I do have the requisite glasses and I live in the right state for this. Or-eee-gone. Or to natives–Ore-gun. [Correct pronunciation– ORE-gun] I hope this solar event [sky event? event taking place way, way above my head?] is everything it’s supposed to be. A total distraction from Life In America, a mystical journey into my soul and a big bag of Easter candy. [Mostly those super-sweet Cadbury Eggs. I’m thinking the eclipse will send a rain of Cadbury Eggs. A girl has got to have #dreams]
I’d write some long-winded diatribe that veers off into #WTFPumpkincuntLOL but hey, tomorrow, if WE ARE ALL STILL HERE, is another day. Oh my gosh…which side won the Civil War again? I have to go check the local statues. Bye!
Um, on a note that has nothing to do with the Eclipsia…coffee is such a wonderful beverage. Sometimes you have to take a stand, ya’ll. [yawl]
Well, it’s nearly ECLIPSE TIME, and boy, is Oregon overcrowded a bit right now. Whee!! I have almost no interest in this cosmic event; it’s rather weird and starting to upset me a bit. I should be coming out of my own skin over this. I should be able to spout eclipse facts and know the exact trajectory of when our common moon eats our common sun up there in that big blue thing for a bit. I should be able to map with geometric exactness where that eclipse will best be seen. Basically, I know in my area it will last about thirty seconds, and over in Weiser, Idaho…it will be about two minutes. That’s it. That’s what I’ve gleaned.
I did manage to go to my bank and get three pairs of viewing glasses. They were free. Whee. Whoop.
Central Oregon [which is code for Not-Portland] has turned into the Los Angeles 405 during rush hour. Crazy, man. Crazy. Prineville, the Ochocos, Madras, Bend, Redmond–crowded as hell’s waiting room, baby.
Gas stations, I’ve heard/read seem to be running out of gas. Basic necessities seem lacking due to all the folks who’ve come from far and wide choking the poor middle of Oregon like a chunk of gristly pork during a family picnic. Gag gag cough cough. Oh and there’s some truly crazy wingnut over on Twitter called Deplorable Amy throwing a shit sandwich of a shit fit over how everyone is so ‘mean’ to her because she’s a Central Oregon tRump Supporter.
TRULY DISGUSTED AT HOW MANY PPL WISH ME ILL WILL BCUZ I LIVE IN CENTRAL OREGON & AM A TRUMP SUPPORTER. THESE AREN’T THE OREGONIANS I KNOW..
One of the replies to that tweet is from Turtle Vision: Oh I’ll say it Do Go Fuck Yourself -Real Oregonian
[Who doesn’t love a good juicy in-state Twitter tirade met by fellow Oregon staters on the ‘other side’? It was under Central Oregon if you wish to go peruse that or even drop a Tweet or several.]
Oh I know why I’m rather indifferent to the cosmic fun about to go down.
My country seems poised to become Whitelandia.
Now!! Oh believe me, I had a whole diatribe about Whitelandia, that batshit insano ‘fake news’ conference where Pumpkincunt went off the rails and tried to take us all with it. [I can’t think of Pumpie as a ‘he’. Sorry. Just can’t do it. I guess that makes me just as evil and awful as your basic Aryan Nations ‘nice’ person.] I live in a state that overflows with those separatists hate the gubbermint sorts who have caches of military grade weaponry ready to go against the leftie commies trying to turn ‘murikka into some commie playground. [That would be me, I guess.]
Portland, Eugene, Salem, that’s the liberal paradise everyone thinks Oregon is. More like most of the folks in Oregon live there and so the state remains fairly blue. As the rest of the state is about as red as a baboon’s ass. But they don’t have the votes necessary to overcome the commie hippie libtards that mope over there in Portland, hello. Otherwise, Oregon would be as red as poor ole Idaho. Californians are also blamed for how ‘liberal’ Oregon seems. [As in they move here, all Cali transplants are liberal and hence they buck up the votes for liberal causes.] This can all be researched on your own time. Take it from a native Eastern Oregon sort…Oregon has a red undercoat that’s dangerous, ready to rebel for white causes and more than ready to kick some commie liberal Portland weak asses. Family values, you know.
