Dr. Seuss's Wife

Helen Palmer Geisel, the wife of the famous Dr. Seuss, had a bad run through a series of illnesses, including cancer. Dr. Seuss began a relationship with another woman, which broke Helen down even further. Distraught, she decided on an overdose of barbiturates.

This is her suicide note:

Dear Ted, What has happened to us? I don't know. I feel myself in a spiral, going down down down, into a black hole from which there is no escape, no brightness. And loud in my ears from every side I hear, 'failure, failure, failure...' I love you so much ... I am too old and enmeshed in everything you do and are, that I cannot conceive of life without you ... My going will leave quite a rumor but you can say I was overworked and overwrought. Your reputation with your friends and fans will not be harmed ... Sometimes think of the fun we had all thru the years ...

I just found this out today an needed to share the despair it made blossom inside me.

Although, as I am happy and in love, the very existence of that dedication and passion for someone can be seen as a celebration of the human spirit - if you ignore the horror of the situation. :/

This Is What I Write at 3am

No apologies, no explanations. This is what you get:

Yellow and Red

Mom was acting funny.
"The robots," she said. "The robots are, they're talking to me."
"What robots?" I asked.
"In the teevee, in the computer."
"Mom," I tried.
She turned around, slid the drawer, and pulled the biggest knife I'd seen in the house.
"Mom, please. Stop."
"You don't understand, Ingrid, they want me to destroy."
"Destroy what?"
"Everything," she said and forced the blade into her neck. Blood. So much blood. "Everything." She dropped to the ground, mumbling "Yellow and red. Yellow and red."

The home computer was glitchy, kept showing abstract images of rings of yellow and bars of red. I watched only for a few seconds before getting dizzy. Yellow and red.

Pulling the cords under the desk seemed to do nothing. The monitor would fizz out and then pop into life with the same images.

And there was a hum. I smashed the monitor and waited for a second only to hear the noise from upstairs. It was tilting my brain, making me just a little bit mad. I was waiting tables at a bar I'd never been to. Someone asked why I hadn't been there to pick up the slack. "I can do it," I said. "Then why aren't you here?" she answered.

The car's dead and I'm making a quick stop at the gas station down the street and I'm looking for a bag of Funyons. Funyons. But they're out and there's no beer and the only energy drinks they have are warm. Funyons. Yellow. And red.

I'm back in the living room and Mom's still alive and the remote I have has a big ON/OFF switch but when I walk to the television, I can't read it and the fizzled signal is pulling me in. I want to be a piece of face on the clothesline outside. There are already three out there, smiling, waving in the wind, flapping with the wandering joy of resignation. And I go out of the room so I can read the ON/OFF button and hold it and walk back in to flip it - and I do. And the television goes off, but only for a second, and back on. And yellow and red and yellow and red.

I feel myself going, losing my ground, but I run upstairs and I'm late for work and so ashamed because I haven't been in for a few days with no excuse and I'm just waiting on getting reamed out, waiting on getting fired. And the computer monitor is humming at me, is strobing yellow and red and I'm in an ocean-front hotel room and the giant wave is coming and I don't know how to avoid it, don't know why no one is not running away. They're all staring at me. And the wave is coming.

The television is still humming and mom is on the floor. Red. Everywhere.

"Why aren't you helping me?" I shout to no one. I run around the house pulling cords from the walls, but the humming only grows. A plane passes overhead so, so closely and crashes a few miles away in a ball of fire. Red and yellow.

Everything is pulled from the walls. The television is still on, playing a version of Super Mario Brothers I've never seen. But it's pulsing, pullling me in.

I run upstairs, turn on the shower, get to my room where the pillows are pulsing. The people-faces from the garden are stretched out, bleeding on the mattress. I can't stop anything. I can't keep my mind moving outside of the yellow and red cycle that's taking my head out. The alarm clock is even doing it, somehow making colors where there should only be sound.

We can't keep it. We can't.

The colors are daunting, consuming, and so, so wonderful.

And so: blood.

