Taken from the hand of fire

bird

Fireworks Mega Photo post for The 4th!

MOSS!

MOTHER OF CHEESE!

Still Life #14

Wrenches

There is actually only one salt lamp that I moved around.

Still Life #27

Stop yelling "Carousel!" You're too young to get that reference.

Stop yelling "Carousel!" You're too young to get that reference.

The Cheerleader and I (OR: The Most Beautiful Girl in The World Hit On Me and I Didn’t Believe It.)

I’ve alluded to this story, but I’ve never actually told it, so here it is in relative detail. When I was in high school, the most beautiful girl in the world hit on me, and I didn’t notice/believe it because I was too shy to do anything about it. Huh... that was less detail than I thought.

We’re going to say her name was Becky, because it very well may have been. Even if she were born with Rebecca, it would have said “Becky” on her letter jacket. Becky was a cheerleader, not only that, but she was exactly the sort of girl your nostalgic heart pictures when I say “She was a cheerleader” with the exception of the hair. Oh she had the requisite blonde hair. She wouldn’t be the girl your nostalgic heart pictures when I say “She was a cheerleader” if her eyes weren’t a sparkling blue and if her hair wasn’t a light and fair blonde. It was just, hers was cut into a short dutchboy style hair cut. There was nothing so odd about that, as it was1993-94 (a period scientists would later call “The Early to Mid-90s) such things were deemed acceptable. And as she was exactly the sort of girl your nostalgic heart pictures when I say “She was a cheerleader” it wouldn’t really have mattered if it weren’t acceptable, I’m pretty sure if that was how she wanted to cut her hair, she would have either way.

Becky and I were in an English class together, creative writing if you must know. Those of you who went to CVHS will remember the East Building, and will understand what that means. The tile floors, rather than carpet, the bare concrete breeze block walls, and so on. Just giving those of you who never set foot in that benighted hellhole an idea. Miss Greely was okay, and the class was okay, and it was creative writing so that was pretty easy and so on...

What happened was that I had chosen a desk, and right next to me, the most beautiful girl in the world chose the desk that was basically the closest you could get to the door while still sitting in one of those demonic plastic chair/desk combinations with the black streaks in the brown resin to make it look as though the surface had once come from a tree. The joke was on them of course, as it had come from a tree, just during the Paleozoic era. I had guessed that the seat nearest the door was her goal, and I sympathized. First day of class, the first day of school, she had worn her cheerleader costume and I had pegged her for someone trying for an easy A and a “Get Out of Stupid English Requirements” card. She had some nervous energy, and if I were a worse writer, this is where I would make comparisons to lithe jungle cats or some bullshit. Not going to though, because what she looked like was more magnificent than all the tigers and jaguars and ocelots in the world. She was the sort of girl your nostalgic heart pictures when I say “She was a cheerleader” and she was the most beautiful girl in the world. I’m not going to discuss legs, or skin, or style, because I already told you. She was the most beautiful girl in the world, that’s what you need to know. And he had nervous energy because he all did. I could sympathize with her desire to get out of that room, I had a pretty strong desire to be free of the whole school.

What ended up happening that first day was that we broke into small groups, me and Becky and another boy who is so unimportant to this story that I won’t even bother telling you his name was Phil. We were supposed to talk about the last thing each of us had read and why we either liked or disliked the main character. I was expecting to hear about how Miss Woodhouse had fallen for Mister Darcy in whatever bit of tat she’d read. Phil had read a sports book, about the big game or the guy who won the big game or GOD I DON’T CARE! God love him, he’d actually read a book once, but he was badly matched and I said he wasn’t important to the story.

I explained about The Dark Half, and how George Stark might be the hero of the book, even though really it’s Thad, but it could have been George. Beck surprised me a bit by relating how she’d read a detective story from the thirties. It wasn’t her usual reading material (As I had suspected, the Woodhouse/Darcy situation was more her speed) but the amorality of the hero fascinated her and she ended up liking the book quite a bit. While Phil tried to add comments here and there, he was rather lost in a talk of detective stories and movies that had dead actors who didn’t even have the good graces to be shot in color. It had was a pretty enjoyable conversation, even if it probably contains more in my head than it did in reality.

I didn’t really think much more about it, even when we chatted a bit the next day. I mean, yes, I thought about Becky because you think about the most beautiful girl in the world when she’s not there. But I still had this idea of spheres of existence in those days. Even if we talked every day, and even though we talked about a lot of different things that people around us didn’t talk about, and even if and even if. She was a cheerleader and I was... not. I wasn’t a jock, nor an achiever, nor... well, a lot of things. I was never a member of any group or subgroup. If you’ve ever seen me at a place where there are a lot of people, you might notice I talk to one group, then talk to another group, and then another, and it almost doesn’t matter which group it is because I can walk into any group and have a conversation. What I haven’t always been able to do though it approach any member of any group and ask them out. She had a boyfriend for a while, and then she didn’t and I still didn’t ask her out because she and not knowing if she was interested and she was exactly the sort of girl your nostalgic heart pictures when I say “She was a cheerleader” and must have had better offers. So instead she was a girl I talked to in creative writing class. It sort of goes deeper than that though, and with hindsight, of course I can see that.

See, I made her a couple of tapes. Now, if you’re some sort of god damn kid who can git offa mah damn lahn, you probably don’t get what that means. I don’t care what you’ve been told, making a CD, or a Spotify playlist, or whatever the hell you kids do now is... IT! IS! NOT! THE! SAME! Making a tape was a complex process where a pair of complementary programs have to be produced. You have to ride the rises, and gently lower them into the lows, each song has to flow into the next and follow the theme you’ve decided on and then it has to be recorded live onto a tape. It was a skill! It was a highly valued skill too, as people sometimes asked me to make tapes for them to give to other people. Anyway, I made her a tape when she broke up with her boyfriend, full of sad songs on the one side and gradually rising into happier songs on the other. And the second tape I made was one on a theme she had asked for and I’m not going to tell you what that is because it’s private.

