More on Cleveland

Here and here. It’s just so unbelievable. How many naked women in dog collars can neighbors call about before police take them seriously? It’s really frightening how easy it is to just disappear to authorities if you’re not in a spot they give a shit about.

Updated to add: Jesus, this is a sick fuck:

Ariel Castro was friends with the father of Gina DeJesus, one of the missing women, and helped search for her after she disappeared, said Khalid Samad, a friend of the family. He also performed music at a fundraiser held in her honor, Samad said.

“When we went out to look for Gina, he helped pass out fliers,” said Samad, a community activist who was at the hospital with DeJesus and her family Monday night. “You know, he was friends with the family.”

Tito DeJesus, one of Gina’s uncles, said he played in a few bands with Castro over the past 20 years. He remembered visiting Castro’s house after his niece disappeared, but he never noticed anything out of ordinary, saying it was very sparsely furnished and filled with musical instruments.

A Few Things, Here and There

–Old Spock v. New Spock. So delightful.

–This issue of Apex is so good and sad. And good again.

–Flavorwire is having a short fiction contest.

–There’s a new Claire DeWitt book coming! Did you know this? Did you not tell me?

–I made tuna noodle casserole last night. Very easy, very delicious. Still, is there any more Midwestern feeling than sprinkling crumbled Saltines over something bubbling in your oven? I think not. Possibly this is how you can recognize Midwestern witches. At the end of any spell, we’re sprinkling crumbled Saltines into the caldron.

Chewed Up Piece of Gum

I wrote about Elizabeth Smart’s comments for Pith, but then they found those women in that house in Cleveland, so I’m having a hard time shaking it. What kinds of assholes would tell girls that suffer unimaginable sexual abuse that they’re like a chewed up piece of gum or like a cup that’s been spit in by everyone?

I mean, it’s not true that having lots of consensual sex with people somehow “ruins” you, but at least the pleasure of it makes the message somewhat difficult to believe. But when a terrible thing is happening to you, it’s not surprising that the words that tell you that you deserve this terrible thing keep ringing in your head.

It’s hard not to believe, at some point, that our culture loathes women. (I had thought that, if enough people pointed out how our culture is set up to fuck women over, that people who genuinely didn’t want to fuck women over would band together and change the culture. And, in some ways, that’s happening, but very slowly. In other ways, what’s happened is that the culture of loathing has just opened itself up to include men in its loathing.)

Terrible things happen to children. Everyone who’s involved in the lives of children knows this. We all hear stories or read the news or whatever.  Which makes it more deeply fucked up that we’re sticking with a mode of sex education that pushes a standard of purity–that even if we accept it as a good thing, which I don’t–many, many people can’t meet, though no fault of their own.

And that’s the part I can’t shake. In order to teach abstinence-only education with the gum example or the lollypop example or the spit in the cup example when you are standing in a room where you simply must know that every 7th kid is either currently or is going to be forced into nonconsensual sexual activity at some point, is fucked up. Telling kids it’s best to wait until you’re emotionally and physically ready for the repercussions? Fine. Telling kids that they get to decide how much they want to do and how far they want to go every single time and that just because they’ve done something once with someone doesn’t mean they have to do it again if they don’t want to or that they have to do it with anyone else? Necessary. I have no problems with encouraging kids to not have sex, if for some reason, that’s important to the community to do.

But I am grossed out by how fucked up it is to realize that all the “you should wait” lectures in the world aren’t very effective and so you just open yourself up to all the fucked up shit you ever heard about how dirty and ruinous sex is and let it pour through you onto those kids. When you know how damaging it is.

I don’t know. It just makes me sad. Such terrible things go on in the world and we too rarely don’t add to the mess.

I Guess This Proves Texas Isn’t Really Southern

In the South, you wouldn’t tell the Boy Scouts to be more like a guy that lost his first governorship because of an angry child bride he was rumored to have sprung a puss-filled crotch wound on and lost his second governorship because he thought the South was stupid for trying to secede, because the North was going to “move with the steady momentum and perseverance of a mighty avalanche; and what I fear is, they will overwhelm the South.”

The child bride is enough to put me off Sam Houston, but for a fucked up drunken lout with a child bride, he’s kind of awesome. Still, my point is–what exactly should the Boy Scouts emulate about Sam Houston? Wanting to fuck a girl way too young for him? Leaving a puss-y crotch wound untreated? Being a drunk? Sassing the South? None of these things are the actions of honorable men. Though they might be the actions of a man you wish you were Facebook friends with, just for the train wreck. But we don’t need a country full of Boy Scouts like that.

