What month is this in this ghastly interminable hellbeastly span of years masquerading as a span of days? Oh. August.
It seems time has thudded to a damn standstill. And yet speeds along. I know. How original am moi? Not at all.
I’ll answer myself as no one comments or spews invectives at me in the social media time out I seem to be in. Or maybe I haven’t pledged myself enough to Satan or given enough lip service to AmmoJesus.
We only have two options for worship here in ‘murica. Sort of only sorta kidding about that. You’re either with Jesus and the angels or you’re a godless Satan worshiping hate America commie traitor who hates babies. Yep.
Oh, so for those at home breathlessly reading along, I wrote a poem. That’s all.
It included the words ‘motherlumping’ and ‘scorpion’ and ‘Mamerigaga’.
I wrote it with great and furious anger.
I had fun writing a poem in great and furious anger. It drained my fury and anger.
I sent off my barely coherent scream against avocado toast to that monthly poetry challenge I AM STILL DOING. Because it’s good practice, and it helps foment me into a BETTER WRITER.
Or so I tell myself. Don’t we all tell ourselves happy lies so we don’t spatter our pretty brains on the ugly walls wherever we live? Or perhaps we live under a bridge and have to walk to the library to use the internet.
So some other form of suicide will have to do for welfare moochers and societal losers. Starvation and disease and freezing to death are free, moochers!
Wow, that took a dark little turn.
Ah, so. I squibbled out a VASTLY POPULAR post about fires. I believe that’s the one before this one. Let me check, brb.
Yep. The fires still burn. It’s awful. It’s getting smoky. It’s HOT. But it is summer.
Thank you, Queen Obvious!
You’re welcome, sarcastic voice in my head!
Some snow would be nice. A nice couple days of constant rain would be nice here in Eastern Oregon.
I do mean the entire area. From Ontario all the way to Bend. Awash with rainy rain!
No wind, no lightning, just rain. The wet stuff we’ve heard tell of in tall tales. As you can, literally, walk between the rain drops here when it does piss down a bit. I’ve gone outside, when it rains here, and not gotten a drop on me. Sorta, kinda…kidding. Sorta.
I’m working on Starved Out, which, for right now, is set in the mythical world of government-hating extremists. As in they have a mythical view of themselves as freedom fighters and the rest of us see them as scary fuckheads.
I am telling it from the POV of the women, as men have enough stories under their column, frankly.
And when I tried to just write it…I stalled right out of the gate, trying to put the two men who started a fire and started an actual insurrection against the gubbermint front and center.
I’d also read a blip about this woman homesteader who Starved Out right at the start of the Great Depression. And of course the Massacre at Hells Canyon, I wanted that to make an appearance in my Great American Novel that No One Will Read Until I Am Well Dead and Rotting Under A Local Bridge.
So far, it’s a tripod. Rosie, the wife of Butch, the son, and Vickie, the wife of Merle, the dad. And Gladys, who had to pull up stakes and head back to the big city when drought and ruin faced her in sagebrush country.
I was, at first trying to be super-accurate and capture everything about the Hammonds and all that.
And then went, yeah, it will be fun to get sued. Fun! I’m not writing a non-fiction account, after all. I can fudge things, smear things, compose composite characters to protect the guilty and insane.
So, in the hot afternoons, I attempt a few paragraphs. It’s slow going. I need to dive in and let her buck, as they say around here.
Because we have rodeos and horses, and people actually go and get up on wild horses or other wild livestock, and…uh huh.
Why not write in the cool of the morning, dear? I hear some of you mutter that in nice, polite tones.
That tone you get when someone rattles on about some project of theirs that you could give two shits in a shot glass about.
Where your eyes glaze over as the person prattles about how they tracked down that one knitting stitch only used in Medieval stockings in Ireland by cloistered nuns who occasionally took fits because they thought the devil visited them at night.
Ah, well. I’ve been writing on ‘other stuff’.
Junk crap that I need to clear from my smoke-filled head so I can do the ‘real’ writing later in the day while not looking for gainful employment. Oh.
I did vow to at least go look at Craigslist and DesperateFuckers.org.
One last bit before I go find some pictures to place at random among these sickly paragraphs of LIKE ME I WRITE LIKE ME.
Shit howdy. I had a thought but…gone, baby, gone. Oh!!
Now, I wanna go see Mama Mia 2, I heard it’s great fun. I wanna see that damn Spy thing with the two women, because that looks like a lotta fun. I also want to see Spike Lee’s Blackk Klansman because that looks like angry fun.
I find I want to watch movies that are light, fluffy and might contain dance numbers with colorful outfits.