Made of Bees

Been swimming in my head a bit...

Lorn opened the back door and stepped inside. The shock of the temperature drop was a welcome stilting, but it wasn't enough. He tracked his grass-stained shoes to the window unit and positioned his dripping face in front of the blower. The chill ran though his joints in an oddly-ecstatic jolt and he picked up his phone. All he could smell was gasoline.

"Wouldn't get too close to that," said the imp sitting on his computer desk, in a tart, British accent. "S'full of bees."

Lorn passed him a sideways glance. "Bees?"

"Yes," he said, standing up off the mouse pad. "Yellow. Black. Stingy. Hurt quite a bit." He leaned on his tiny cane. "Did I say stingy?"

He checked for voicemails. Nothing. Rachel should've called. Scanning texts he said "Bees, really. My phone's got bees in it?"

The imp's eyes grew two sizes. "Oh, my, no."

"Yeah. Thought so."

"The cooling unit's full of bees. Your phone's made of bees."

"Oh, fuck, Jacob. My phone? Bees?" He sat down at the desk within range of the AC fan.

Jacob leaned back on the full 24-ounce can of Labatt Ice. "You carry a tiny computer that's connected to the entire world via voice, via text, via your stupid Angry Birds. No cords. No wires. And it buzzes."

Opening his Blogger account, Lorn didn't even twitch. "Yeah, so there's that."

Jacob stood, "Bees, you git! Bees! Your phone's made of them!"

Eyes. Rolling. "Yeah. Bees. Awesome. I'll take note."

"Well then. Okay." Jacob reached behind the pile of unopened mail and presented a thimble to Lorn. "Pour us a pint then?"

"It's a thimble, Jake."

"Then a thimble. Lorn? Lorn?"

"Okay, just a minute."

"No, Lorn, it's the bees."

Lorn grabbed the can as Jacob fell to the desktop. He cracked the top.

"No. Lorn. The bees. The bees."

And before Lorn could focus, Jacob's body collapsed, convulsed, pulled into the fetal position and then POP! turned into over a hundred bees, all angry, all hungry. And buzzing.

And how they stung!

Lorn dropped to the ground, thinking first of escape, then of survival. Sting. Survival. Sting. Did Jacob say *sting* anything about how to *sting* deal with *sting* these *sting* *sting* damn *sting* bees *sting**sting*? Maybe *sting* the beer *sting* is *sting* would be *sting* beer...

Maybe *sting* the phone *sting*

The remains of Lorn were never found.

Jacob never existed.

Jesus, Anne Rice, & Lindsay Lohan - Rant

If you missed it or are blind to any reference to vampires aside from "Woohoo! Team Edward! Woohoo!" then you may have sauntered by a recent story about Anne Rice, author of Interview With a Vampire (and a couple dozen other novels) and arguable (grand?)mother of the current vampire craze.

She has 'quit' Christianity, as announced on her FB page. Yes, really. And, hell, I don't blame her. I renounced Catholicism at about 17 as an absurdly foolish path to any ultimate reality. A pastor has called her out to say that the people are the Church. I respond:

Dear Pastor,
I'm pretty sure Anne Rice understands the philosophies and underpinnings of the Church in general, and that's why she made that statement. Yes, the Church is the People, but every single division of Christianity has taken stories in a book and constructed this scaffolding around it in the shape it desires. And they have all declared: "There is no truth except through us."

And if you want to work through all that scaffolding you'll find people - mostly men - of the cloth that must aid you in that journey. By helping you climb the scaffold they built.

In Catholicism, the links are so disparate that you're 7 degrees of Kevin Bacon to get to the Pope who has the Red Phone. For the rest of them, it's ideas and thoughts as under-the-sink gradeschool crystal growth projects to build rules and implied judgments from the minds of men.

If you believe in God and want to make that connection a 1-on-1 call, there's NO Christian way to do it without being a part of that scaffold in some way. And within that scaffold, in many different factions of Christianity, lies a great deal of exclusion and hate that would never have crossed the mind of Jesus.