I find it hard to write anything these days that doesn’t descend into gibberish or sarcastic despairing. I pull up a new file and my brain meat smokes and fumes. The words that do manage to land seem clumsy or not the words meant. [Which is, I think, the actual curse of nearly all writers ever.] So I’ll return to the eclipse because the stark, awful political landscape fills me with razor blades, gopher poison pellets and an obsession to see if our guns are locked and loaded just in case. Just in case. [Yes, the left is armed and ready, too. Despite rhetoric and the comforting belief that the ‘other side’ are pussies who won’t fight back when, WHEN, it all goes down.]
I, like others, am waiting for a Savior To Rise and make all this jagged awfulness go away. It’s like lines from Thunder Road, a Springsteen song– You can hide ‘neath your covers and study your pain/Make crosses from your lovers, throw roses in the rain/Waste your summer praying in vain/For a savior to rise from these streets…
I think after the eclipse mania dies down, we’re gonna have to save ourselves. There’s no deus ex machina about to swoop in and make it all better. After all, we’re not about to repeat history over and over and over and over and over. We’re not that fucking stupid, are we? [Yes, yes, we are. I was being, like, totally sarcastic.]
Well, what to write this week. If anything to write this week. The world slumbers in the dog days of summer and nuthin’ is going on. Except the threat of nuclear annihilation and some other stuff, but hey…
I did write a very Mean Girls post but my better angels punched me in the face. So.
I’ve been doing submissions. Always a fun time. [That was sarcasm.] I did two this morn! Two. An excerpt from a novel entitled The Adventures of Grumpy Odin and Sexy Jesus. A one-act play about two star-crossed lovers at a Las Vegas bus stop, called Free Range Chickens. That one place did say you could submit excerpts from novels…and hey, I took them at their word.
It’s been a rather smoky caul over my tiny corner of the universe lately. Rather like being back in Shenyang City, China. That was heavy industrial pollution, this is just wildfire smoke. Or being in Beijing, which is even worse than Shenyang! I know! They are trying to ‘clean’ that all up now, that pollution over there in China. We here in America are prepared to take up the pollution slack, however! Yay! Can’t wait! I’m not bitter at all.
What have I been writing? Oh? Um. well, let’s kindly call it ‘crap’, shall we?
Yeah, don’t worry. I will not be smearing that clear-the-head writing here. It’s bad, trust me. Note: maybe I will. I have tons of it. It might be the next ripoff of Games of Thrones meets LOTR with a splash of Story of O. Intrigued???
Ahem, anyway!! It has the depth of My Pretty Pony fanfiction. Not that I’ve read any. I’m assuming most of that is unreadable claptrap. I’m also taking a break from politics, life and life’s politics via said Claptrap Crap, which helps yours truly do some very minor coping.
I also now have Ibuprofin and have resorted to using the morning’s old coffee to make iced coffee in the afternoon, because I’m a resourceful little kitty-cat. And, poured over onion-flavored ice [don’t ask], leftover morning iced coffee treat is…well, something I can drink that’s not water-flavored. It’s the little things, baby. I’m jonesing for black cherry Kool-Aid, by the way. Yes, I made some sun tea! Geez! I found some ancient tea bags I got at the Dollar Store. Yum.
Now for a Serious Writer Gal update: I went back into the third book of my trilogy wannabe and let the chips fall where they wished. I’ve got the ending [note– it’s a sad ending for right now. I am letting that soak in the inner crock-pot gravy, don’t worry!], so where was I? I have the ending, more or less, and now just need the beginning and middle! [As the ‘story’ keeps shifting about like a damn Garden of Eden snake. Eve couldn’t have crucified that damn snake and…anyway.] Whee!! Woot woot!
Saint Lysette and Bloody Alicecooks in my inner crock-pot. It heats up slowly, I can leave it all day, come back in the evening and viola, meal. If you don’t know what a crock-pot is or why you can leave it all day…Google is your friend. [Not if you have a vagina, though…tee hee.]
It will be cooler. Hopefully, we won’t be fighting for scraps in the bomb shelters. [I don’t even have mine dug yet!!! Fuck. Sonofabitch!]
Football, and pumpkins, and dying leaves, oh yes! The blankets come back out. Rain returns. We’re supposed to get another bad winter. I should dig out my mittens and scarves right now! Or go dig a bomb shelter. And find some, what, lead? Maybe line it with mangina juice scraped off King Magical Pumpkincunt? I had to get one shot in, come on.