I find I have no head or heart for sitting through a Serious Drama. I find many others share this right now in ‘murica. We want our entertainment fluffy as wobbly kittens and our real life to resemble some dystopian novel that doesn’t get that happy ending. Whee.
I want Christmas movies all year round right now, the Hallmark ones. Where there’s barely any real problems, people are shiny clean and look made of glitter and sugar cookies, and the villains and obstacles are easily overcome in the last five minutes.
Give that crap some Oscars! Emmys? Yeah, Emmys, as it’s television. Sorry.
That level of sugary goo erases the gritty reality show playing on every screen and device world-wide. Where people seems made of rattlesnake poison and toxic sludge and the villains win every single fucking time.
And the heroes mumble and then there’s tweets from ten years ago with jokes and…ugh.
What the hell was this post? Mostly just fart noises, I think.
Ah, you were wondering where the ‘fart’ came in. Glad to help out, darlings.
Oh golly, it’s hot and dry. The sky fills with stray clouds once in a while, then clears back to that blistery blue clearness that betokens
no rain, you idiots who live in a rain shadow, no rain forever
Midvale, Idaho, is being evacuated. There’s a giant fire up by Mann’s Creek or in that area, which is above Weiser, Idaho.
Weiser’s not that great, either. Smoke, ash falling on the small town, I’ve heard. No, I’ve not driven over there to see for myself. No thanks.
Last summer, the skies seemed to have a permanent smoke pall to them. No sun, just a weird gray-reddish haze and the smell of burning. It reminded those so minded of Mordor and Mount Doom. It was that sort of world for a bit.
Redding, California is also being emptied as wildfires rage toward it, around it and have, probably by this writing, reached it. Northern Cali, for those not intimately in bed with California’s geography and towns and cities. By Mount Shasta, an actual volcano, no less.
So far, here in this area, only a small local fire, that got handled in an hour, on the Fourth of July. I have pictures of it, as it took place close enough to watch it from the back yard. Yes, we did sit and watch an actual wildfire sweep from the local butte toward actual farms and herds of cattle.
Then the magical airplanes and helicopters showed up. And the BLM firetrucks trying to get up there and having to probably ask the local watchers of this fire what roads to take to get where they needed to be. Listening for the rumble of big engines, and the crunch of big wheels on the pavement.
I tell ya. Listen here now. Excitement is watching a BLM firetruck rush by. And not sure if you’re rooting for the fire or the BLM. There’s that ambivalence. Do you root for a destructive force for evil or ooh and ah at the flames and smoke plumes?
[[See history of the BLM in the West…and the Hammonds and the Bundy Standoff and…]]
Oh that sploosh of fire retardant dropped on the advancing line of that fire! Bright red, rather showy. the smoke boiling up but the flames gone.
And the plane, almost hitting the ground, flying upward again like an odd giant pterodactyl. We wondered how those planes, as there were several by then, did not hit each other. Probably modern stuff installed to stop that from happening, was our opinion.
Their policies and environmental everything, of course, caused all this. Not so much about global warming or that the weather patterns have been cray cray dry here or that…two winters ago, it snowed and snowed. And then the grass grew because of that, cheat grass, which explodes when on fire and…yeah.
I mean, the least little spark and the hills around here turn into raging infernos. And I do mean the least little spark.
Everything is outlawed, fire-wise…even cigarettes being smoked outside…but the states can’t outlaw thunderstorms.
Which build in this heat and usually arrive with little or no rain and lots of…lightning. THUNDERSTORMS, YA’LL.
Which is the actual scourge of the west, not liberals or city folk. Nobody in the real West is a city slicker, a’course. And those city slickers? They’re from CALIFORNIA. Yep. [Spits raw tabaccy juice somewhere near ya.]
I think I’ve mentioned the antipathy toward Californians here in Idaho and Oregon. Yes? No?
We watch the skies here when those big bad clouds start boiling across the cosmos. We sniff hopefully for that rain smell. Petrichor. The smell of rain has a name. It’s petrichor.
We flinch at the thunder, wait for the light show to spark our little world into something out of a disaster movie. Fire is both a way of life here and cheap theatre.
Fear of liberals is second to fear of lightning strikes in the middle of the night. By far.
I am doing some research for a possible novel project. I have tons of other novels to work on. So here I am, looking into Baker County history, reading about slugs and sights and scopes for deer, and soaking in some Oregon Trail history.
I found this little tidbit. About a woman who was homesteading back in the 1920’s, in Central Oregon. Alone. Alice Day Pratt. In the Crooked River Valley area.
A spinster [Alice’s words, not mine] deciding to coolly study where to go, and then settling on Oregon, looking at what land is available and what to do with it. From pamphlets. A woman who worked in the Alabama coal mines as a teacher.