Prometheus

We watched it last night. About halfway through, the boys took a break to go shoot things with a pellet gun, which I probably should just let stand as the review. The main thing that I didn’t like about it is that, in the other Alien(s) movies, there’s a prominent sense that the characters have been fucked by factors they weren’t quite aware of–that someone else’s greed or hubris has put them in this position. They are but small cogs, in the end, in a big machine they not only can’t control, but can’t comprehend, but must strive to do their best in spite of.

That story is in Prometheus but it’s a B plot–the captain of the ship and his crew, who end up saving Earth, presumably–not the focus.

And, I have to tell you, I find it less compelling than the others for changing that focus.

I also kind of hated that, even at the end, it didn’t seem to occur to anyone that David might feel about them how they feel about the Engineers.

But it was pretty.

Almost Done

The Charllie Brown afghan is almost done! If you want to know how badly my iPhone has guessed at the colors, it is actually gold and brown, not light yellow and black. Anyway, I wish I’d made it a hair wider and I’ll do the partial squares differently the next time I try an afghan like this, but all in all, I really love it.

I had NO idea this had happened to Charlaine Harris. This sounds like a nightmare. I can’t even begin to imagine.

Kansas City

One of the things I love about Janelle Monae, aside from my suspicion that we’re watching some singular vision execute itself in this really extraordinary way, is that she situates herself in music in ways I find really thought provoking. There’s a lot to talk about with “Q.U.E.E.N.” and we could spend all afternoon just talking about the end, which certainly must be the first song to go from Philip K. Dick to Jimmie Hendrix in two lines.

But I want to focus, for a second, on the part right before that:

I asked a question like this
“Are we a lost generation of our people?
Add us to equations but they’ll never make us equal.
She who writes the movie owns the script and the sequel.
So why ain’t the stealing of my rights made illegal?
They keep us underground working hard for the greedy,
But when it’s time pay they turn around and call us needy.
My crown too heavy like the Queen Nefertiti
Gimme back my pyramid, I’m trying to free Kansas City.

I quote the whole thing, because I think she’s juggling Black nationalism and Ginsberg and I find that amazing. And because I think the part that I want to really look at depends on what comes before it–this questioning of who creates things and who owns them and who controls them. But this part, “I’m trying to free Kansas City.”

Now, if we consult our roadmap to important places in the psyche of American music, we discover that Kansas City is on that map:

Which makes sense, because we’ve all heard the song:

But hold my hand and let’s go down the rabbit hole. Doesn’t that sound like this tune?

Which is, of course, the same song as Bob’s:

Which is a very similar song to this one:

And yes, that last verse is:

Lord, I woke up this mornin’ with my pork grindin’ business in my hand.
Says I woke up this morning with my pork grindin’ business in my hand.
Lord, if you can’t send me no woman, please send me some sissy man.

Which I think brings us back full circle. We start with a man praying to the Lord for someone, anyone, to get him off. That leads us to “Kansas City,” the city that Janelle Monae is trying to free by asking church going folks, “Hey brother can you save my soul from the devil?/Say is it weird to like the way she wear her tights?” Then she promises, “Even if it makes other uncomfortable/ I will love who I am.” It’s a big promise, but there’s something about her that make me think that it’s a promise larger than it appears on the surface. I think she’s promising to love unabashedly everyone she loves, and not just them, but their whole history with them.

***

Also, though it doesn’t fit into the particular hole I was going down, it should be noted that Big Joe Turner was born in Kansas City. This is his song:

Which gave us rock and roll:

Which gave us Elvis:

Whew, you can see why we need Bob Dylan to map all this shit out for us. It’s a vast landscape, and all the roads wind.

Gals I Know

One of my favorite things–though I have a lot of favorite things–about living here is knowing women who can write like this.

Ashley Spurgeon who is hilarious. I think this may be her best “Nashville” recap ever.

And Jewly Hight who is just such a good writer. I learn so much from her both about her subject and technique every time I read her.

You never know when you’re going to need a straw or an extra set of chopsticks at work.

It is Every Bit as Awesome as You Thought It Would Be

I’d Take Morphine and Die

Let me repeat that this is the Butcher’s friend and I don’t know her or anyone in the band. They could be terrible people. Possibly made completely of boogers. Crusty boogers, most likely.

But I still like the hell out of their music and I invite you to listen to them doing a wonderful cover of Skip James’s “Drunken Spree.”

Did I Tell You About the Mockingbird?

The one in the front yard? He has different chirps for the different animals in my house. I can literally tell who’s on the porch with him by what noise he’s making to yell at them. I’ve taken up talking to him when I got out on the porch to let the poor cats in the house. He likes to show off his awesomeness by standing on a cactus and looking at me. I know it doesn’t sound like much, but you try it. Cactus perching is an art. He has it down like it’s no big deal. He doesn’t yet answer me, but I keep talking.

