractured West is putting out a final call for submissions before hitting the world in the face with issue one. Send something.

Wrong Tree is coming. No lie.