So shut up and let her write more great fiction.

Ricky

And I also saw that Prison Minister Marty Angelo said that Lindsay Lohan would've been way better off if she'd accepted Jesus as her personal savior and gone through religious-based treatment for her addictions.

On the light side, this is like saying gays can be cured through Jesus-ization. On the dark side, it's like a kid I had teaching tenth grade in NC, and on an essay question about Elie Wiesel's Night and how Faith played a role, he wrote me a one-sentence response: "If the Jews had just accepted Jesus Christ as their savior, then none of this would've happened." For those of you who missed that book, Night is a first-person recollection of surviving the death camps in WWII.

Christian healing only works for Christians. I don't think Lindsay has - or will - hit rock bottom. And if she does, she might do the addict dance I've seen so many times: Booze and coke to cigarettes, coffee, and Christ. And maybe then that treatment might work. But for now, Lindsay is a whackjob, out of her mind on excess and immortality and well on the way to the same grave that acted as the thoroughfare for so many other celebrities, except without the talent to pass into anything other than obscurity.

God save her soul.

Pirate Bay Sends the Big Middle Finger Flag Up the Gov't Arse

Hells yeah. Pirate Bay was founded in Sweden and it was there that they got a media spanking. From The Telegraph:

Four men behind a file-sharing website that has hundreds of thousands of British users were sentenced to a year in jail and ordered to pay £2.5 million in damages yesterday for helping internet users to download music, films and computer games.

In a big victory for the entertainment industries, Fredrik Neij, 30, Gottfrid Svartholm Warg, 24, Peter Sunde Kolmisoppi, 30, and Carl Lundström, 49, were found guilty of breaching copyright law in Sweden, where The Pirate Bay site was founded.

The court ordered a payment of £900,000 in compensation for 21st Century Fox and £500,000 each for MGM and Columbia Pictures.

Despite the verdicts, the four announced that The Pirate Bay, which is used by 25 million people, would continue to operate from computers based in various countries around the world. The men, who plan to appeal, will not begin their sentences or have to pay compensation until the end of the legal process.

Yes, there are plenty of douchebags that just download content and use it as a substitute for purchases. But there is a large faction that would never have seen a certain movie or heard a certain album except that it was there to download. And that didn't cost the industry anything. If it wasn't there, it wouldn't have been seen. And they wouldn't have gotten that exposure.

There are also many others who download to get a taste of artists and then, if they like them, they purchase the album in a show of support. Perhaps if movie machines and cookie-cutter artists weren't churning out an absurd slurry of shit on a regular basis and the radio industry hadn't collapsed into centralized pimps for that crap then, just maybe, consumers would have a little more trust in the system and a little more reason to shuck out fucking $15 for a goddamned CD - the same price we payed 15 years ago when discs weren't $0.02 to produce.

My advice is research bands on MySpace and their main websites. If they have samples, download the album from Mininova.org or like sites. If you like the album and plan on listening to it for a while, buy a copy to support the artist.

I read a couple months ago one of the most brilliant, obvious insights: The greatest fear of almost every artist is not that they will have their novel or music or indie movie downloaded for free thousands of times, but that no one will ever hear of them.

Download. Support. And long live Pirate Bay.

Oh, and fuck you Sweden (that is, not the people but the government entities that fold to corporate pressures like so many bendy straws; it could've been just as easily our elected douchebags here in the US).

Chapter 15 of Life, The Universe, and Everything

One of my favorite quotes in every sense is "A magician wandered along the beach, but no one needed him."

Brilliant.

Douglas Adams.

But that comes from whence?

Here. Chapter 15 of Life, The Universe, and Everything.

Two months later, Zipo Bibrok 5 / 108 had cut the bottoms off his Galactic State jeans, and was spending part of the enormous fee his judgments commanded lying on a jewelled beach having Essence of Qualactin rubbed into his back by the same rather nice member of the jury. She was a Soolfinian girl from beyond the Cloudworlds of Yaga. She had skin like lemon silk and was very interested in legal bodies.