I mean, after all, if he’s come up with names to holler at my pets, I don’t know why we can’t have some kind of rudimentary conversations.

Otherwise, thinking about my yard is just depressing. There’s a massive amount of weeding that needs to be done, but it’s too wet to do it. And nothing’s blooming. The daffodils are done and I had one–I repeat, ONE lilac blossom–and that’s it. The irises look like they intend to do something, maybe, but not today.

And none of my hollyhocks have come up. Not a single one. I planted them at Easter with my mom. So, I don’t know if the frost got them or what, but I need to replant.

And all of the bushes need trimmed, but, again, it’s too wet.

But I’m hoping that May means things start to perk up.

How Yarn Works

Oh, y’all, I forgot to tell you that I finished American Elsewhere. It was fine. It’s fantastic for the first 5/8ths of the book and then is just good. And I don’t know why that was so disappointing to me, but it was.

BUT it does contain the most hilarious misstep in the characterization of a character ever. I mean, hands down, ever. About 5/8ths into the book, we are told that the main character is an avid crocheter. So avid that she even crochets clothing. And yet, though her movements in this little town are well-described and the important detail of the town is that it’s very difficult, if not impossible, to leave, never once has she either gone looking for a place to acquire yarn or panicked about whether she could live in a place where she couldn’t at least get some RedHeart.

I just wanted to take the author aside and be all “Dude, that’s not how it works.”

I mean, it’s like throwing in a detail about how your character is a major stoner at the end. Oh, really? Then where has all the pot been all this time? Where’s his bong?!

Anyway, it’s not a meaningful detail that somehow kills the book. It’s just a funny moment when you realize that the author doesn’t understand a trait he’s just given his character.

Dancing with a Memory, Crying Teardrops of Her Own

I can’t remember the last time I heard Dwight Yokum’s “Turn It On, Turn It Up, Turn Me Loose.” It’s at least been five years. It may be closer to ten. But sometimes I find myself singing without realizing I am doing it and this morning, I was singing that song, from start to finish, like I knew it. Which, I guess I do. The brain is a funny thing. How music lives in us is strange.

I submitted a couple of stories.. I asked around about some others. I did all I can do by this weird thing that consumes me. And now I’m going to work on an afghan.

On Beltane Eve

Those of you who have cattle to run to the summer pasture, go right ahead. The rest of us are going to stay here and discuss creepy children. I don’t believe that everyone gets reincarnated. I remain completely uncertain about what happens when we die, if anything. But whoa dogey (for those of you still on cattle duty) some of those stories gave me the reincarnation heebie jeebies. I tell you what, though. I hope that, if your chance at life gets fucked up, like you get cancer when you’re three or some asshole murders you in your driveway, that you do get a do-over. I also hope that, if your life was sad, you’re not forced to try it again, if you don’t want to.

Also, the idea of these quaking aspens, just being alive for five or ten thousand years. It’s kind of creepy. Forests grow over them. They come back. Forests burn off. They come back. Deer eat them. They come back. When you think about something that lives for that long–and apparently they have one that’s 80,000 years old–it kind of gives me the willies. In a good way, but it gives me the willies. How long it is. How many different bird songs and animal noises came and went in that time. You’re 80,000 years old, almost all of your life was before the arrival of humans.

Evidence of an Unseen Flood

The dog and I tried to walk, but it’s too wet back there. We did, however, find firm evidence that the creek flooded this weekend, though it never made it far enough into the yard for us to see it. Thank goodness.

Notice that all of the greenery that usually lines the creek is gone.

And the concrete thingy that used to be under the bridge is now next to the bridge, which is looking even more perilously related to the bank.

The tell-tale knocked-over irises

The imprint of a stick and the stick moved by unseen forces.

Some swept-away leaves.

Another berm of leaves, marking a brief shoreline.

Here’s a lovely explanation of the day and thus a good explanation for why A City of Ghosts is divided how it is.

The Universe Sends Me a Strange Sign

Today I got a press release about the five Tennessee sites added to the National Register of Historic Places. Site #1?

Allendale Farm.

One of the Allens to own the house?

George.

They’re not my Allens, who are from Maryland and Virginia before arriving in Sumner County. These Allens are from North Carolina and then settled in Montgomery County (I’ve run into some Allens in Cheatham County and I suspect they’re these folks, as well).

So, it didn’t give me the full-on heebie jeebies. But it definitely gave me at least the heebies.

(I’m bummed the OED doesn’t have an etymology for ‘heebie-jeebies.’)