And just now, I had a THOUGHT.
What if I contrasted this Alice character against my composite renderings of real life fucknuts jerking off to how they love them some Constantitooooshan and freeedumb.
I need to tone down my sarcasm, yes. Yes, I do. I need to have sympathy and empathy for the Fucktoads and the Shitbirds with Big Gunz. Uh huh. They never get heard and Free Speech and eagles. Lots of eagles.
I just keep going back to Alice giving away her chickens. Smiling. I see her smiling as she does this.
Trying to be brave, or actually brave and clear-sighted to the realities of what she had to do. Ready to face whatever came next as she headed back East to live with relatives. After being her own woman for years.
1929. Right before American turned into a dusty graveyard of American dreams. Right before the horrors of what Hitler was doing began to drift out of Europe. Right before yet another giant world-wide war would hit.
I read this or that, and have written a paragraph or two on the maybe novel itself. The basic tale. The sides, the politics. I had begun with the two men shooting deer illegally. Which is where I went, hey, what gun would you use and…research time!
Ask one of my gun nuts relatives? That feels like cheating and I’d get weird looks as I wrote down this or that…as trying to remember barrels, bullet or slug size, make and model, years…ugh.
People can rattle that info off like people do with superhero stats. Story lines, alternative universe stories, worlds created; deaths, rebirths, villains, children of superheroes, evolution of superheroes and name changes, color of their bowel movements…
And then I considered, maybe the story needs to be told from the female POV.
That seemed to click-a-clack with me.
Those good Christian wives who go along, who pray real hard their husbands shoot them a big gubbermint liberal commie BLM meddler coming for their freeeedumbs…whoops.
Slipped into total snark mode! I promise. I’ll write like a sedate adult who drinks weak cups of tea. I won’t do that at all. But it sounds nice, right?
I am steeped in this culture, after all, of the Mythical West. I was born and bred here, as they say. I have sagebrush in my blood and a twinkle of Snake River in my eye. That sounds rather gross and painful but oh well.
I, after all, have set many a tale and play here on home ground. In the Owyhees, in John Day, in Idaho City, in Ontario and Vale and La Grande.
I have an entire novel, Cue the Violins, set in a mythical small Oregon town on the far side of John Day, called Smithhouse. Based on Mitchell, Oregon. No monsters, just people in it. Some of whom are a bit monstrous. Does that count?
I set an entire superfun zombie novel in Boise. Boise! Yeah, you don’t get a zombie vibe from that agri-business town, home of J.R. Simplot. Oh, sorry, the guy who invented Ore-Ida…
I remember my grandmother talking about Boise.
It used to be a cow town, full of farmers trading their stuff. Something like that. She had real disdain for it. Boise used to be nothing much and it’s still nothing much, was her general dismissal of it.
And back to that woman giving away her chickens, making sure her ponies got taken care of. With that rather shiver-giving phrase used to describe her time in Oregon–starved out.
It’s a soothing balm. It’s a story arc. Beginning, middle, end!
Bright-eyed hope and optimism, years of hard work, have to give up and go away to perhaps start over again. That’s the real story of the settling of the West. You try, you get clobbered, you have to give up. Or you die before you can throw your hands up and head back to softer places with civilization and understood norms.
That’s the far more honest take on settlers and homesteaders and miners…even the toughest got their asses handed to them, no matter the jaunty cowboy hat and the can-do spirit. No matter how many bears they fight or how many libtards they “own” on Twitter…whoops, sarcasm alert.
So, I might need to incorporate a lone woman homesteader figure in contrast with the Drapers. That’s my current placeholder name for my cowboy outlaw numpties, on par with Claude Dallas. If you have no idea who that is…go look him up. He was considered a hero. Yep.
I also read some of the history of the Bureau of Land Management. The BLM.
If you’re from the west in the US, you know instantly what that is.
There was a brief mention that the native tribes in Oregon, Washington State and Idaho didn’t get treated so nicely. And then a hasty drop the subject and move on to the glossy sentences about settlers and miners.
Yeah, taking ancestral lands and gifting that to the white people [called Euro-Americans]…mm.
Thirty or more Chinese miners were slaughtered for the gold they’d gathered…and the men responsible didn’t get punished and in fact, established a town or two and become super-respectable. They finally got a monument put up to this…and it’s a half hour documentary if you want to check it out.
So, I have bits and pieces of actual Oregon history, a tale of people who look like they stepped out of a John Wayne cowboy movie so people ignored everything they actually did…and a pardon by a corrupt orange king wannabe to give his base some red meat and himself some praise and back-pats.