"Did you hear the news?" she said.

"Weeeeelaaaaah!" said Zipo Bibrok 5 / 108, and you would have had to have been there to know exactly why he said this. None of this was on the tape of Informational Illusions, and is all based on hearsay.

"No," he added, when the thing that had made him say "Weeeeelaaaaah" had stopped happening. He moved his body round slightly to catch the first rays of the third and greatest of primeval Vod's three suns which was now creeping over the ludicrously beautiful horizon, and the sky now glittered with some of the greatest tanning power ever known.

A fragrant breeze wandered up from the quiet sea, trailed along the beach, and drifted back to sea again, wondering where to go next. On a mad impulse it went up to the beach again. It drifted back to sea.

"I hope it isn't good news," muttered Zipo Bibrok 5 / 108, "'cos I don't think I could bear it."

"Your Krikkit judgment was carried out today," said the girl sumptuously. There was no need to say such a straightforward thing sumptuously, but she went ahead and did it anyway because it was that sort of day. "I heard it on the radio," she said, "when I went back to the ship for the oil."

"Uhuh," muttered Zipo and rested his head back on the jewelled sand.

"Something happened," she said.

"Mmmm?"

"Just after the Slo-Time envelope was locked," she said, and paused a moment from rubbing in the Essence of Qualactin, "a Krikkit warship which had been missing presumed destroyed turned out to be just missing after all. It appeared and tried to seize the Key."

Zipo sat up sharply.

"Hey, what?" he said.

"it's all right," she said in a voice which would have calmed the Big Bang down. "Apparently there was a short battle. The Key and the warship were disintegrated and blasted into the space-time continuum. Apparently they are lost for ever."

She smiled, and ran a little more Essence of Qualactin on to her fingertips. He relaxed and lay back down.

"Do what you did a moment or two ago," he murmured.

"That?" she said.

"No, no," he said, "that."

She tried again.

"That?" she asked.

"Weeeeelaaaaah!"

Again, you had to be there.

The fragrant breeze drifted up from the sea again.

A magician wandered along the beach, but no one needed him.

Miller's Gospel

1:1
And the Angels heralded me. And they herded me. And one named Camael came forward from the masses and ushered me through the door of the Kingdom, held the door open and slammed it shut behind me.

1:2
I looked back, then forward. The hall was dark and dank and smelled of frankincense, like Catholic church as a boy. At the end of the close hall, I followed a set of musty, stone stairs. Downward.
Downward?

1:3
At the end of the stairs, a small daemon pushed me forward towards another door. I pushed it open. I walked through. Candles lit the enormous chamber. As I turned around, the door behind me was slammed shut.

1:4
The chamber was wide. Open. I knew inherently that it was God's home. At the back of the chamber was a throne. It was empty. I wept.

1:5
"Why is God, my only hope of salvation, gone?" I cried.
The throne was empty.
Silence.
Then:
"Oh, I'm here."
"Huh? But where -"
"Why do you -"
"Why can't I see you?!" I shouted
Silence.
"Why do you need to think I would sit in a throne?"
"I didn't. I was brought here."
Silence.
"Listen to yourself," said the voice. "This is your place, not mine. Your idea, not mine. Your throne, not mine.
"Which is why I am not in it."

1:6
I wandered the room, wondered about the spectacle that was not a spectacle. Pillars of stone surrounded the throne and I wondered, for the first time, where reality was sitting as the throne itself disappeared, the pillars turning to dust.
The room disappeared.
I wept.

1:7
Again, the voice, in the darkness:
"There is no church. There is no steeple. There is no room. There is no God."
I paused at the last.
"What do you mean, 'There is no God?' I'm here. You're here. I'm speaking to you, I'm..."
"There are no words for me. God. Allah. El. Jehovah.
"All naming the nameless."

1:8
"But I have no reference," I shouted to the nothing.
"But you do," it said.
"You love.
"So you know.
"You don't need a throne and you don't need domination and you - and the world - don't need anything more than it desires or wants or can make due with.
"You already have everything.
"Make it good."