Hey, if anyone wants to read Free Range Chickens or, um, like, produce it…HERE YA GO!!
PART ONE: IN WHICH I DECIDE TO TAKE ON UNICORNS AND RAINBOWS
It’s hot. It’s smoky. There’s wildfires burning merrily away. Merrily for the fire, not so much for the men and women fighting said merry wildfire/s. Clownstick von Pumpkincunt lied about the Boy Scouts calling It to tell It what a goodly, bigly speech It gave to the Boy Scouts. Woot woot!
Um, Pumpkincunt and Racist Elfboy [Sessions]now say it’s white folks who are the real victim of discrimination. They are diverting money from actual programs set up to fight racism and segregation and etc, etc…to investigate the real victims of America’s racist climes–WHITE FOLKS! Oh my! I wish I had made that up; I’d win some goddamn writing prizes, for sure, for sure. Or maybe not. I’d have to use a different name, maybe Sally Houswifelady. Or Jellytits McFly.
I mentioned, casually and off the cuff, that I should write a happy post about…wait for it…wait….wait for it…
Unicorns and rainbows. Mostly because my last few posts have been in the Debbie Downer column. Politics. Depression. Writing about writing. Ugh! Gross me out the door already, right?
PART TWO: ECLIPSE, NEW MONTH, NOT YET TO THE UNICORN OR RAINBOW GOOD BITS
And it’s a new month.
A brand spanking new month. Where anything can happen. Like an eclipse. I have no actual interest in the moon eating the sun — science is a liberal plot to get free government cheese and free cell phones for illegal pretty-girl dismemberment teams. The eclipse– is that even an ENGLISH WORD???— is a sign that Jesus doesn’t want anyone to get gay married, that women should become livestock and that tax cuts for the wealthiest is one of the Beatitudes.
Apparently, if you say ‘just kidding’ after whatever batshit statement you make…it absolves you of all blame and responsibility for whatever happens/doesn’t happen. Yay!
PART THREE: BIG PHALLIC HORNED VIRGIN FINDERS
Unicorns. Mostly what I know about them is that they’re virgin-finders. A white horse with a big phallic ‘horn’ sticking out of its forehead goes about finding pure gals…yeah, can you say fragile male fanfiction about their own genitals? Weee.
I remember a tale about how to capture a unicorn– you find a virgin [good luck with that, eh, boys??] female and the unicorn will find her and put its head in her lap. Um. I guess if the girl is not a virgin, you find that out, too, when no unicorn shows up. A version of Medieval slut shaming, weeeee. Though, they didn’t have social media back then to slut shame, they had other methods. Like oh, burning them alive for witchcraft, woot woot, for one. We all know witches are sluts and should be burned alive, that’s just a given.
And unicorns are pretty! Big, pretty, white or golden [I’ve seen unicorns featured in other colors, with lion tails, etc.] horse-like creatures that have magical virgin-finding powers, among other gifts. What girl, with some mild or actual artistic talent, has not drawn herself an entire portfolio of unicorns? Are there any tales of evil unicorns? Mm…
PART FOUR: GOD VERSUS EVERYONE ELSE OR THE HAPPY RAINBOW
Rainbows! God’s promise, in the Old Testies, to NOT KILL NEARLY EVERYONE ON THE PLANET BECAUSE THEY WERE ICKY. Sinning. Whatever.
It’s the symbol of God saying, hey, I won’t destroy my own creation anymore but hey, I’m still gonna keep score, you fucks.That’s my own interpretation of those dusty verses, anyway. Ahem.
The rainbow is also the symbol of Gay Pride. We’re queer, we’re here! Love trumps hate! Love wins! Love love love! All of that celebration, parading and legislation to make ‘those’ into actual ‘citizens’. Which sets the Christian Right’s teeth on edge; not only on edge but shatters those teeth. [And to be fair…no, no, I don’t have to be fair. I don’t have to say Not All Christians blurgh blag bluk. They go low, I give them wedgies.]