Who just gave the raving militia sorts that populate the west a green light. Those anti-gov sorts who rave about their rights and Obama coming for their guns…yep.
Oh, you thought Oregon was nice and full of hippies or something?? Honey! That’s PORTLAND. The rest of Oregon is…mm
Starved out. Giving away her chickens.
Maybe there really is a Great American Novel in me. It’s how to weave the many strands and make a giant wall hanging out of them.
Oh. The Substation Fire pretty much destroyed the Dalles and Sherman County and…it’s bad. The West is on fire. And I’m mixing and matching fragments and pieces of history, myth, tales and bullshit.
This is not my country, I hear. I hear that. A lot.
From very young, naive folks. From the elderly who should know better. From myself at times when I have brain freezes and forget the tidbits and scraps I’ve picked up over the years about the history of my country.
Separating children from the parents seeking help, asylum and surcease from whatever political bullshit they were fleeing from.
This is a POLICY put into place by Putinscunt, whispered into that corpulent ear by Stephen Miller…an avowed and known white supremacist. It’s not law. It’s not something the Democrats invented or put into practice.
And all three branches of the American government are ruled by the Trumpicans, er, GOP. So. As scapegoats go, blaming the Democrats for this POLICY is, uh, working.
Because people don’t fact check in America. Fact checking is for losers. And liberals. And SJW’s. And commie socialists who want to take your hard-earned money and give it to illegals and drug addicts and MS-13 gangmembers…Right, Nancy Pelosi?
Those children, and they are children, are being held hostage, so I’ve heard/read, so that Putinscunt can get that wall financed and built.
And the Foxchristians [a term I saw and it just FELT SO RIGHT] are a thousand percent behind taking kids, already traumatized by leaving everything they know behind, and traumatizing them, possibly, for life.
That’s fine. That’s what Jesus would do and approve of. Mm.
I’m not some hardcore, shouty Christian type, don’t worry. But I was brought up in the Missouri Synod Lutheran Church.
I’ve been confirmed as a member. I’ve done Sunday School.
I’ve attended church camp. I’ve worked at that same church camp. I was almost raped at that same camp and never went back, so.
I do have some background in churches and the Bible. [And I know firsthand why women don’t speak up about what happens to them. Oh yes, I do.]
I’m puzzled, to say the least, by people who cheer for what’s going on at the border. At building giant, for-profit concentration camps–
in Brownsville, Texas, where it’s already a hundred degrees. Tents/facilities with no air conditioning.
I think I saw something about the Catholic Relief Aid trying to get fans or something sent there…
There are plans to build more CONCENTRATION CAMPS in Wyoming. Housing for 5000 at a pop.
Tax money being used for this. And people turning a profit off these concentration camps. Capitalism and crimes against humanity, score!
People seem dazed. Scattered to the wind. The resistance seems incredulous. This is not happening, seems to be the major takeaway.
The urge to roll my eyes at marches planned at future dates is just…not possible to control at all.
More out of why are we not just ripping those places apart with our bare fucking hands? Why am I not hitchhiking to Texas to do just that?
There are senators, including the one from my home state, trying to drum up public awareness and fan some god damn enough of this shit already outrage, which will lead to actual action.
Anger gets shit done, as Mr. Nancy says in American Gods over on Starz.
Anger is very dangerous to this POLICY designed to get a wall built and zero tolerance immigration crap passed.
Strangely, America has a history of this. Going way way back, babies.
We did it with slavery, where babies were sold on the auction block. There are illustrations of this oh so human practice. We tend to call such things ‘inhumane’, literally washing our hands of admitting that humans treat other humans like garbage a lot of the time.
We did this with indigenous people. Took Native American kids from their families, cut their hair, took their clothes, forced them to speak English only, stripped them of their culture and heritage, forced them to be Christians…it wasn’t until almost 1980 that the religious practices of Native Americans were even allowed to be practiced legally. [As at times ‘illegal’ substances were used, like peyote.]
And of course, the Japanese internment camps. See George Takei for a history of that. See lots of others for a history of that. These were American citizens. Stripped of everything, lost their livelihood, their homes, their possessions, everything.
A stark reminder that it did happen here, it did fucking happen here.
America has a gigantic streak of treating children like livestock, social experiments, POWs, and demonic criminals intent on destroying the Home of the Free and the Brave.
It seems we’re actually the Home of the Cowardly and Cruel.
We spout Bible verses without reading any of the verses around them.
Romans 13:1 does say to obey the laws of whatever land you reside in. Yet further, in Romans 13:10–Love does no harm to a neighbor. Therefore love is the fulfillment of the law.