1:9
"But that isn't an answer," I shouted to the nothing.
"Then what is?"
And silence.

1:10
And it was done. And I realized it myself, sitting in front of a computer, typing words, and I hoped it was enough for me and prayed it was something for someone else.

Kentucky Locks Up Kid for "Terroristic" Short Story

You're just going to get a straight story on this one. I've read this story 3 times and I think I get angrier every time. Fire it up in the comments. Thanks Jen!

From LEX-18:

A George Rogers Clark High School junior arrested Tuesday for making terrorist threats told LEX 18 News Thursday that the "writings" that got him arrested are being taken out of context.

Winchester police say William Poole, 18, was taken into custody Tuesday morning. Investigators say they discovered materials at Poole's home that outline possible acts of violence aimed at students, teachers, and police.

Poole told LEX 18 that the whole incident is a big misunderstanding. He claims that what his grandparents found in his journal and turned into police was a short story he wrote for English class.

"My story is based on fiction," said Poole, who faces a second-degree felony terrorist threatening charge. "It's a fake story. I made it up. I've been working on one of my short stories, (and) the short story they found was about zombies. Yes, it did say a high school. It was about a high school over ran by zombies."

Even so, police say the nature of the story makes it a felony. "Anytime you make any threat or possess matter involving a school or function it's a felony in the state of Kentucky," said Winchester Police detective Steven Caudill.

Poole disputes that he was threatening anyone.

"It didn't mention nobody who lives in Clark County, didn't mention (George Rogers Clark High School), didn't mention no principal or cops, nothing,"
said Poole. "Half the people at high school know me. They know I'm not that stupid, that crazy."

On Thursday, a judge raised Poole's bond from one to five thousand dollars after prosecutors requested it, citing the seriousness of the charge.

Poole is being held at the Clark County Detention Center.

NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Competition

So I entered this writing competition. First time for this particular competition, but not the first time I entered a writing competition with them. First time: won my heat, got honorable mention in finals. Second time: nothing.

This time, I'm it's Flash Fiction, meaning I have to write a story under 1,000 words. That's not the only bit. Entrants are given a genre, a place, an object to use in their stories, and 48 hours to compose and submit it.

My bit? Genre: historical fiction; Place: subway; Object: pencil.

First Round: 2nd place, 22/25 points in one of four rounds.

The next story guidelines drop at midnight tonight. Wish me good writing. Here's the story I took 2nd place with:

Orientation

[descriptive intro]
In June of 1927, Jimmy McMurphy lost his job, along with hundreds of others, when the Cincinnati Subway project shut down forever. His closest friend, Henry Amato, shows up to deliver a message that will change his life even more than the closing of the tunnels.


Orientation

Jimmy rubbed his pencil sideways on the concrete, more concerned about working it to a point than the mark he was leaving on the floor. Satisfied, he shifted on the stairs, and wrote on a defunct work order: Talk to Margaret.

Yep. That would have to be first.

“Hey.”

The word cracked like a bullwhip through the bare bones of Liberty Station and the adjoining tunnels. But Jimmy had been on for years and was used to the noises in the tunnels. He looked towards the source and was not surprised to see Henry Amato emerge into the din of the remaining lights.

Jimmy looked back at his list. “Heya, Henry.”

“What’s eating you, McMurphy?” he asked “We all took off hours ago.”

“I don’t know. Thinkin’ things through, what to do next.” He looked up at Henry. “You got a ciggy?”

Henry pulled one out, handed it over, and flicked his Zippo.

“Don’t worry. They’re short on cash. They’ll get it together and we’ll be back up before you know it.”

Jimmy took a puff and looked up. “You really believe that?”

Henry shifted his gaze.

“Don’t be a sap,” said Jimmy. “It’s 1927. It’s hard everywhere. You don’t send hundreds of guys packin’ because you’re a little short on dough.” He rested his elbows on his knees. “Foreman said so: ‘Nobody’s coming back.’”