That rainbow flag waving about versus some dusty verses in the Old Testies…that’s just good old-fashioned fun right there. If you’re sitting on the sidelines with no dog in this here hunt, that is. [That’s an American idiom– no dog in this hunt. I understand it instantly, but I am from an actual hunting/farming/hillbilly/poor folks background.]
The rainbow is also some scientific thingie
to do with weather…or something.
But hey, let’s not bring anything so liberal elitist social justice warrior feminazi victimize the white folks into this here discussion on how the poor rainbow has been used to take down Jesus. Amen.
PART FIVE: CONCLUSIONS, MEANDERINGS AND GENERAL SMARTASS-NESS
Purity and visible evidence that God won’t take us out again for being sinners. Unicorns and rainbows. Cute fantasy figure and using the visible spectrum of colors to fight for inclusion of LGBTQ folks in all walks of life. An equine symbol of purity [sorry, gals, not even Mother Teresa can out-pure a unicorn. Even the Virgin Mary looks like a grubby pole dancer next to a one-horned horse.] and a symbol of God’s divine decree that even if we’re down here lining up puppies to debauch, God won’t send a heavy rain.
God didn’t say anything about earthquakes or other natural disasters. As people, to this day, equate a local/not local earthquake or some other fun Mother Nature-ish event, with some judgment they just know is being delivered on the heads of the local/global sinners. God punishes everyone they hate —It’s just great that God hates everyone I hate, ain’t it??– with a tornado.
It’s very convenient, random punishment by random earthquake or other disaster natural or otherwise, and such conclusions of divine justice involve no actual work or use of brain tissue. Earthquake equals suffering and death for sinners. And a few innocent bystanders who probably deserved it.
Yeah. I once had a carload of elderly ladies try to tell me that earthquake in Fukushima, Japan was God’s judgment on Japan for being atheists. My my my. We humans never seem to get away from branding all happenings, good or horrible or in between, with some sort of divine agency. Yes, I came to that conclusion all on my own…I amz smartie.
Back to the divine symbol of God’s forgiveness--I forgive you motherfuckers for being shitbirds, even though I designed you, but I ain’t taking any responsibility for how you fuckwads turned out, no way, no how! Have a goddamn rainbow, you sunsabitches!
So, God is reduced to striking small areas along fault zones or in tornado alley or in the path of hurricanes or…yeah, instead of punishing us all at once and just starting over with new models.
PART SIX: TEQUILA!
Why didn’t God just wipe out Noah and company, too, and start over? Other mythologies have just this– where the gods and goddesses had to start over and over and over again with humanity. So why didn’t the God in the Old Testies just do that with the obviously fatally flawed shits it created from dirt and probably a truly gargantuan cosmic-wide tequila bender? Yes, God created tequila before he created the sun. I know it, you know it, let’s get over it together, fellow babies.
Having been the victim of that truly evil liquid myself, I can well sympathize with God cataclysmically messing up humanity and forming them into such imperfect little shitwads of hatred, nastiness and so forth. Who hasn’t done stupid things while buzzed on tequila?? Hands? Hands? Yeah, okay then!!
Am I actually blaming the faults of humanity on God having one too many shots of demon juice AKA tequila? Yes. Yes, I am.
Oh that note!! August, it promises to be a super-hot crap-smeared slide into madness and further obscurity for yours truly. Hoooray!! If I start low, all I can go is high, right? Shhh. I think I hear a unicorn…nope, just my hopes and dreams being stomped to death by an angry horse with a plastic horn duct taped to its face.
I’ve written some truly scathing and unquestionably bitter screams about politics and religion. This week alone saw me writing several wannabe blog posts and then, sensibly, putting them aside. Or perhaps not so sensibly, as sometimes a vent is just what I and others need, or else our inner volcanoes go all Krakatoa.
Sometimes just writing down those poisonous notions, then not sharing them with anyone, can be counted as actual productive writing time if I lie a lot. I might blend a few wannabe blog posts into some sort of truly razor-blade studded super-post, and not post that, either.
I find I need to rip some band aids off and let the bridges burn as they wish.
I’ve been a Cautious Cathy. Caution is fine, in Los Angeles, on the 405 South heading into Friday rush hour traffic, pretty shitty when you’re an ‘artist’ who allegedly is a truth-telling dynamo. As I’ve actually had to drive in Los Angeles rush hour traffic–OH MY FREAKING GOD YES IT REALLY IS THAT BAD THERE– it would behoove me to grit my teeth and creep forward with words as well.
