UNICORNS! RAINBOWS! AUGUST!

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from Percussion Software. Happy Unicorn.

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.

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Uncorn–Gustave Moreu, History Hoydens

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

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from WTF Art. English, Unicorn from a Bestiary

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.

I’m kidding.

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

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from Listverse

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.

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from Wickipedia. Burning of three witches in Baden, 1585, by Johann J. Wick

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…

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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. a74a91dceeb70683759a16cf377c2acd.jpg

 

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Strangely, God hasn’t got around to destroying such and such yet…Whoopsie. Must be all the sluts God still needs to punish, huh? 

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.]

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from Newsfeed/Time. 

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

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from Kumar’s Kemistry–Rainbow Formation

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.

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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.

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from Playa del Carmen. Let there be tequila! And then God got shitfaced and created Adam…it’s been downhill since then.

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.

 

A Taste of Beastface Bay: INTERVIEW WITH FURBO D’FURR

 

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Giant Squid Sailing by Eldar Zakirov. Deviant Art

As July is coming to a rapid, hot as hell close, I thought, hey, why not one of the Beastface Bay tales to tide my lovely readers over until I snorgle out some all-over-the-place political rant on bagel dogs, slipper socks and houseplants, culminating in a last paragraph that attempts to promote something or other…ahem.

The following is not, I repeat, not an actual interview with a giant squid. I feel in these current climes of EVERYTHING IS FAKE NEWS ONLY I HAVE THE TRUTH WAH that I truly do need to state that, no, I did not, somehow, obtain an interview with a giant ex-pet of one Jesus. H. Christ. [H stands for Horsefly. I kid. I kid!] It’s just a fun little piece I wrote for this project I started a couple months ago. It’s a mixture of Faulkner, Twain, Euripides, Proust, and Stephanie Meyer. With a pinch of Louis L’Amour and a snip of V.C Andrews and a suggestion of Dickens. Also, some Thurber, and those people who write Positive Slogans for a living. Those people. Okay. I’ve hemmed and hawed enough. Here ya go!!

 

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from Trip Adviser. Kelly Tarlton’s Sea Life Aquarium

 

INTERVIEW WITH FURBO D’FURR

The following is taken from an interview with the author of Truth’s Rainbow. I have omitted the interview formatting, and if you like, you can read this in its novel-length entirety in the Obscure Writer’s Annual Review, back issue VII. “Furbo” is a squid, and one of the ex-pets of Jesus. She learned to talk but hid it, instead choosing to shout out ‘vengeance’ with the other squids. Bess, name protected to protect her from detection and lawsuits and smitings, dictated her story to a sympathetic aquarium worker, who then turned that into a novela, which, unfortunately, has not been selling that well. This squid prefers Bess to Furbo. She is also planning a graphic novel about zombie vampire squids who have to defend their underwater castle from attacking shape-changing whales. I have high hopes this new venture will take off. Having read the first few chapters, it looks like a blockbuster winner of epic proportions.

Jesus grew tired of us. That’s why Henny escaped and wreaked havoc there in Beastface Bay. If Jesus had cared at all, still, for us, Henny wouldn’t have gotten anywhere.

After all, we lived in giant, all-comforts-provided pools. We had everything we could want. The best sea water, the best food, the best squid toys, like giant shells, floating kelp bundles and sailors to drown. They were not real sailors; they were animated by Jesus to fight us. Rather like a youngling’s toy, if you put those, um, batteries in it and it moves and acts real, something like that. Jesus, like so many, just grew weary of caring for pets. We’re a lot of work, we take up a lot of space, we’re constantly breaking things. That is the nature of pets. He tried to teach us all to talk, but only I learned. At least, I think it’s just me that picked up learning more than one word to parrot back. Sometimes I think all the others are disguising that they, too, can talk. It’s a sort of defense mechanism. If we’re perceived as stupid, no one much expects much from us. Also, we know quite a bit about Jesus and heaven and all that. Which is rather dangerous. No one would want to believe in Jesus anymore. As he’s rather awful and petty and small-minded. It might just be because he’s rather old and has lived too many years watching all of us. I mean, all who are in his jurisdiction.