“Yeah,” said Henry, his mind elsewhere, and snapped back. “So what you thinkin’ of doing now?”

“I don’t know,” said Jimmy, grabbing a handkerchief to mop his sweating head. “I guess they’re still building in New York. Have an in here in Cinci packing pigs.”

“Yeah,” said Henry, and smacked Jimmy in the shoulder, laughing. “You in a slaughterhouse. Don’t razz me.”

Jimmy chuckled, picked up his pencil again, and wrote one word – Orient – as the second item on his list. He rolled the paper like a scroll between his hands and looked up at the dark ceiling. “You know anything about the Orient?”

“What, like Chinks and shit?”

“Yeah – I guess – but the Far East. Mystery. Unknown. Maybe danger?

“Been at this gig six years, Henry. Never had less than one job all my life. Now I’m dropped and it’s scary, exciting.” Jimmy’s eyes lit up. “We could start again. Anywhere. It doesn’t have to be Cincinnati.”

Henry stepped back from Jimmy and turned away.

“McMurphy, you really are a damn earful.”

“I just have to figure things out with Margaret.”

Henry’s shoulders slumped. “About that,” he said.

Immediate panic wrenched Jimmy from his glowing state and cranked his head towards Henry.

A sigh escaped Henry’s lips and for the first time in years, Jimmy noticed how empty an echo the tunnel produced.

He turned. “She’s gone, Jimmy. She – she sent me to tell you.”

Jimmy jumped, his hands fists, his breath short, his eyes burning. They’d had problems, but Gone? Why?

He took two steps towards Henry, pointed at him. “You’re lying,” was all he could choke out.

“No.” Henry stepped back.

“If you’re makin’ this up, I will plant one on your kisser so damn hard.”

“Jimmy. No.”

He could tell by the look on Henry’s face he was telling the truth. Jimmy moved back and slumped down on the steps, burying his head in his hands. “Where?”

“Her mom’s in Cleveland”

Jimmy looked up. “But how? I haven’t even been –”

“C’mon, McMurphy, you’ve been stewing in this hole almost four hours. All the guys are home. We live in the same neighborhood, for Chrissakes. You don’t think word would travel?”

“Has it been that long?”

“Yeah.”

Jimmy’s eyes shut of their own accord and in that darkness, he saw red, saw Margaret and her parents in Cleveland. Orange was his own home. Alone. Breathing and breathing all the way to New York. Blue. The mysterious Orient was somehow washed in a purple white.

He opened his eyes and started – Henry was right in front of him, stooped so their eyes met. One of the two overhead strings of lights went out. They both looked up.

“You okay?” Henry asked. “Thought you went off your nut there for a minute.”

“No, I’m –”

SMACK! came Henry’s hand. “Then snap out of it, McMurphy. Come over to my place. Anna’s been saving some gin. We’re going to get an edge. It’ll be like a regular juice joint. To hell with the world.”

Jimmy stared at Henry’s brilliant grin with both amusement and sorrow. “Then you’d better go,” he said.

The remaining light glowed around Henry’s head as he stood. “Don’t be a wet blanket.”

“Just go.”

“McMurphy, I—”

“Henry? Scram. And I mean that.”

The last string of lights flickered – but remained lit – in Liberty Station.
“I’d better go then.”

Jimmy smiled. “Yeah, you’d better.”

Henry walked back into the darkness from whence he came. “See you later?”

“Sure.”

Henry’s head turned back over his shoulder to see the man on the stairs. “Hey, don’t take any wooden nickels, you harp.”

“You neither, ya wop.”

And he was gone.

The scrolled-up paper lolled back and forth on the concrete, pushed by whisps and whirls of what would never become a real ventilation system. Jimmy picked up that paper and rolled it open.

On the top: Talk to Margaret

Below: Orient

And underlying it all, the orders and plans that had given his life structure for the last six years and now meant even less than the marks scrawled over them.

On the top: Talk to Margaret. She would need time. He would need time. Jimmy picked up the pencil once again and scratched out the first item.