Ah, so. It’s July. I once again sent off a little trembling, dew-drenched set of words for a poetry challenge, as I do, just to keep beating myself up and to make sure those rejections pile up. So I, like Sylvia Plath, can admire my rejections as proof that I’ve done something. I wrote quite a few little blips, then decided on the following, because I…I just liked it.
DROPS OF THE SKY
I eat drops of the sky like candy made in the ovens of the gods. That road before me leads me to saviors made of stones and tangled grasses… saviors who will offer me a star-scarred night; a careless gift to enjoy like a broken porcelain cup full of dandelion wine.
Now!! Go outside and then come back in again. Go be indifferent to someone you don’t know. Eat something familiar. Cheers!
Welp, re-reading some stuff I flung on a page. Working on new project. June calls like a jaded whore, looking to make two dollars. I have hedges to trim, old dead stuff to haul out of the yard and birds to piss off when I pass too close to their territory.
I need to take some ibuprofen, for problems I’ll not disgust you gentle readers with. We gals are supposed to not mention our unmentionables but let others mention them for us, in ways both creepy and savagely awful. [She’s got a great ass.Dry-boxed old bitch. Oh now, surely you know exactly…of course you do.] If a gal mentions her own stuff, ahem, in public, she’s a dirty, vulgar not-a-lady. So. I won’t mention, at all, why I’ll be gulping a near overdose of pain killers this morn. It’s indelicate. Ahem.
Back to writin’!!
So!! I have about fifteen thou words on Saint Lysette and Bloody Alice, yes, I’ve changed the title a bit. [See blog post right before this one!] I’m already itching to scrap that version and start again instead of pushing grimly through with WHAT I ALREADY HAVE. I can keep what I have, just start a new file, see what good chunks remain in place what new chunks bob up. If that even makes sense?! It makes sense to me. I do that for playwriting. Rewrites tend to be a start over from scratch, to see what sticks around and what goes away. A technique taught to me and my fellow grad school flunkies [I’m kidding, none of us flunked] during a weekend workshop. Where you set aside your drafts, and start over and over…which is, granted, not for everyone. It works for me. It frees me, in a way. It also helps you, in that charming phrase, kill your darlings.Those phrases or passages or, at times, actual characters, that just stop the flow of your work. You might love a turn of phrase or a description that just makes you grin for days…but it might not be best for your project.
I’m also wrestling with JUST WHAT IS THE DAMN STORY HERE.
As in…it’s a meandering mess in my head. I need to scheme and plan and dream and talk to myself —yes, I speak scenes and words aloud. I work out this and that aloud. I can’t be the only writer/artist who does this. I try to make sure no one else is home when I start spouting like Lady Macbeth. Or that I’m not in Wal-Mart buying hand grenades and flip flops. I try to pretend I’m not batshit crazy as hard as I can some days. I should get an award or at least a Nice Participation Award certificate–to figure out just where this is going. And then, of course, not go there at all because the story galloped off for the hills with a mocking tee hee. Not to mention a kick in the face when I tried to control it. Or, to be succinct and staid as a beige couch cushion…I need to get out of the way of the story. Except the story has yet to try to gallop about in any direction. Maybe there is no story. Maybe it’s just vignettes that don’t add up to jack squat! Whee!!!
Oh yeah, we have another shooting. A giant fire in London. There was some talk about impeachment. And how a Keebler Elf got grilled like a hamburger by a much-interrupted Senator, except she was rude and mean, according to the Other Side and didn’t do doodle to the Keebler Elf of Satan and…Fuck!! Probably why I want to go outside, where the still-fresh air is, and cut dead branches off the local bushes and trees and shout insults back at the ranting blackbirds. Get outta my sky, you damn birds! Go back to California, you hippie freak birds! Why do you hate Jesus and America, you anti-human freaks? Oh sure, it’s a lot of fun. I get to yell crazy shit and the birds…I’m not sure what the birds get out of it but who cares, right, they’re birds. Who cares, as long as I get something out of it. [Yes, I think some of the Fox Propaganda is starting to infect yours truly. I’m starting to just hate everything and everyone. Not that I am Ms. Peace Love Joy, but I am finding it far easier to just go, whatever, whenever something happens anymore…]
Off the scary political grandstanding going on and back to the grubby chore of writing.