She asked for the second tape though, she requested a theme, she wanted me to make another thing for her like the thing I’d made before that she’d enjoyed. I mean... yeah.. you’re right. Looking back, I can see it, I can see she liked the way I put music together and that I had good taste in tunes. What? Why are you looking at me like that?

So a few years go by, and she’s in college or something, I don’t really know. I never actually hung out with her, or anything like that. She was the most beautiful girl in the world, but we just sat next to each other in class. Or so I’d thought. It would still be a while before I’d learn about the syndrome that affects pretty girls, where so many people get intimidated by their beauty that they can actually end up with poor self esteem and a bad sense of self worth. She had a friend that I knew, I wouldn’t call this other person a friend because I was and am pretty selective with that word. It doesn’t matter, because she and I met somewhere and that was when she gave me the lowdown. Becky got mentioned, and how she was at MSU or U of M or EMU or wherever it was she went to school and how she was engaged to a guy and then her friend laughed a little and said the phrase that still haunts me to this day.

“She had the biggest crush on you.” Friend said, like it wasn’t ripping my heart out or anything.

“Pardon?” I asked.

“She thought you were cute, and smart and funny.” Friend said as if she wasn’t yanking the other organs out, strewing them on the floor in a gaudy cascade of blood and offal. She kept yanking, hoping that if she found the liver she could devour it and gain all my power. “She was like, totally in love with you, but she didn’t think you were that into her. You never asked for her phone number, or asked her out, she thought maybe you weren’t into the cheerleader type. You should have asked her out, she totally would have gone with you.”

“Well it does no one any good to tell me that now.” I explained. “You could have said something.”

“Would you have believed me?” She asked, biting into my liver and smiling at me with her gore covered visage.

So there you have it, I had no idea anyone was into me in high school until well after it was over. I realized that Becky had a similar problem, not knowing that the guy she really liked was into her too. I mean... I made her two tapes, in some cultures that binds our souls with invisible silken threads that even the gods cannot break, though they look down on us with jealous malice. In the culture of high school though, she thought me aloof and I thought her beyond me.

I have no moral for this, or it’s so deeply woven into the tapestry of the story that if I were to simply hand it to you the whole tale would unravel. Either way, I’m done talking about it for now.

This is why I blog

I haven’t tried to submit a story for publication in about 15 years or so, and there is a good reason why. I have never felt a single editor actually read a thing I wrote. Well, I did send one query letter last year, but that only confirmed that editors never actually read anything. A friend of mine knew some publishers who wanted some dark fantasy and convinced me to write a one page for Twins In Death. It took them seven months to prove that they didn’t read the one sheet of paper that had been shoved in front of them. Actually, it was an e-mail, but the fact that they sent a rejection claiming fear of copyright infringement from my group of original superheroes just made me shake my head in disgust. It doesn't help that I have a physical reaction to trying to do anything with the business side. Writing proposals, query letters, even looking up formatting requirements gives me a massive headache and I have to walk away.

It brought back all the memories of the very last time I even tried to submit something.

The last time I submitted a short story to an editor, it was about an old man punching a Space Nazi. It wasn't subtle either, it was called "Grandpa Miliquest Vs The Space Nazis" so, you know, there was that. It was a parody story of 1950s invasion movies, only I had the old man be the hero instead of the square jawed scientist type. The old man and his grandkids see the invasion starting on TV and they drive out together on his motorcycle and he punches the Space Nazi. Then Grandpa and the kids take the space ship and fly off into space. The Space Nazis aren’t even pretend subtle. They have no knees, so they always goose step, and talked in a way that even Colonel Klink would have found distracting. Not the best story, but it was funny and silly and kills ten minutes when you read it.

The letter I got back from this editor was a rant about how this particular person was tired of seeing stories about old people being depressed about reaching the end of their lives and only wanted to see dynamic people. This editor was complaining about the story where grandma sits by the window and waxes poetic about the love she never had, or at least the one she let slip away, and demanding a story where she actually does something. Old people doing things, that's what this person wanted. The only thing that could have made it worse would have been if they ended it with “Maybe a story where a grandfather punches a space nazi or something.”

I mean... if you didn't read the story, okay. Send a note saying “Not at this time.” Or “Didn’t peak my interest” or whatever. I would have got that, but to just be a dildo and demand a story where an old person does something, when I submitted a story of an old person DOING SOMETHING... I would accept that one person was an aberration, but I have never received a letter from any editor, or publisher that gave me the impression that they'd actually read anything that was in the query, story, or article.

And that's why you will only find my work on blogs these days. Pretty sure Jack Collier would come back with a note demanding stories where holidays are personified and what they’d say about Baby’s First Noir makes me shudder.

Hiding The Light Under a Bushel.

Six months ago, I was at Nino Salvagio, which is a local grocery store. Kind of a highish end fruit and international market, you know the sort of place. It’s not really important, but you need to understand that it’s not a corporate place, it’s local. Now I was getting a few things and I saw... her.

She was beautiful, even though there were several things she had going on that aren’t to my tastes. Dreadlocks always look weird to me on blonde girls. Almost... contrived? She had gauges in her ears, which is fine, but not something I’ve ever been fond of. There were scars on her arm, a remnant no doubt of an earlier cutting habit. A few bad tattoos and some misbegotten make-up, and a sullen slouch completed the look. And through all that, she was beautiful. Jaw dropping, heart aching, mind ceasing, utter beauty. The sort of beauty you’d talk about until she became some kind of legend, and when people saw her they’d say “Okay, so one time reality has it over legend.”