Below: Orient

“Yep,” he said aloud. “That would have to be first.”

He leaned over and drew, again, on the concrete, in no discernable pattern. Loops and whirls gave way to crossovers and blank patches as the graphite wore away and the wood of the pencil folded over on itself and allowed not one more thing to be written.

UPDATE: Are they trying to kill me?

GENRE - Romance
LOCATION - A mountain summit
OBJECT - Nail clippers

I'll have more later.

Lorem Ipsum, Catullus, Bukowski

The traditional filler text of graphic designers and web developers does have meaning. Love it.

Neither is there anyone who loves grief itself since it is grief and thus wants to obtain it

What the fuck was Cicero talking about?

I prefer Catullus:

Advice: to himself

Sad Catullus, stop playing the fool,
and let what you know leads you to ruin, end.
Once, bright days shone for you,
when you came often drawn to the girl
loved as no other will be loved by you.
Then there were many pleasures with her,
that you wished, and the girl not unwilling,
truly the bright days shone for you.
And now she no longer wants you: and you
weak man, be unwilling to chase what flees,
or live in misery: be strong-minded, stand firm.
Goodbye girl, now Catullus is firm,
he doesn’t search for you, won’t ask unwillingly.
But you’ll grieve, when nobody asks.
Woe to you, wicked girl, what life’s left for you?
Who’ll submit to you now? Who’ll see your beauty?
Who now will you love? Whose will they say you’ll be?
Who will you kiss? Whose lips will you bite?
But you, Catullus, be resolved to be firm.

...which leads me to Bukowski:

one thirty-six a.m.

I laugh sometimes when I think about
say
Céline at a typewriter
or Dostoevsky...
or Hamsun...
ordinary men with feet, ears, eyes,
ordinary men with hair on their heads
sitting there typing words
while having difficulties with life
while being puzzled almost to madness.

Dostoevsky gets up
he leaves the machine to piss,
comes back
drinks a glass of milk and thinks about
the casino and
the roulette wheel.

Céline stops, gets up, walks to the
window, looks out, thinks, my last patient
died today, I won't have to make any more
visits there.
when I saw him last
he paid his doctor bill;
it's those who don't pay their bills,
they live on and on.
Céline walks back, sits down at the
machine
is still for a good two minutes
then begins to type.

Hamsun stands over his machine thinking,
I wonder if they are going to believe
all these things I write?
he sits down, begins to type.
he doesn't know what a writer's block
is:
he's a prolific son-of-a-bitch
damn near as magnificent as
the sun.
he types away.

and I laugh
not out loud
but all up and down these walls, these
dirty yellow and blue walls
my white cat asleep on the
table
hiding his eyes from the
light.

he's not alone tonight
and neither am
I.

We're gonna need a bigger beer.

URGENT! Orphan Works Act of 2008

'Girl Sketching' - Sir Henry Raeburn (1756 - 1823)

If you're aware of current copyright law, you know that as soon as you create something - written piece, sketch, composition, sculpture, anything creative - it is immediately copyrighted. This copyright is good for your lifetime + 70 years. The Orphan Works Act will destroy this structure.

From Drawn! Blog:

This new Orphan Works legislation proposes a change in U.S. copyright that would (indirectly) require artists, illustrators, photographers, and any creative individual to actively maintain and defend their copyright by registering each and every work with privatized registrars. Failure to do so would leave everything you’ve ever created as an artist up for grabs by anyone who wanted to copy, reproduce, create derivative works of, or flat out steal your work since the act defines an “orphan work” as any work where the author is unidentifiable or unlocatable, and applies to both published and unpublished works, U.S. and foreign, regardless of age.