Ah…ah. This new project seems a chore, a…ugh. I’m not taking any joy in it. There’s no real compulsion there, yet, to see what happens next…Maybe there’s three books instead of one here. From Lysette’s angle, from Alice’s viewpoint, from Nancy’s neck of the woods. Or a three part book where I’m not leaping about from different narrative puddles. The same story told three different ways. Mm…that could get tedious and boring. Or be a real goddamn writing challenge. Or…mmm. Or maybe I can just focus on one untrustworthy narrator. Or. Or. Or.
Maybe I need to do an outline, gulp. As I’ve done them for all other big novel-esque projects, to at least give myself a fighting chance. I’m oddly very German that way. I don’t know why it would be German to do outlines but…yeah. [Oh yeah, the meticulous records kept of the death camps and…oh yeah. And having a lot of German ancestors, I can, surely, claim a somewhat knowledge of Germanic orderliness. I mean, the French are not known for lists and order and checking the right boxes off, is all. Why did I go off about Germans? Oh.] It might help me focus on just who should tell this story and, gulp, what the actual story is. I have a vague climax in mind– where one sister…for the other sister and then there’s pie. I can’t give it all away here, that would be anticlimactic for any who might actually bother to read the finished, if ever, product!
So. What to do to gild my steaming turd.
Which is probably much better than I make it out to be. I tend to be rather a ghastly Negative Nelly about my own flipperies in the writing arena. My confidence shagged ass south, permanently, for the long winter of my life. Yes, do cry for me, Argentina. [That works on several levels. Tee hee.] Which, if you’ve dipped your toesies into my blog, you’ve noticed. I know, if I just projected TONS OF HAPPY THOUGHTS out into the universe, which is just waiting to MAKE ME A WINNER, then everything will magically fall into place. I just have to envision happy shit and the universe will deliver happy shit to my doorway via great big exciting packages full of chocolate, rainbows, puppies and stardust. Oh…must work on how vastly and cynically cynical I am, too. That will go on a list, written in a neat, precise hand. Must stop being cynical.
Yep, I started Book Three of my [some name] trilogy. I’m about six thou words in. Started it, like, two days ago. I’m going back and forth in narrative, a dueling banjos sorta cacophony. Two sisters, one story, everything finally explained. Intrigued?? Well, pull up a chair, friend. Let me walk you through this!
I was all bopping along, project-free, with misty ideas of writing an American-heavy dirge on the, gulp, probably real life scenario of–OMG Why Is the Velveeta Twatwaffle Nuking Canada?Only, I’d have those I find politically repugnant as the Main Characters saying patriotic schtuff and things. Just so I can ‘understand’ and ‘give them a voice’ and…yeah, I just fucking can’t summon up enough demonic power to fuel a short play handling that, let alone a full length musical. [Yes, it would have to be a musical. I just saw Royal Wedding last night and now, must write a musical where someone tap dances while singing vaguely racists lyrics and pinching girls in tight costumes. It’s on my bucket list.] When, as projects do, a terrible, awful, maybe somewhat okay idea birthed itself from the birth canal of my creativity. [Eww, gross!! My idea is all covered in icky creative birth fluids!! Ewwww!!]
That WHAT IF dragon uncurling its loathsome body. Breathing in my ear. What if Lysette…the mute sister who got her voice back…what if she and Alice and Nancy get a showdown or have to team up to fight the forces of darkness or have to take on the devil or…oooooooh. Mmmmm. Wheels spinning. The wheels on the writer go round and round, round and round, round and round. Nancy, of course, our main gal from House on Clark Boulevard, and her daughter Alice, who has her own turn in Alice of Oregonlandia and Lysette…who’s a big girl now in the mythical grunge smear of the late 90′s. And since I’m dealing with ghosts and death and the devil and…those that have died can return for a bit of a cameo and some clean up batting.
Storyline?? Bwha ha ha ha.
