Friday, December 28, 2012

Blood in the Trashcan

The power of second-guessing compels me
Obstipated clouds of verb/bloat pissin’ on my nonesuch
compel me-
powering the neverminers of flecking painite
Dichroic sweets and sours
begging to be saved.
Trifextra Week Forty-Eight -
"This weekend we're asking for 33 of your own words that exorcise a demon. One of your own, or one from your imagination.  Let it bleed on the page."

Friday, December 21, 2012

Kiss My Pith

Gimme, gimme
Hands await
Expectation, not tradition
Demand, not wishing
Charity, when convenient
Joy manufactured
Love, store-bought
Foods rich, souls broke
In the name of a fat christ in red
Give it up.

"This weekend we want you to give us a pithy summary of your feelings about the holidays.  Your response does not need to be cynical or sarcastic.  We welcome all thoughts and feelings about this time of year--so long as you express those thoughts and feelings in 33 words."

Tuesday, December 18, 2012

More Silly

I fear my book isn't smart enough.  I haven't even used the word entropy yet.  
And then I remind myself that I am not writing for Asimov.  I am not writing hard science fiction.  I am writing an adventure story.  Because it's fun.  And I love adventures.  And while I do stick my toe into a few accuracies that fascinate me, most of my body is stuck in wonderment, whatiffery, and awesomely badass weapons and a super evil space mafia.  And that makes me smile again.  

It makes me go back to inventing words by smashing together esperanto and latin and aramaic simply for the joy of inventing words.  

It makes me go back to creating real characters with flaws and dirty mouths and sex drives. 

It makes me go back to writing for people who want to run away with blue-haired girls through wormholes that make you puke, or learning how to pull space toward you like rolling up a carpet because it doesn't make you puke as bad as wormholes. 

Where fish eyes are more powerful than the most powerful telescope. 

Where off the grid means off the fucking grid.

Where all the concepts and science and fantasy and ideas that have been jumbled in my head since I was a kid all come together in my own 4-trillion kelvin quark gluon soup that I stir with my bullshit spoon.  

And then, I fear my book isn't quite silly enough. 

The world needs more silly. 

Friday, December 7, 2012


Raconteur beware!
It matters not the color of hair
nor whether shoes be cheap.
Flights of fowl, be they black or blue
likewise mean naught
lest their blackness be
to carry your plot.

Trifextra- Week Forty-Five-
"This weekend we are giving you three variations on a prompt.  We need you to give us 33 words back, and 2 of those words must be either "cheap flights," "sandwiched in" or "spectacularly clean."


Monday, December 3, 2012

Guns, Chocolate, Sleep Magik

Phobias grow quite excitably when the soil is right.  My soil has tended to be ripe for them of late, though I do not know why.  My current irrationality toward death has manifested itself in many forms over the past months.  First, it was just a plain ole nightly panic attack.  Those abated a bit with handfuls of pills.  But now, it has returned with a vengeance in the setting of my dog's nightly backyard jaunt.

She's been absurdly predictable in that regard since the day we brought her home back in 1999.  She's old as dirt now, and about as excitable, but still predictable all the same.  Every night.  Just as I crawl under the covers.  Doesn't matter the time.  Nor the daylight or lack of it.  All that matters is that everyone else in the house is asleep and I am in the process of crawling under the covers.  

I've tried to wait on her.  Stay up, you know.  Wait around for it.  I've tried forcing her out the back door.  Nope.  Nada.  I am now positive that her detrusor contractions are directly and invariably tied to how much of my naked legs are currently under my covers.  It's an inalienable fact.

So what does all that have to do with my death phobia?  Well.  Now (and it's been building over months, so it  is not a 'suddenly' kinda thing), I am terrified that there is someone waiting on my back porch to attack me when I am letting the dog out.  Or letting her in.  Either way.  Phobia is the same.  I am terrified.  I unlock the door and let her out.  I immediately slam the door and lock it, knowing that at any of the nanoseconds between the time I open the door and slam the door, someone has free access to pushing themselves through my back door and killing me.  And kill me, they will!  They don't want money.  They don't wanna rape me.  They don't want stuff.  They wanna kill my ass.  Same with letting her back in.  Unlock the door, ohshit ohshit ohshit ohshit ohshit (she's a 13-year-old basset hound, it takes her a while) ohshit ohshit ohshit ohshit, SLAM, lock clicks... Whew... I've averted certain death for one more day. 

What makes it worse is that I am not 100% alert, or even awake really, when all this is going down.  You know that part on Paranormal Activity where that chick stares at the bed for hours?  According to my family, this is the kind of shenanigans I get into at night.  I also eat.  I will wake up in the morning with crumbs in the bed.  Or food wrappers on the couch.  I will wake up to my kids telling stories of Mom sitting on the couch at 3 in the morning with her eyes wide open. 

And yes, by the time I actually crawl in the bed at night, I am not 100% all there.  It all gets real fuzzy, and there is a point after which I cannot get up or I will pass out.  I have passed out before letting the dog out.  It's totally screwed up.  All of a sudden, everything goes black and BAM, I'm on the floor.  Kind of like when you have low blood sugar.  The last time was so weird because every time I tried to lift my head off the floor, it would go BAM right back to the floor.  I tried 3 or 4 times to get up before I was actually able to, and I wound up crawling on all fours back to bed. 

So, you know, when I let the dog out, it's kind of like my awake mind and my REM mind are meeting in the middle.... in that sweet spot where the magic happens.  I used to have sleep paralysis when I was a teenager.  This that happens now is actually much less frightening than that, at least I can move now.  Though, last night the man did come.  The man waiting to kill me on my back porch.  Yep.  He was totally there.  Grabbed me by the hair with a gun.... but he didn't kill me.... he just told me to go back to bed.  He was gone when I woke up. 

Is it possible for sleep to drive someone crazy?  I mean, you know drugs do it.  And alcoholism.  They call it "substance-induced mood disorder."  I wonder if it is possible to have a "sleep-induced mood disorder." What am I supposed to say, "Oh, I'm sorry.  I can't sleep anymore.  I go crazy when I'm asleep." 

Pfftt.....  Apparently, it's the only time I can eat chocolate without making myself feel guilty as shit about it.  At least there's that.