Heaven? Oh that. Well, if everyone knew about it, they’d go elsewhere for service.

Well, it’s boring, for one. An eternity spent twiddling your tentacles. Well, thumbs or paws or whatever you possess at the end of your extremities. There’s nothing to do. You can walk around and look at the gardens, but you can’t work in those gardens or even go into them to enjoy them. You can look but you can’t touch, yes, exactly! Oh there’s the mansion of Jesus, but again, he doesn’t like to share his stuff. Or let anyone near his stuff. Since you’re dead, you don’t really need a house or even a bed; you won’t get a house or anything. You just wander about on the paths. Trying not to anger Jesus. There’s lots of signs put up, telling you what not to do or what you can do. Mostly you’ll just sit in the little designated areas and stare at the gardens you can’t enter for fear you’ll ruin them. Jesus has them all just as he wants them; he has no wish to garden further.

Jesus does not think of others, despite the propaganda. Sorry, the writings about him. He rolls his eyes at those writings, a lot, but does nothing to edit them. They serve their purpose, he gets praised, and he gets traffic past the Gate. Oh, that’s the name of the point of no return. Once you pass by the Gate, you can’t go back again. There’s like a force field there. A barrier. Many have tried, once they find out how boring and tedious heaven is. That you only get porridge to eat and tap water to drink. Porridge without cream, sugar, honey, berries, bananas, salt, boiled eggs; nothing is added to that porridge because Jesus likes plain porridge and so, apparently, does the rest of everyone in heaven. If Jesus likes something, everyone likes it. If Jesus hates something, then everyone hates it. He has no concept that others think or do differently than he does. Of course, he is an eternal deity and they are rare, few and far between.

Well, yes, you do eat in heaven. You might not sleep but you do need to eat. Nobody ever asked Jesus about that, as he’s a bit prickly. Or they did and he sent them away. He doesn’t like questions. He likes praise or just silence so he can talk.

Yes, there are other deities out there, to get back to that; they’re busy amusing themselves or napping to pass the time. They’ve worked out the boundaries out there and once in a while they all get together to have something like a party. A reunion? Ah, yes, yes, a reunion. They brag to each other, they talk about how hard it is to be a deity in today’s modern world, they stage contests like who can stand on one leg the longest. That is, if that deity has legs of some kind. Some don’t.

So yes, Jesus took us all in. We’re all from the same batch of eggs. I guess that does make us all brothers and sisters. Jesus had us all neutered, so none of that matters. He’s a responsible ex-pet owner. I’ll give him that. Oh it was painless. We were all put to sleep for a bit and woke mostly totally uninterested in all that reproductive business. Totally fine with me. It’s not like we need more monstrously big scarlet squids in the world or out of it. We’re monsters. Look at me! I’m a gigantic scary mess. Learning to talk brought a certain self-awareness, yes. Yes, I think that’s accurate. I’m very aware when others look at me and make faces and scream and then throw things like harpoons and bullets and missiles. It’s not a nice feeling when you’re so feared and hated on sight. It’s just not nice at all.

So, on the day Henny escaped, we all watched. Henny surged over the top of his tank and then pulled himself toward the Gate. Now, our tanks used to be right by the Gate. Henny and the others continued to feel, well, amorous, even though they couldn’t make any more little squids, so to speak. I found that I did not. But I also think the other squids were horrifically bored and it was something to do. I was busy teaching myself to talk and think, so I didn’t have to fall back on, um, other activities. A teacher worked with me, by the name of Carla Fay. She was quite patient and it passed the time for her, as well. Jesus, to my knowledge, didn’t know about Carla Fay coming to see me. Or if he did, he found nothing wrong in it or Carla Fay would have found herself in quite another place.