That Romans 13:1, by the way, was spouted by Nazis and slave owners to justify their practices.
Jeff Sessions and Sarah Huckabee Sanders both spouted it as well…in a country that celebrates separation of church and state. Scary fucking times, indeed. By the same people who scream against Sharia Law coming to ‘murica. And upset that football players are kneeling quietly and…Not even Beckett could adequately capture the absurdity of America right now. Well, he probably could. He was Irish.
See history of how America treated Irish immigrants, dearies. Whee? Or watch Gangs of New York or The Departed or pretty much any movie about the Irish in America, really. It’s a popular topic and hey, white people front and center being treated badly…wet dream time for Stevie Miller. And Stevie Bannon. And Gorka. And Sessions. And David Duke. And…yeppity yep. Yes, the Irish got labeled and scorned for a bit, but…mm. Okay!
The Keebler Elf and Aunt Lydia both tell us to calm down, it’s not so bad, it’s in the Bible. It’s a law they can’t do anything about, they are just HELPLESS BEFORE THE DEMOCRAT’S EVIL WAYS. Uh huh. They bravely report that if only the Democrats would relent and…uh huh. And the Bible, of course, says treating kids like something out of Schindler’s List is fine and dandy. That treating brown kids in a repeat of the Trail of Tears is AWESOME WITH GOD. God loves immigrant criminal kiddie tears!
The same Bible that says to treat foreigners like family, as you were once a stranger in a strange land. To drown yourself if you hurt children–see that whole millstone thingie Jesus said.
The rabid pro-life crowds seems really confused and lost when it comes to actual children being tormented, tortured and lost. As in missing. As in no one’s quite sure where a big bunch of kids are. As in might be in the hands of human traffickers.
Ripping children away from their exhausted, frightened, stressed parents and housing them in a sweltering place where no affection or treatment that borders anywhere near compassion or actual concern for those kids is, um, the definition of evil.
There. I said it.
It’s about as far from what Jesus taught in the treatment of others as it’s possible to get.
I don’t ever remember at church camp, which had pastors and people studying to be pastors, working there and occasionally delivering actual sermons on kindness and love…about where it’s okay to hold kids hostage in nasty conditions until one gets what one wants.
A vanity wall that won’t keep anything out at all.
As most people come here on planes or boats and just don’t go back when their visas expire. That’s, um, known. That’s an actual fact. So.
Again, this isn’t law.
Calling a halt to separating kids from their parents is something that can be quickly shelved, stopped, ended today.
This POLICY of cruelty and deliberate malice is something Putinscunt decided to do all on his own.
And then blamed, predictably and with great success, on the Democrats. I didn’t do this, the Democrats did! OBAMA DID IT, TOO is the battle cry here.
It works. It always works.
That loud hectoring wasp whine drowns out the soft, polite, take the high road idiots on the other side.
And they are idiots! Big quivering ones!
Soft, melty idiots who scold over the use of ‘fuck’ and ‘cunt’ and ‘crude language’ rather than take on the real actual issues, as that might turn away voters who are tired of hearing about racism and other inconvenient social issues. Voters that stay home, at that.
We must be nice, we must be the grown ups in the room. Eventually we’ll, uh, win. The Blue Wave is coming. It’s Mueller Time! People won’t stand for this very long.
Bwha ha ha. I can’t breathe! My sides!
Oh yes, I’m a cynical little kitty cat right now.
You see liberals and others calling for ‘civility’ against the crude, very successful, attacks of the right. We can’t be like them, is the not-battle cry.
It’s a Ned Flanders kinda strategy.
We can’t get mad, facts will win them in the end, the truth is on our side…
And then my head just pops like a balloon shot by an AK-47.
The time for civility and niceness went bye-bye years ago.
We can get back to murmuring politely at each other when America isn’t being rapidly turned into a fascist shithole. The UN frowns at the US right now. America no longer supports humans rights. Canada is possibly considering an invasion to liberate us. They might team up with Mexico.
I can flash my Lutheran card when they come for me. I’ll be mostly okay if I keep my mouth shut and my eyes down. I have the right skin color. Yeah, I went there.
Only racists talk about racism…yeah, heard that one yet? Yeah, it’s bullshit and meant to silence conversations and observations. The BLM people are the REAL RACISTS HERE. We don’t notice skin color, why do you? Democrats arethe real racists. Etc. Etc. Etc.
It can also vend into Free Speech fuckery– why is the tolerant left so intolerant of my right to express myself about just why blacks are [insert stereotype penned by the KKK here] It’s my opinion! Why are they trying to silence me?