Through what seemed to be a considerable amount of effort, she had tried her best to negate what the dvergar that assembled people that day gave her, and all that came to was that she was stunning. Not in a Venus in Blue Jeans kind of way, but in a “Why did you bother fighting it?” kind of way. There was nothing short of going at her face with a straight razor and a hammer that would do anything to hide the perfection of her features. And I’m guessing she hated every moment of it.

I didn’t talk to her about it, of course I didn’t. People say that sometimes “So I talked to her.” But no, they usually didn’t. If they did, they didn’t get an honest answer anyway. She wasn’t going to talk to someone nearly twice her age about her life choices. Had I asked, I would have gotten a few non-committal answers and she would have run to her phone and tweeted “OMG some gross old man just tried to hit on me, or shame me about my tats I don’t know #fuckoffoldman” Because that’s how these interactions really go, I know. I have had to give nosey fuckers non-answers when they try to ask me questions that they have no right to.

I understand, I was an attractive child. From infancy I had the sort of face that made people think I was up to something. At the age of two I had perfected the little lop sided grin that says “I’m going to get away with it, and you’re going to let me get away with it because look at this face.” I grew from an adorable infant to a beautiful child. Some teenage girls clustered around me one day, talking about how beautiful I was, how dark and black my eyes were and so on. I would have been in with a chance if I hadn’t been four at the time. That was what life was like. I was a good looking child.

No one much wanted to listen to me, (besides a few people) I guess, they’d have rathered I was quiet and attractive and did what I was told. I had different ideas, more self-directed. I was adored by many, but also deeply frustrating because I wouldn’t do the “good things” people had planned for me. There comes a problem though, even though I was adored, I could never really trust anyone. No one wanted to listen, they wanted control or at best to be liked by me and my prettiness. I am, several people said, easy to like in a strange way.

I’m good as many things. I can paint, and sing, and draw, and cook, and listen, and write, and make love, and identify songs and why a place might be playing them on Fourth of July Weekend. I do some of these well, and some of them less well. The problem is, there are some people who never let me know I wasn’t doing something well. I was smart enough to identify bullshit when I heard it as a child. For example, I am shit at making clay sculptures. I have one that I keep, to remind me of how shitty I am at it. It’s a good thing I do too, because otherwise people would still be telling me how great I am at making clay sculptures.

Now sure, if I practiced, and worked at it, I could become good at clay. I’m not interested though, I don’t like it enough and I don’t care. Sign of genius that, quitting something because I wasn’t instantly good at it. I was interested to learn that last year, before I thought I was just kind of lazy because I didn’t want to work at things I wasn’t good at. Writing is something I can be good at, even though I tend to entertain myself through my writing too much. I sacrifice flow and readability for the sake of something I find fun. As you well know, I can often go on irritating tangents and fill paragraphs with things that only connect for me and links. However, sometimes I let it burn because I like it burned, so there. Most of this paragraph was filler, but I like the filler. It’s good filler, and I won’t hear a word against it.

I’m pretty sure I was making some kind of point here. Allow us to wallow past the point and into this little pool of thought that’s sort of bubbled over from the main stream. Lay on your back and just float for a moment...

I try to be honest, and posts like this one are an attempt at the sort of honesty I’m talking about. I try to give you an idea of what being inside my head is like. And yeah, this is what it’s like. The sudden gear changes, the references to old books, movies and music, because melody haunts my reverie. Some things are so obscure, and the connections change so quickly, I won’t remember why I thought A was connected to B when I read this later. Syd likes the honesty, it baffles a lot of other people. Some people are always looking for a duplicity that doesn’t exist, and that sort of depresses me because I’m always doing my best to be honest. I’m not good at dishonesty, unless I dedicate myself to it, and then I can’t even stand to be around the asshole that it forces me to become. So I go for the honest thing, because it’s easier and nobler and I can. I know other people lie though, because they do.

Back to the story (about this girl named Blah Blah Blah that adored me)

It always leaves me wondering, how much of any compliment is real. It becomes more complicated when people compliment me for things that are automatic for me. I do some things without thinking and other people are all “Holy shit! You did that thing!” and I’m standing there saying “Yeah... I have pretensions to being a person and in order to maintain the facade I have to do shit like this.” It deeply complicates the matter when 80% of the things people have said to me have been either A) Bullshit or B) Stupid.

Did I mention this above? Screw it, I’ve gone this far and I’m not re-reading this thing again. People will offer empty compliments to attractive people. I often have trouble knowing if I told a funny joke, or if the person I’m talking to just thinks I’m cute. Is my painting any good, or were certain people blinded by desire and as such said they liked the horrible splotches of mangled color? I don’t know if I like the paintings that much myself and around the 30th re-write, or the 90th re-read, everything looks like shitty half formed ideas put together by someone as smelly as a monkey with a typewriter, but not as bright. You can’t trust anything anyone says after a while, and when you’re also smart enough to understand what’s going on you quickly start to feel like you’re on an island about two feet by two feet... and the water is rising. At some point we’ll talk about depression, but not today.

I can understand that girl’s problem and her attempt as a solution though. I would assume she has some intelligence and doesn’t want to just be pretty. She had no choice, but she wants more. She’d like to be thought of as a person, an individual, maybe even someone with a thought and an idea. It’s harder for girls, because society still wants women to be ornamental baby makers. Guys can have thoughts, but no one ever really listens or understands. They just try to keep up as best they can and act impressed when he says a big word. If I could do what that girl did, I just might.