Main points based on research and interviews:

• This piece of legislation was written under the guidance of Peter Jaszi, a deconstructionist who believes all creativity is - and should legally be - communal


• This specifically affects pictorial, graphic, and sculpture works


• Nothing you have ever created or will create will be protected, even if you've already copyrighted it


• The only way to protect your works will be to pay a fee to Commercial Registries


• Commercial Registries do not currently exist


• Congressional representatives state that Commercial Registries will be created by the private sector - without regulation, oversight, or standardization


• It is your responsibility to monitor any infringement and your burden of proof should you discover such - your legal financial burden as well

There is terrible, terrible money here, and the reversal of logic running against international law is terrifying and mind-boggling. Basically, nothing created will be protected. And once these political asshats get a taste, how long before you think they'll generalize it to anything written or filmed (although filmed probably falls under "pictorial").

This is a horror and a fucking travesty. Listen to this interview with Illustrator Brad Holland for a more thorough and chilling view of exactly what this legislation means. Check out S.2913: Shawn Bentley Orphan Works Act of 2008 and H.R.5889: Orphan Works Act of 2008.

Got that? Good. Now contact your congressional representatives. Now. Use these templates to automatically send emails or find and write your rep through the government site. The Illustrators' Partnership of America has plenty more information.

This is frightening. Act now.

The Time Traveler's Wife

In one of those crazy incidences of synchronicity, this past Saturday night saw me at the home of some of my favorite people. Let's call them Art and Music, for as I am Writer, they eat their names with savor.

Saturday evening, after many a libation, we were visually walking the bookshelf and Art told me about a book she'd been given but never read: The Time Traveler's Wife. The next morning, mildly foggy from the aforementioned evening, I appeared back at my parents' house. Before I went home, without mentioning the previous conversation, I was handed The Time Traveler's Wife and told to read it.



So now I must.

But I don't just spill trivial bullshit on a regular basis, so here's the crux: I've barely begun the book (working on Harry Potter 6 right now as well), but caught this poem in the opening pages. It's called "Love After Love" but is more appropriately entitled "Love During Love." Because we need it. We forget, sometimes, during a relationship and especially during a marriage, that we are solitary figures, that we have an individual personality. We forget to know ourselves, our desires, our dreams. And sometimes we need to give ourselves a giant fucking hug.

(note: I realize this punches in the face the Zen Buddhist parts of my idealistic life, but I'm an admitted walking dichotomy, so get the hell over it.)

I almost cried the first time I read it. I cry now reading it again and again. Because I've forgotten.

Love After Love

The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other's welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.


Derek Walcott

Reminder: Me. In Your Box.

You know you're special to me. Yes. I'm talking to you.

And while you may have been here from the beginning, you may also be very, very new to this sexy, sultry place I like to call home.

You see, my first thoughts are of you, and I would hate for you to miss even one, single second.

So over there on the left, just below that little Hellbox avatar, it says "Enter Your Email." You know what that does? It will slide every little thing I write straight into your box every morning. And if you haven't tried Ricky Shambles in the morning, well, let's just say it's better'n an Egg McMuffin. Speaking of muffins...

So sign up, brace yourself, ...and release.

Now. Put your pants back on. What kind of place do you think this is?

(...and just because it fits...)

Arthur C. Clarke: 1917-2008

Sadly, as much of a Sci-Fi geek as I am, I only read Childhood's End in college and then 2001 only 3 years ago (way better than even Kubrick could've done).

A reminder that I have catching up to do.

He will be missed.

National Post has wonderful links.

Sweet, Sweet, Political Lovin'

Just in case you've been voraciously reading and wondering about the density of my delicious, political snark and where it may have relocated to, here's a list of the last 3 days of posts I've made over at All Things Democrat:

Same as It Ever Was: Bush, McCain BFF

Limbaugh Stratigeries for Tuesday II

Notes On Superduperlicious Tuesday II

Oh, What the Hell Now? A Darker Obama?

My Primary Voting Experience in Ohio

Oh, the Conservative Confumanity

That Matt Santos Quote

FCC Official Wants Probe of “60 Minutes” Blackout

Party Jumping, Sham Voting in Ohio

Stop on over and say hello!

I got fancy and linked those directly. Yes, dance class is still just the deal of Little Shambles.

Beckett for Babies