Yep. It’s why the left is reduced to softly scolding about bad language most of the time. People can safely rally behind not using bad language and being adult-ish. That’s my hot take, anyway. Oh yes, back to explaining how I can blend in with the American FlagLovers of Trumplandia.
I can scrub my feeble liberal-esque bloggings right damn quick if I have to. I can trace my ancestors coming here ‘legally’.
I have the right papers. I have my official birth certificate– it’s needed to get a driver’s license and a passport. I have a passport, which is valid for years yet.
My ancestors! From places like Norway. And Germany. And the UK. When itcomes down to that.
I have Viking blood! My grandpa spoke German! Some uncle fought for the South, as a general. I glow in the dark I’m so right-skinned!
As any liberals left will still be calling for nice language and take the high road, dang it. You can spot them by the patches on their chest. Yep, went there!
I can spout the right phrases with a straight face.
I have actor training, after all. I’m a writer, I remember phrases and slogans quite well. How math works, not so much. Democrats hate America, yep, that I can scream with the best of em, all while enjoying the rodeo and the countryfair and rallies…
It’s rather scary how well I could blend with the ‘other side.’ I live among the ‘other side’. I’m in very red territory in a very red part of Oregon and can cross over into super-red Idaho by driving about twenty minutes, if that.
Anyone who actually knows me would not buy my metamorphosis. But those who don’t…mmm.
I’ll have to work on my sarcastic eye-rolling and muttered cursing and loud WTF sighs. That’s where the compressed lips and eyes down at all times training comes in handy. I can combine my girl training with my go along with fascism necessities. Whee?
I have the freedom to express myself as long as I express what they want to hear. I know how it works, I know the damn score. Oh sorry. Dang score. Mustn’t descend to their level. Then they win or something. Or something.
Back to the actual subject of this sort through the wheat and the chaff effort.
You can contact and donate to the ACLU. You can take part in a march. You can post articles and videos and history lessons about this very subject on social media. You can write/text/call your representatives.
You can help fund grassroots hire lawyers or even volunteer if you have legal training of any kind. You can go help translate if you speak Spanish. You can oppose ICE at every turn. You can get to know what rights you still have left in America. Make a list. Cross them off as or when they go buh-bye.
There’s a tale of a lady on a bus, going from California to Arizona, I think. She refused to let ICE intimidate people into flashing their papers, she went ‘full donkey’, as she put it. ICE backed down because they are not used to people knowing their actual rights and demanding to be treated like citizens, instead of peasants at the mercy of a mercurial king.
There are small tales of actual hope coming out of all this. There are!
There are glimmers of people blinking, waking up from some dream of ‘it can’t happen here’. That’s, I guess, what you have to hold onto.
And try to be a loud, obnoxious, swearing voice yourself against this bullshit cuntery.
It’s scary, it’s hard, and you might have the luxury of being able to ignore it thoroughly because it, allegedly, is not something that affects you. [Kind of like the Black Lives Matter or the MeToo movement or…uh huh.]
Someone has a project plugging away and lo and behold, it’s me.
I’ve been rewriting my Odin and Jesus thingamabob. I’m skimming through it, just trying to get the LATEST FREAKING VERSION out on the page.
What am I kalurching about? [That’s a vomit sound combined with another vomit sound, BTW.]
The Adventures of Grumpy Odin and Sexy Jesus
With possible name change– Mr. Grumpy and Sir Sexy. Which is…eh.
But I am always thinking of MARKETING these days. How to market X. How to get MORE PEOPLE TO BUY MY X.
I usually end up sobbing, and taking lots of things and stuff to calm my innards. Marketing has become my bete noire.
Where did I leave off before I drifted into MARKETING waters.
Doggedly discuss latest writing project because that’s why I started this blog in the first kalurchy place. And to spare my friends my burbling too-long emails. Poor friends!
SHUT UP, I DO SO HAVE FRIENDS.
That was for the roflmao voices in my head. Sorry.
Odin, Jesus, God, Maggie, batboys, Minions, Stella Lou, Click and Clack, Minette and Suzi and…
I am trying, this time around, to STREAMLINE the tale. It turned into a messy, sprawling mess last time around, which I liked but might, well, probably, would test the patience of dear readers who bothered to read it.
Poor Ms. Wuehler, she’s a bit all over the place here and if there’s a story here, I might need a compass, some rope, and a miracle on the order of loaves and fishes to find it.
Chapter five or so is where I am.
I’m having fun and want to get back to it, so that’s good. Of course I’ve written this one several times over now. It started off as a play, as a short story, and is now a PROJECT that will need MARKETING.
Can you sense a theme developing here?