There isn’t much I can do, if I leave off showering I just get smelly. I don’t like being really smelly. My hair actually gets more manageable and gets really shiny on the third or fourth day, so that can be worse. If I don’t shave, I just get rugged stubble. It takes a week to get to the just too much stubble to be sexy, but not enough for a beard which is a different kink all together. I can’t do a lot of other things without running afoul of the honesty issue. I can’t say the weight issue came about because of that. The weight and other things came because of an already discussed depression issue. I’m working on that though.

That’s what can happen sometimes though, people just want to look at you, but not talk or listen to you. It can become deeply frustrating, and can lead to a beautiful young person trying to uglify themselves in various ways. Just so they can try to be taken seriously, even though I’m sure this young woman’s activities are already begin dismissed as “A Phase” by people who were never quite as pretty and probably not as smart. Maybe I’m projecting, but if we’ve gone this far then why not? Who are all these posts about anyway?

I think the other reason I never went to try and uglify myself is that in all honesty I have always had to fight stupid shit. From the age of five, when I first worked out people where bullshitting me about my skills, I decided to just fight through it. If I was going to deal with stupid people saying stupid shit then so be it. Before I’d read enough, or understood enough to know what was going on, I’d picked fighting as the way to go. I’d decided on the natural as my way forward, doing things without aid would be the standard I would carry into battle. My combat is more subtle now, but I still do it the same. I’m not taking diet pills to try and slim my waist. I’m working out and trying like hell to avoid the things that made me fat. I’m not putting on make-up to hide or accentuate things, I just want people to be able to take them straight on. I say this with no complaint about people doing it another way. This is the way *I* have to do it, this is the way that I feel is most honest for *ME* in this instance.

I have always been aware enough of the privilege that these midnight black eyes, long lashes, tumbling ravenesque locks (and so on) bring to not wish to not be what I am though. Of course, I’m also aware enough of the privilege this level of intelligence brings as well. I wouldn’t want to be ugly anymore than I’d want to be stupid or lame or deaf or unable to taste sweet things. I know that the cross I’m talking about is less to bear than some people’s, but while I’m talking about myself, I’m also thinking of that poor girl.

I don’t think she has the strength to really fight. She’s putting up a good front, but I fear this battle may be beyond her. Does she have the resources to fight for her own identity? Can she maintain against the pressure? It’s different for girls, they’re given so much more pressure than boys, and the pressure I felt at her age was enormous. I haven’t seen her lately, I hope she got a job where she fits in better, where she can get away. I still think about her, like I think of so many I have seen.

You wanted to know what it was like in here. Now you have one more piece of the puzzle. When you work the whole thing out, let me know. I’m curious to see if it’s a barn or the Space Shuttle Endeavor.


Probably it'll turn out to be The Pillar of Cheese in the Shape of Jane Austen.

How Hipsters Taught Me The Beauty of The World

Scientists say that complaining is a part of life. It’s unavoidable, because it’s a necessary part of existence. It’s chemical, people MUST complain about things. If you have nothing to complain about, life ends, so you must find whatever tiny irritant exists to have something to complain about.

Now, we’re supposed to hate hipsters, despise them in fact. We’re supposed to call them shit stains on the underpants of humanity and complete wastes of space for being the total shit stains on the underpants of humanity and complete wastes of space that they are. BUT WAIT! Just hang on a moment, give me a few minutes of your time and let me tell you about how Hipsters changed my mind about life, the universe and everything.

In 2008, Polaroid (or what remained of it) announced it would no longer be making instant film. The hipsters, true to their rather worthless form, treated this as the sign that the apocalypse had begun. They rushed to LiveJournal and tumblr and bitched and moaned about how unfair it was. Oh the howls, oh the moans, of the gnashing of teeth and wailing into the wind my dears, my darlings.

“Oh shut the fuck up!” cried many a denizen of this fine internet.

“First World Problems!” Declared others in a firm and steady voice.

BUT! If I may, allow us to examine this from another angle, I think you may see that actually these hipsters carry with them the promise of heaven.

YEAH! I said it. Promise of Heaven.

Think about this for a moment, if you will. Or rather, dig if you will the picture...

This life is a sad veil of tears, yeah? But there are, in mythology, beings called messengers or envoys. These beings enjoy a more joyous and perfect life. In Greek, the word used to describe such perfect creatures is ángelos. They bring us glad tidings, they bring us hope. We can look towards these creatures, some beautiful, some hideous, some both, and know that perfection can be achieved.

Now consider this for a moment. There are mortals who enjoy lives so encapsulated by bliss, so crystalline and flawless, so utterly and completely perfect that the only thing, THE ONLY THING, that they have to complain about is that an economically unviable product, from a bankrupt company, was no longer going be to available for their use. The rest of their time is spent liking things before they were cool, buying albums they bought on itunes a months ago on vinyl, and growing their facial hair. We’re still complaining about pain, physical pain. We complain about crippling depression, bigotry, sickness, and the simple basic difficulty of getting over the betrayal of loved ones. We are too much of this earth, every too much in the sun.

While we concern ourselves of these base and low concerns, these... these... these plaid clad angels with ugly horn rim glasses and handle bar mustaches walk among us. Yes, you might argue that there is a reason people stopped having handle bar mustaches, but they disagree and besides it took her so much effort to grow. Who are we to disagree? They are, as I said angels, walking abroad among us in this world.

YES! Brothers and Sisters! I say unto you, that these angels are a promise of a better world! One where the only thing we have to worry about is Polaroid film and someone, somewhere, liking something before we liked it. They are a PROMISE my dears, my darlings. They live in a world of unutterable beauty, of inexcusable perfection. They are our angels.