Right now, it’s a vague mess about Alice being accused of…oh, let’s say, a crime, a big one. And she’s broken, battered and broken all over again by life, by what the devil…yeah. It ain’t pretty, but do we want characters who barely break a sweat and then win the lottery? After four hundred pages where the worst thing that happened to them was a broken fingernail and a bad haircut? NO, OF COURSE NOT. Lysette, now, she’s a tough cookie, in the mold of all tough cookies everywhere. Hey, fluck you, I’m like ten pages in, if that. She’s DEVELOPING. No, I’m not defensive or bitter. YOU ARE. Are we done fighting? M’kay. I’m letting whatever wishes to be free be free on the page for now. If Lysette comes out like a cross between Buffy and one of those femme fatale broads from film noir, hey, for right now…I’m gonna let her be who she wishes to be. Is that so wrong? [As long as something gets on a page, is that not the whole point of writing?? I read that somewhere. Maybe one of those super-positive slogans people post over pictures of fuzzy baby ducks. Fuzzy baby ducks!]
Okay, so Saint Lysette-– which is the working title I have right now for Book Three in my [name here] trilogy…like I stated earlier, it’s told from both Alice’s end and Lysette’s. I might even add…a third viewpoint to this heady feminine mix. Might. Considering it. It’s being percolated and bottle fed in my creativity nursery. [It would be Nancy. Nancy!! Yes, do it. Maybe. We’ll see.] I forgot where this paragraph was going. I’ve got MST3K pulled up and it’s DISTRACTING me from this obligatory blog post about latest vague project that’s oozing from my creativity nursery like a sullen mythical lizard on heroin.
I feel totally vindicated now. Yep. Totally. [Fuck you, you Velveeta Stalin Wannabe! At least I didn’t call you a piece of shit or show you sans head. Yay for me!]
Oh, before I jump off the cliff, um…my favorite bit of news out of the UK elections. Lord Buckethead. I have no idea what his political views were or are. I am not endorsing said Lord Buckethead. But. Someone went around with a bucket on their head and got three hundred or so votes in that quickdraw election that May called for. It’s the little things that cheer you up and make you grin ear to ear and realize you can badly survive another day on Planet Shitball. Lord Buckethead, well done, sir. Well done.
If LBH was some British version of a KKK…ugh. Must now go look up politics of LBH. Sigh! No sigh needed!! AWESOME POSSUM APPLESAUCE. Next time I have to vote in ‘murica, I am writing Lord Buckethead in for ‘write-in candidate’ slot. My mother used to write Snoopy. She’d write Snoopy in as her candidate of choice. Because in America, we’d rather vote for cartoon characters than the actual…yeah, anyway.
OH WAIT!! A bit more of your precious browsing time!! Here’s, yes, the dreaded writing sample that must, of course, be included in a post about um, a novel. It’s the opening salvo! Mr. Peepers is still with us!! Who’s Mr. Peepers?? You’ll have to wait for the FIRST BOOK OF MY [some catchy, social media friendly name here] TRILOGY TO FIND OUT. Yay!! Oh. This is first draft-ish. It’s rough, bold and will probably leave a rash. Enjoy!!!
Mr. Peepers had gotten on my last cotton-pickin’ nerve. I pulled into the Deadman’s rest stop, outside of Pendleton, with the idea that I should shag my ass back to Seattle. I yanked a pack of Luckies out of my cleavage and noticed a young man watching me as he slithered out of his Ford 4by4 two-tone. Young, dark blond hair a bit too long, a scruffy face like he’d forgotten to shave or he was trying to look like Cobain, who was fucking dead as Reaganomics. Mr. Peepers made a schmoan sound, a sigh and a moan conbined. “We don’t have time for this, Missie Lysette!”
I got out of my old Dodge, stretched, made sure lover boy saw it, made sure lover boy got a real good look at my charms. He came right over. His plates had that Idaho tinge, and he was from Ada county. Was he headed toward Portland or back home? Like I gave a rat in a blender. “Hey, stranger.” I purred at the man, who stopped, his somewhat homely face lighting up like one of those Christmas decorations you buy at Wal-Mart, a cheap decoration you hope doesn’t kill you when you plug it in that first time. The closer Prince Charming got, the more fun I wanted to have with him. Just a young farm boy meeting up with a femme fatale. I had a knife, coated with salt, stuffed in my sock. I’d spill his guts if he tried anything funky. I had before. “You got a light?”