I’d go off on a magnificent political rant but hey, I can funnel that rage and WTF is happening? into my sentences and word choices and subtext. When I have subtext. I am more Ibsen than Chekhov most of the time. If you get that, high five. Or– Ibsen wasn’t that subtle and Chekhov was really subtle. Okay.
I’m just letting it unfold, more or less, as it wants. TAOGOASJ seems to want to get back to the far more light-hearted, rather goofy road into the wilds of the Alvord than I had written it in earlier attempts.
As the Big Showdown will take place, still, in the Alvord Desert of Oregon.
Why is everything I write set in Oregon, mostly? Ah.
Because I’m from Oregon and setting all my tales, in, say, Alabama, just doesn’t work for me.
I have nothing against ‘bama, Roll Tide!, but…not from there or from the mystical, gothic-smeared South. I’m from the interior West, home of mythical cowboys and gothic Aryan Nations smeared bullshit.
Whee?…eee…uh. That’s a sound effect spelled out. Imagine the first part is ‘should I be happy about that? Then the second set is ‘no’, with the sound descending from a high squeal to a lower, softer noise and then a gulp.
I’m keeping a lot of the things I really liked from earlier versions. Names for things, characters, Swiss Charlie’s, Po. Po is Horus’s horse. Jesus has to be more charming, more slick. Odin needs some actual grumpiness! MORE COWBELL FOR ALL.
I still laugh at that skit from SNL. Christopher Walken is my spirit animal, as the kiddies opine. He’s not, but for that skit, he is.
Back to Grumpy Odin/Sexy Jesus.
I’m also working a lot on Maggie, the Head Receptionist. On her will and drive, on not making her such a Mary Sue, oh ghastly gasp of horror inserted here. [Uhhh!] I’ve kept the tentacles and the mask.
Oooh, who’s wearing a mask!
Look at you! HOOKED. Hooked, I tell ya!
Did I mention the cute ground squirrel prolly ate most of my pet eggplant? And that the cucumber I doctored for teensy black bugs has give up the ghost?
Yeah. I transplanted the eggie into a big pot and put it up high. It’s fine so far, just the leaves got nibbled off. It still looks rather splendid, except it’s just a stem with leaves at the top and one purple blossom left.
I also trimmed the forsythia and rose bush next to my mini garden, put up some redneck fencing– that’s whatever crap you have laying around used as a fence– and check my mini garden obsessively.
The yard bunnies prolly also had a tooth in this.
Oh! I turned over a board on the other side of the fence and there was a mama quail and her eggs. I hope she didn’t abandon them. I’m afraid to check. I do love quail. They are perhaps my favorite bird, with hummingbirds of course ranking right up there. I saw a hummer the other day. Poking that long beak into the wild roses. I thrilled. I was thrilled.
A little news– I somehow have nine novels to get written.
I have two done and nine to go. Someone, [it was me] mentioned titles to her publisher. Who remembered them, jumbled them a bit and then sent a contract…yep. [This is good. In case it doesn’t come across that way. This is good!!!!]
It’s a zany slapstick sort of life, yes, it is.
So! Blog-wise, I will be attempting to MARKET my oncoming flux of writing onto the indifferent universe. Even a mild splash would be nice.
Let’s see. I’ve mentioned my latest writing project, the Alvord Desert, MARKETING, my mini garden, and Alabama. I think that’s enough for now.
I should probably start off June with something about writing projects. The committee of puppets in my head nod and agree, yes, I should do just that.
Ah so, gentle readers and assorted indifferent passerbys– I wrote this short novella on zombies…Stop right there.
I fleshed it out, ha ha. It’s now novel-length. It deals more with menstruation than zombies. Just kidding, of course. I’m not that far gone into Womanlandia. Menstruation, eh, gross. We’ve come such a long way, right??
Where was I?
I call it, for now, Aftermath.
I know. Generic as all get out. But it works. I will probably keep that title. A good title is ninety percent of the battle or something. I learned that in grad school! Go Running Rebels! [Google is your friend if you don’t know what school that is.]
I found a scrap of paper with– woman wakes up after killing herself during a zombie apocalypse.
That was it. That ‘sparked’ something. I started writing. As one does.
That actual first draft was shit. Just crap on toast. I cringed reading it over. Cringed! I started over. Better, not great, but better.
I got to where Our Heroine Hannah faces a giant crater in a road. With some ideas of she should be taken to the camps of the resisters or be taken to the military base to be dealt with or…yeah.
I grew all wishy-washy and unsure. And put the project away.
So. Time passes. I delve back into Aftermath.
Ideas flow like cheap supermarket markdown boxed wine into a Styrofoam cup.
So, I write the ending…which just ‘works’ for me. I have to now write the penultimate part before that ending.