In point of fact, they’re better than angels. Real Angels are like... Wheels of Fire! With a giant eye looking out from the middle. If one of those showed up, you’d think Sauron had just showed up and you’d just sit there trying to scream, but no words would come out. At least with a Hipster you know the reason you’re not saying anything is because you’re biting back a lot of comments.

I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking this is satire, that I’m being comical. That’s a reasonable supposition, particularly if you’ve read me before, but no! I’m being serious.

The world is a beautiful and glorious place, and all I had to do was to look at it like these mindless creatures, who are so far above that even thought is beyond them. They live in a jewel of perfection of a world, and we just need to work hard and achieve that level for everyone. There is a place so beautiful it causes rancor and endless cynicism for its inhabitants. Don’t you see? We no longer need the gods, we don’t need to look forward to heaven. We, and these beautifully hideous creatures, we can form such a place.

My dears, my darling, do you know what that’s worth? Heaven can be a place on earth. They say in Heaven, love comes first. In 2010, The Impossible Project started producing new lines of Polaroid Cameras and film for the old cameras. Heaven, my dears, my darlings, is a place on earth.

I will forever find comfort in these beautiful, mad, frightfully stupid bastards. You can too. Maybe you were afraid before, I’m not afraid anymore.



It should be said, when I explained this to Syd she opened a browser and brought up this image...



So, maybe it’s not a universal theory.

Why Do You Still Need Feminism?

We sat at the counter and ate and drank. "Did you make the spaghetti sauce?" she said.
"Yeah. A secret recipe I got off the back of the tomato paste can."
"And the salad dressing? Is there honey in it?"
"Yep. Got that from my mother."
She shook her head. "Fighter, lover, gourmet cook? Amazing."
"Nope. I'll take the fighter, lover, but the gourmet cook is a sexist remark."
"Why?"
"If you'd cooked this no one would say you were a gourmet cook. It's because I'm a man. A man who cooks and is interested in it is called a gourmet. A woman is called a housewife. Now eat the goddamned spaghetti." I said.
She did. Me too.

Promised Land - By Robert B. Parker (1976)


There is something you are taught in therapy, I have been told. I myself have never had more than a brief fling with therapy (it becoming obvious quite quickly that it actually wasn’t me that had the problem the one time I went in for real) but I have been told and I have read a lot. You’re not supposed to make “You Statements” when you talk about something bothering you, but rather “I Statements”. It’s not supposed to be “You do this to annoy me!” but instead go for “I am annoyed by this.” which brings charges that therapy makes people selfish, because they talk more about themselves than other people. I’m often thrown by this, because the complaint often becomes “She just talks about herself and doesn’t want to gossip anymore.” or “They won’t just sit and listen to me anymore!” and I check out of the conversation from there. As a result, I’m going to try to use a lot of I Statements here, because I want to talk about how a thing effects me as well as others.


I’ve listened to a lot of Men’s Rights stuff over the last few years, and almost agreed with some of it. The problem is that they often loose me the more they talk, see if you can see where I’m going with this little playlet.

MRA – Men aren’t allowed to be what they want in this society!
Me – Okay, you’ve almost got something of a point there. (Let’s see what you do with it)
MRA – We’re as trapped as women by the expectations of modern life.
Me – Here! Here! (Why can’t a man wear a dress?)
MRA – Which is why feminism needs to go away!
Me – I’m sorry?
MRA – Women need to get back into the kitchen and remember their place!
Me – Wha-Huh?
MRA – And then men can be MEN again!
Me – What in the seven levels of hell are you talking about?
MRA – Bitches won’t date me! I’m Unwillingly Celibate!
Me – Um....
MRA – I mean, I open doors and everything.
Me – Okay, you need to shut up now or I will beat you to death with this small decorative elephant that a relative gave me as a memento of their trip to Mexico. Why a brass elephant from Mexico, I’ve always wondered, but I will kill you with it.
MRA – You’re just saying that because *URK*!
Me – *thump* Muthafucka! *thump* I did say. *thumpthumpthump*


NOW! Why was I even listening to this person at the start? It has to do with the quote I started with. A person starting with that phrase can go one of two ways, you can either go towards some idea of gender equality, or towards the idea that you should be handed “hot bitches” free with every oil change. I am not going to go into the whole argument here, but if you shower and if you open doors because you’re polite (instead of making a speech about chivalry and how now people OWE YOU for being a decent person) then things will actually go easier for you. It’s not that women love jerks, if they did, they’d go for some of you self-professed Nice Guys.

That’s not even what I called you all here to discuss!

I cook, I have always cooked, ever since I was a child I have cooked. When I have cooked, there have always been people who have treated this like it’s some kind of magic. As if I stood back away from the stove, rolled up my sleeves and yelled “Ala-ca-muthafuckin-ZAM!” and with a brilliant yellow flash (which would mean there was sodium in the mixture) there was suddenly food. Even people who themselves knew how to cook treated this mystical skill of mine like something I learned at the foot of Wong Fei Hung. Because I was a male, cooking, it was regarded as an odd and noteworthy event.

I was quite old before I realized that I actually could cook quite well, enviably well in fact. That it wasn’t just people reacting to the notion of a male-child applying the mystic roots and ancient flames to ingredients in order to create food from non-edible matter. The concept of a male cooking has become less noteworthy over the last twenty years or so, but well into my early twenties it was still an odd and interesting thing to talk about. That I was basically the only one in our house that did the cooking, was often seen as weird and frankly wrong.