Mother

I’m spending my lunch hour being a baby AND listening to Natalie Maines’ new album (I put the “and” in all caps because those are two separate tasks that aren’t related). Nothing will aid my babydom, but time. I have mixed feelings about Maines’ album. I’ve really missed her voice. It still sounds pretty damn country to me. But I feel like her voice is too far forward in the mix–at least on these speakers–so I can’t quite not hear that she’s not in the same room as the instruments at the same time.

But so far–and I’m not yet all the way through them–I just feel like these are the wrong songs. I can’t quite explain it. They’re great songs. But it’s not quite working. It just sounds old, somehow.

I Lived My Life Wrong

I’m kind of a coward, so I don’t often fail at things. In my whole life, I either did things I knew I was good at or I didn’t care about being good at or I didn’t do them. I really wanted to play football in high school, for instance, but when people told me I was going to suck at it, I believed them. And, you know, as a coward, I would have sucked at football.

But the school I finished high school at? Their team hadn’t won a game–not a single game–in decades. I would not have sucked worse than that! (Though I should say that, in the two years I was there, they did win some games and conducted themselves in a pleasantly mediocre manner on the field.)

Anyway, I don’t really regret not playing football. I’m just saying, I’m not someone who puts themselves on the line about things she might not be good at.

So this whole fiction writing thing just fucking sucks. I have to do it. Nothing at all makes me happier (except my dog and she’s been eating the cat poop lately and giving herself the shits). I feel like I have the brains and credentials to say “Yep, this sucks. Here’s how it should be better.” or “No, hey, this is really good. Someone will want it.”

But I don’t.

And the weird part is that it’s not even depressing. Like two years ago, it was kind of depressing. Now it’s just like “Well, on to the next thing.” Because there is no choice.

And the other thing is that I probably do have to suck for a while–possibly a long while–but I am not sure I’ll ever know when or if I stop sucking.

It’s just fucking ludicrous. I do this thing I love with no clue as to whether I’m good at it in any marketable way, no idea how to improve that doesn’t cost thousands of dollars and involve taking massive amounts of time off work that I just can’t do, at least, not for four or five more years.

And yet, I keep on keeping on. Just because I like it. Even though I suspect I suck at it.

Anyway, “Allendale” revisions. I have a rough draft of the revised part–the footnotes. I guess it’s not ruining it to tell you. The footnotes are written by poor George’s niece who has just discovered that he’s not in prison for Elias’s murder, but in a secure hospital, where she can go visit him. He was unable to aid in his defense because he believes his “life” since the night of Elias’s death is actually just an illusion implanted in him by the werewolf as it kills him in the basement alongside Elias, to keep him calm. His niece mostly believes he is a killer. And then he’s a ghost, the end.

Is it any good? Who the fuck knows?

Lord. What if “Frank” is the best thing I ever do?

…

…

…

Well, I guess that’s not such a bad thing.

And, really, it’s not even that I think I suck. I guess if I am honest, I think I write really well, things I enjoy reading. I struggle with figuring out how to improve things. I’m pretty terrible at that.

But the thing I suck at–and this is an objective sucking–is figuring out how to sell them. I don’t know what kind of writer I am. I don’t know how to look at a story and say “Yep, fantasy” or “this is horror.” I don’t know how, even when I read widely–and I read widely–which markets might want which of my stories.

And I don’t know how to feel assured, if they turn me down, that it’s because it just didn’t fit and not because the story needed something a little more.

I suck at the match game aspect of it. But since I don’t know how to improve at that, I fret over my work, like that’s the problem.

Everything’s a fucking knot, I tell you. This anxiety tangled with that anxiety wrapped around this fear. Trying to keep everything smoothed out so that you can work with it is the hardest part.

Update on the Charlie Brown Blanket

Argh, I am loving this so much! The trick is these half-squares. Or at least, I thought that was the trick until I got to the bottom corner and realized I had to come up with a quarter square. Luckily, I think I got it. Anyway, It’s officially half done. I’m going to do a multi-colored one to use up all my winter yarn (or maybe two, depending on how much yarn I have left over. Either way.)

Here’s the edge between the brown stripe and the gold bottom. The top half will be all gold.

Thee are how the half-squares look in place.

And here’s the adorable corner, which I think actually works.

Three Things

1. I wish I could be weeding, but it’s raining. I’m glad I got some stuff done around the yard yesterday.

2. I am loving this diagonal granny square pattern. The Charlie Brown blanket is going to be cool. I also cannot wait to make one with a bunch of colors.

3. I’m really struggling with the formatting on the upgraded Allendale piece. Right now I’m doing it story & footnotes style, but I’m not sure it’s working. But I am going to get a little work done on it while the Butcher sleeps.

Ooo, Tolkein!

Sara Harvey wrote a lovely and interesting post about Tolkein and his myth-building. Considering some of the things I blather on about, you can see why this is of interest to me.