Four or five options present themselves here. I write them out, I discard them, go back to them, ponder over them, call myself a cunt a lot, and then happen on a sort of happy-ish pre-conclusion that rings a bit more true than the others.
Wait, what’s the plot, you might even be asking yourself at this point, if you’ve bothered to read this far. Here we go!
Hannah kills herself rather than be eaten by the zombies who’ve cornered her in the very ruined wreck of Boise, Idaho. The world has been overrun and destroyed, she’s had enough of trying to survive. However, instead of going off to hell or heaven or just dying, Hannah wakes up in an office. Run by zombies. She is a fish out of water here, trying to navigate her new existence among people who seem to know her. She finds herself at the center of plots and counter-plots, caught in some office three-way with her zombie boss and some guy named Kevin, who is one of the leaders of the resistance against the zombie overlords. Zombies, by the way, run everything. The word zombie has been outlawed, and any fighting back against the absolute zombie control gets dealt with quickly. The zombies control the banks, the police force, government, everything. Hannah, thrown into this, muddles through as best she can and ends up making a series of decisions that lead her into the Idaho mountains, in pretty much the same world she found herself before she cut her wrists.
Now, that sounds grim, but it’s not. I found myself laughing at pragmatic, practical Hannah quite a bit. I enjoyed making up slang that might get used for those in charge who smelled like three day old fish left out on a hot summer day. I enjoyed writing this! I used bad words and am probably an indecent blah blah blah.
Let June ring her bells and let me get Aftermath polished up enough so that if it comes out to the public, I won’t have to pretend that some other Ann Wuehler wrote that. Or that I was doing lots of crack. Or Ambien. Ha ha. Had to.
Oh, on a last note. My poor cucumber plant! It became dotted with tiny black bugs that laid tiny white eggs. I looked up how to ‘naturally’ take care of that problem. As I didn’t want to spend bucks on some chemical composition or powdery devil powder. Maybe I had something in the fridge or the cupboards that would make those damnable little bugs march off for greener pastures. Get it? Greener pastures?
Yeah. Beer, salt, flour.
Now, I did pour beer on the poor thing. I should have waited several days and been patient. I applied some salt. Again. I should have waited to see if the beer would work. It’s…on life support at this point. I’ll pinch off the bad leaves and let it recover if it wishes. I just went out to check on it and the yard bunnies fled in all directions.
It’s chilly this morn, but that baking dry heat will arrive and the dust will coat everything and we’ll watch the skies for any sign of rain, dreading the lightning that will ignite wildfires…but that’s a week or so away.
Maybe we’ll get lots of rain all summer! If you live around farmers for any amount of time, by the way, you’ll find eighty percent of your thoughts center on what the weather is doing at any given moment and the other twenty percent centered on writing zombie novels.
Aftermath slithered from brain to page fairly easily. It poured like cheap ketchup onto scrambled eggs. Not that I even like ketchup. I’m trying to describe how readily this tale leaped from brain to my typing fingers.
Is that good or bad? Should writing on a project involve long periods of agony and doubt and dark reflections on the nature of life itself?? Or just be a fun romp used to remain almost totally isolated from humanity?
I hope that poor cuke plant recovers. I hope the weather warms up a bit but doesn’t go into those damn Mojave level temps. I hope June turns out to be not my usual June, where I…nope. Just write, honey. Just write!
I got a flash for a short tale. About a goddess drinking at a dive bar. In Payette, Idaho. The protagonist writes travel books. She’s collecting stories for a a book about rodeos.
It’s in strictly rough draft, prolly needs a rewrite or the scrap heap, early stages yet.
Here’s the opening shot across the indifferent bows of the world:
A sign, made of tin, nailed to the outside, announced that the Spotted Horse had been established in 1956. A vague horse-like shape had been painted onto the tin, and this, one had to assume, was the horse the bar had been named for. I also saw a no minors allowed warning and we shoot, then we card cutesy plaque. Peaked metal roof, wooden structure. Otherwise, this place looked just like any other dive bar anywhere in the United States of America. Dirty, full of low-life rabble-rousers and shady sorts a step ahead of Johnny Law. Bikers to underage whores to out of work locals waiting for that switch to flick. That switch that kept them from murder sprees and desperate crimes of passion. A few beers at the Spotted Horse or the Pit or the Longbranch or the Sailor’s Bees, as one place was called, in the wilds of South Dakota. Then, a life-changing decision to take up a gun or an axe. And go kill people, whether you knew them or not. He was a quiet man that never caused any trouble. Those quiet men started off their day of mayhem usually with a few shots of rotgut crystallizing their thoughts and silencing their doubts.