Now, Syd can cook some. In that she can cook some things, when she puts her mind to it. I suppose if she had to cook all the time, she would probably be good at it, but she doesn’t need to. Holly could just about toast bread and spread peanut butter on it without burning the house down. She was more than happy to let me do the cooking, because she had no interest at all. In fact, most the women I’ve dated haven’t had much use for the notion of cooking, allowing someone else to do it as much as possible. Just a thing, like so many others. Women I have dated have many a similarity. ANYWAY. I get annoyed at the idea though, that because I cook I am performing magic. It’s bad enough when I actually do something magical, like make a marshmallow. It’s doubly annoying when someone treats any application of heat to food like I’ve performed some kind of goddamned miracle and should have statues erected in my fabulous honor. (Note, I’m not saying cancel the statue, it’s a great statue, but honor my skills as a world-class lover, not as someone who can cook.)

The latest kerfuffle Penny Arcade got into actually reminds and prompts me on this. The problem with all gender issues boils down to the cooking thing for me. Sexual identity means something to me, because all identity issues mean something to me. How you identify yourself is important, because without self-identity where are you? What you decide to be, who you are, how you act, how you present yourself to the world, it all has an impact. Sometimes it’s changing everything about you (even fixing physical errors you were stuck with by the cheap dvergar laborers that the gods hire for people construction) and sometimes it’s just doing what you feel most comfortable with.

Cooking should not be considered some kind of transsexual affair, and I should be considered a hero for doing it. And yet, I was by people who thought they were admiring me. I often got treated like I was some brave pioneer, throwing off the yoke of gender identity roles while... I dunno, cooking without an apron. I have never worn an apron, I don’t tuck a towel into my belt either. I just keep a hand towel on the stove and this isn’t important. I was actually called “Pretty Brave” by someone who was well meaning and thought they were delivering a compliment. When asked to elaborate, they said some people would “call you queer for doing that” and that “it’s kinda gay for a guy to cook” but that I made it “look masculine”. I almost felt bad killing that person and leaving their body in a peat bog but it was the only way people will learn! Now remember, that was supposed to be a compliment. It didn’t feel like one at the time, and the person began to see how I felt about it as the interview continued.

No one has ever tried to insult me, or threaten me because I canoodle in the kitchen (cooks have VERY big knives) but they do belittle the event with this notion of gender normativism. It’s deeply insulting to think that only a woman is really supposed to cook, and it harms both me and the woman not cooking to say so. That, if I may conclude where I intended to begin, is why I still need feminism. Yeah, it’s not as big as other people’s, but I’m a cis-gendered middle class white male. If I don’t like something you do or say to me, I’m still legally allowed to burn your house down (unless you are an upper-class white male) because, you know, privilege. That’s just it though, as a therapeutic tool, this has to be about me, not about you. Still though, it’s a sign, one that comes even up to the cis-gendered middle class white guy level that says “Shit’s still broken!” and asks us to fix it. The deeper we go, the more problems we're going to find, and if this one made it to the surface...

When I’m still being applauded for being a man that cooks, and rape culture is still a thing that people pretend doesn’t exist, and gender stereotypes are still rigidly enforced... can any of us say we’re truly free? There are eight million stories in the Naked City Internet, this is one of them.

It keeps getting harder

This space, that space, they keep looking at me.
And I keep not writing anything.
I want to.
I have thoughts,
Ideas.
Things I want to say.
The longer I go without writing things down,
The harder it is to put things down.
And then it takes longer to put things down
And then it gets harder.
And the cycle continues.
Ands nothing gets out and nothing gets put down and one day we'll talk about why there are never any people in my photographs...

Twins in Death: Chapter Seven – Part Two

Twins in Death

A Tale of The Weirdo

By Brett N. Lashuay

 

 

Chapter Seven: Face to Face

 

 

June 2^nd, 841

12:49 p.m.

England

 

            The mêlée was not a joust, not by any stretch of the imagination. It was the forerunner of a joust perhaps, but not a joust. It was not a contest of one man against another man. Rather it was two miniature armies pitted against each other. The field was just that, a large empty meadow that on any other day would serve the kings sheep. Today though, the two armies held sway, and fought against each other. It wasn’t exactly the ideal of courtly chivalry rather it was a bloody mess. There were already six men dead, and another twenty or so who would likely die before the sun rose tomorrow. The blades were blunted and the clubs and sticks had large balls of wool wrapped around them, but they were still deadly weapons. The swords had merely been turned into clubs and even with the heavy wool a blow of sufficient force could kill. There were also rocks and horses and just mean-spiritedness about. The field was beginning to look like a real battlefield, but no one seemed disturbed by this. The Weirdo looked around for a single disapproving glance, but when one man actually managed to take another’s arm off, the crowd roared with approval. He didn’t disapprove as such, it wasn’t his place to, but he knew he should.

 

            The Weirdo watched the horses run back and forth, and watched her face as they charged back and forth. She seemed entranced as he rode past her, his coal black curls rolling out under his helmet. He looked at the hair, and then at her face. She and he were sitting together near the field, her husband sitting far apart from them. A feeling of unease came over him when he looked at her face and then at the face of her husband. He didn’t notice her though, he just watched his men ride around.

 

            “Don’t you think he’s magnificent?” She asked him. “Isn’t he?”

 

            “Yes.” The Weirdo said looking over at her husband again.

 

            Her husband sat on the raised seat, watching the match between the two knights. The two of them watched the single man who had taken her heart as he sat stride his horse. He knew that they were both watching the same man, with different goals in mind. His eyes went back up to her husband, and noticed that not once had he looked at her. She had looked oft times at him, but he hadn’t noticed her at all. He was far too interested in the game that was going on in front of him to notice what The Weirdo was seeing. He was seeing it though, watching her eyes follow his friend.

 

            “He is something isn’t he?” The Weirdo asked and looked at her. “Very virile I’d imagine.”

 

            “Would you?” She asked, looking at him sidelong.

 

            “I would guess he’d not spend all day watching the match, never giving a glance to his lady. Someone like him probably has a great beast deep inside him.” He had a few misgivings about encouraging such a thing, but what did it matter? If he brought down the kingdom it was only going to happen anyway.

 

            “I’m glad someone thinks so.” She whispered to him, sounding relieved. “I’ve been sneaking away with him at night.”

 

            “Have you now?” He asked, somewhat relieved.

 

            “He’s not just good in the saddle you know.” She said smiling. “He’s quite a ride himself. A mighty stallion that one should not attempt to geld.”

 

            She giggled into her hand and he looked at her through slitted eyes. He was relived though. It wasn’t to be his suggestion that brought down the country. The event had already begun, so the ball was well rolling by now. He looked at her gasp as her knight took a blow to the back. He leveled himself and remained steady though. The Weirdo watched as he caught the reigns and righted himself, turning to meet out vengeance towards the man who nearly de-horsed him. His eyes then noticed the woman watching the two of them.

 

            She didn’t look angry, or annoyed, nor even triumphant, but simply interested. He thought that though she was across the field, in the other set of spectators seats, she knew what they were talking about. He looked at her and her eyes flicked away as soon as she noticed him watching her. Her hands came together to clap for another of the knights as he rode past the stands with a helmet in his hand. She looked back at him, noticing he was still watching, and nodded to him.

 

            She knew, and he knew she knew. She knew and there would be the problem, he had nothing to do with it. He was leaving in a few days anyway, his time here was just about up. He looked at the woman to his right again her face was flushed as her champion knocked the last man down. He stabbed the remains of his lance into the air and pulled his helmet off. His face was covered in sweat and his hair was invisible because of the cloth coif that padded his skull. He tugged the coif off and the mass of black curls barely managed to move, plastered to his skull from sweat. He threw these things down along with his gloves and raked his hair back, revealing the moment that made her weak. He looked at her and could sense her arousal, in every line of her face.

           

            He looked back at the woman across the field and saw that her eyes were watching them again. The sister of the cuckolded husband watched the adulterous wife as she watched her lover. She raised her hand in salute to him, and he back to her. He was going to have to talk to her, find out what she knew before he went. He would also have to find out what she intended to do with her knowledge. Then he realized he already knew, he knew and he would have to live with that. Besides it wasn’t his problem, not really. He was going to leave in just a few days, and this would all be just another memory.

 

            He looked at the beautiful woman to his right again, and thought about her tragedy. She was going to have one no doubt, unless the books were all wrong. He wondered if perhaps they were. He thought he would like to come back later and find out, but knew he wouldn’t be allowed to. He was here to learn, not to interact. It was only by the impossibility of stopping it that he became a part of the local society for the brief time of his stay, if you call eight and a half years a brief stay.

 

 

October 24, 2002

3:05 p.m.

 

            The Weirdo didn’t go directly to Rockefeller plaza, but rather he drove by it first. He didn’t know what he was looking for exactly. Perhaps he just wanted to find the lay of the land. This was of course ridiculous because he knew how the land laid. Rockefeller plaza had lain the same way for years, and didn’t look to change too much in the near future. Not only that, but The Weirdo had lived in New York for years and knew most the streets like the back of his hand.

 

            He parked the car and walked away, knowing the car wouldn’t be there to get ticketed later. The car would be where he wanted it to be when he wanted it to be there. What the car did on its own time has always been thought to be its own business. He walked into the plaza and looked down at the statue of Prometheus.  It wasn’t yet time for the ice rink to be frozen over yet so there was still a lunch café there. Tables with large white and yellow umbrellas at each one declared that this area belonged to the Seagram’s distillery company. This ownership was declared across the hanging flap of each umbrella where the word Seagram’s was followed by a small R in a circle declaring the trademark was registered.

 

            A few dead leaves tumbled through the concrete covered area towards him, picked up from the street in a small tornado of wind that could only be discerned by the leaves fluttering around in it. They spun in their tight circle, moving in towards him as he watched them move. The cyclone died and the leaves scattered around him. He bent down and picked one of them up. It was the leaf of a maple tree, or had been once. Now it had turned brown, curled in on itself and was so sapped of moisture that it had become hard and brittle. He closed his hand on it, relishing in the feeling of it crumbling in his hand, he moved his fingers back and forth across his palm, shredding the leave to tiny pieces. When he opened his hand, tiny flecks of brown leaf tumbled from his hand, caught by the slight breeze that was left of the cyclone and floated away.

 

            There wasn’t a large crowd at this time of day, but there were people in the Plaza. There wasn't really a large crowd, but Rockefeller center wasn't deserted either, not really deserted. Not that it's ever what a person would call deserted, by any stretch of the words meaning. The Weirdo wouldn’t have called it deserted. Even though there is suspicion that The Weirdo had spent his entire life in cities it's obvious to any outside observer that he had not. The main difference being the definition of deserted.

 

            In a city dwellers mind, an empty street is one where there are no people for some way. It's a street where you can't see anyone at this moment even though you know that there are plenty of people about. In fact a city dweller is likely to get a little nervous walking down a street that genuinely doesn’t have any one on it.

 

            In The Weirdo's mind deserted meant that there were no people anywhere. He never thought of any place in New York City as devoid of people. There was never an empty street, or a truly deserted park. There were always people around here. You were never really alone in the city. You were alone in the country, where you could be on a road for miles before seeing anyone else. That is what deserted meant to him. It can be surmised by this, that he must have at least grown up in a suburban if not a rural environment.

 

            Still, even for an urban environment, the place wasn’t deserted.

 

            “So I’m here.” The Weirdo muttered, and concentrated on his surroundings. He tired to feel himself, somewhere out there.

 

            He stretched his mind out and tried to find something like himself, without it being himself. He found he could do it, but he couldn’t lock it down. It he could figure out where this man was he might be able to track him. The feeling was fuzzy, and he suspected that what he was feeling was himself. He would have to meet this man face to face. He had been told they had turned him up to eleven, which would create a slightly different resonance. If he could lock that feeling in, he could find this Loki McCrazypants person.

 

            He stood alone in the middle of the plaza and looked around, trying to locate the feeling he was having. He saw a member of the Streetz Thugaz standing at the edge of the Plaza, which was odd since their territory ended far north of the plaza, in Harlem to be precise. He looked to another side and saw a member of the South City Dragons who weren’t supposed to venture outside of Chinatown standing with a member of the New Dead Rabbits. This was particularly odd because the two groups had been at war with each other the last he knew. After he kicked the Mob out of town, The Weirdo had been concentrating on gang violence. This had required learning every group, and the constantly shifting affiliations. He had to admit though, he hadn’t been around much in the last few months and perhaps something might have happened.

 

            They didn’t seem to be guarding, or even trying to block him in. It looked to him like they were just observing, wanting to see what happened. He could see the expression of anticipation on their faces. He also thought he saw a look of dubiousness, as if they expected that this little event would prove something once and for all.

 

            Loki, for his part, knew what was being proven. They had seen Davey and P-Mang’s bodies earlier, and they had understood why that had to be done. It wasn’t, he had carefully explained, because of some perceived failure. It was because they had gone against the specific instructions he had given. He had wanted only one thing, for no one to be able to verify The Weirdo’s whereabouts and Davey had prevented it. They understood he thought, but now that wasn’t enough.

 

            He had to hold his own against his brother now, his big bad brother. The Weirdo had a lot more physical mass than he did. Even from here that much was obvious. Loki looked at his own narrow shoulders in the glass of the window and compared them to The Weirdo’s, four floors down. He looked at the phone in his hand, and touched the send button. He didn’t actually depress it, just touched it. He wondered if he should climb out the window before he called, or should he call and talk while climbing? He looked at The Weirdo again and then at the corner where he expected to steady himself. The ledge at that recessed corner was a little wider than the rest, and he could get his shots off more easily. He touched the rifle and opened the window. He didn’t climb out just yet, but he was ready to.

 

            He looked at the powerful man in the gray coat and took in a deep breath. He might have worked out longer, but Loki had natural talent. He had more than natural talent, he and P-Mang had been testing it lately in secret, which of course was the real reason P-Mang had to die. P-Mang had been the only one who knew that he wasn’t sure what the full extent of his powers were. Now that they were sure what they were, P-Mang had needed to go in order to better give the sort of impression Loki had been giving. He pressed the send button and slid the earpiece into his ear a little deeper.

 

© 2012 Autumn Knight Productions

the hell?

I just saw a werewolf with a Chinese menu in his hand, I thought we were doing zombies today.

Do people not understand what is going on?

No, I mean it as a serious question. We’re not supposed to kill the children, because they’re just children. Yes, four of them got together and took down that lawyer from Pontiac, but we mustn’t hurt the little darlings. I mean, they only stalked, tumbled and killed a two hundred and eighty pound man and they’re just ripping his still steaming guts from his carcass and eating them raw as we speak. I’m sure if we give them a stern talking to they’ll cut all this Lord of the Flies bullshit and behave.

I’m thinking, and I might be crazy here, that those kids are unreachable and that perhaps whatever is motivating them is beyond our ken. Just a thought, one I had when the nine year old yanked his eye out of the socket ad popped it in her mouth. I can out run them, which is why we got away far enough to discuss the issue while still being close enough to hear the slippery sound of intestines being yanked from a body and scoffed into a mouth and swallowed whole. A sound, by the way, which it’s going to take a lot of booze to ever even come close to forgetting for even a few moments.

Yes, I am advocating putting the little monsters down. I don’t like the idea of them coming for us during the night, their little fingers working through whatever barricade we make and slowly pulling at the cracks until the larger ones can get in and help.

We are talking about the end of the world here. This isn’t a situation where we can skip off into the sunset, if for no other reason than because we are heading east.

No, what's wrong with YOU?

You know, I really resent the phrase “What the hell is wrong with you?” particularly coming form someone who’s life I saved twice in two minutes. First, I save them from that second walker who came along while they were watching the lunatic. Then, after the lunatic had smashed the skull open, and started talking about how awesome the brains looked on the ground and wondered aloud about how fresh meat might look before swinging his rifle butt. When you decide to go all Platoon and try and see if you can get brains to splatter “more pretty” than you already have achieved, and you decide to kill a person to do it, then you’ve crossed the line.

Yes, I cut his legs off at the knees. Yes, I then cut his arms off at the elbows when he started picking himself up. I didn’t want him changing and being able to chase anyone. And I let him bleed out because he needed to understand that there are rules and there are limits. Also, I’m not going to directly kill anyone today. At least, not anyone who still is a person. Even that lunatic was a person. If he bled out from his wounds, that’s his problem. I didn’t try to kill him, I was just trying to defend people.

And what thanks do I get?

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

What’s wrong with me? I’m alive and intend to remain so? That seems to put me in a distinct minority, and one that everyone seems to be dead set against.