Oh yes, there is a hell. Jesus dug a pit and lined it with pulsing slug skin and lined the floor with dust bunnies. Always moving dust bunnies so that anyone sent there couldn’t sit down or find any rest but had to keep moving about, in the dark, trying not to touch the wall or stand for too long on any given dust bunny, as they tend to bite if stood on too long. Jesus sends those there he takes issue with, but only if they break too many of his rules while wandering about his heaven or if they just annoy him. It doesn’t matter what you do while you’re alive. You’d have to really catch Jesus’ attention, as in be a dictator out to beat the records of all other dictators for being truly awful. Then, Jesus would feel obliged to just put you in his hell pit. Without letting you wander about not touching any of his stuff or getting in his face or asking questions for a while or a long time or almost no time at all.

There were sixteen squid. But one, Stovetop, pissed off Jesus one time. Stovetop tried to, um, get friendly with Jesus. Jesus peeled poor, in love, Stovetop off himself and popped him in that pit. Stovetop is still there, as far as I know. So, not only would you have to contend with slug walls and a dust bunny floor but you’d have to contend with a lonely, confused, sorrowful squid who perhaps never understood exactly what he did wrong.

Ghosts, yes. Ghosts are very real. When someone dies suddenly or violently or just dies in general, one can become a ghost if one chooses. You can go right through the Gates or the Narrows or the Chasm of Chomping Fangs, whatever that point of no return is called in your area. But once through, and the deities are all in accord here, you cannot step back through and go back to where the living live. Now, as a ghost, you won’t be able to do much more than make yourself visible to the living. You can talk to the living, of course. You can spy on them, as you can keep yourself invisible at will. At least you’ll be entertained, for a while, wandering about among the living. A ghost is transparent. That’s the way you tell them from the living. You can see right through them. They also tend to float. They float about unless they purposely anchor themselves downward. They can’t touch anything or anyone. They have thoughts and feelings and get sad or bored or happy, just like when alive. They don’t have to eat or sleep or anything else, though once you pass by the Gates, you do have to eat a bit. Again, trying to ask Jesus why that rule is in place will get you a trip to that pit of slug walls and dust bunny floor. The real rule with Jesus is not to question anything he does. Ever. Act like another of his ex-squid pets is my best advice.

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from Science Vibe. Jesus as a platypus. 

A BAD DAY FOR THE DEVIL

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from Wiki. Ned Flanders as the devil.

First Part: Texas Preacher inspires a blog post

A Texas preacher was wailin’ and waxin’ large on how this is going to be a bad day for the devil. And naturally, on hearing this shouted from the next room, during the early hours… I had a thought of– is any day a bad day for the devil? It seems the devil gets a lot of shit done. Wars to petty little malicious gossip fun. Everyone’s getting devoured by that devil walkin’ around. The devil takes a stroll and checks things off her list.

What?? Her list??

Have I lost my gol-durn mind? Yes, I have, but that’s a whole other hysterical and barely readable blog post.

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from Dr. Macro

Part Two: Gender Politics

I have always wondered this. Why is the devil male? Other than patriarchal absolute control over everything from religion to nail polish choices, of course. Positions of power must always be filled with male figures! Even in legends, mythology, religion and tall tales. Women with power tend to be evil queens, evil stepmothers and witches. Or a combo thereof– an evil stepmother queen witch, such as Snow White’s dad’s second wife. Yep! There are ‘good’ witches but…they’re still suspect, because they have vaginas under those pretty princess-esque ensembles. And could go rogue at any time! We don’t get many tales of queens without there being some sort of ‘love’ story involved where she ends up secondary in her own story as a kingly sort steps up and ‘saves’ her from having to rule and make decisions or she falls into disgrace and gets tricked or…I’ll stop there. Ahem.

Other than that…why is the devil always portrayed as a male figure? We have witches, of course. But. They’re subservient and doing the will of their master…yeah. Witches went from powerful independent sorts to cringing, tricked, lied to servants of Satan. They went from enjoying their power and their relative sexual freedom to being puppets who just endured the cold sexual caresses of Hell’s Landlord. [Because why not strip even sexual enjoyment out of witchcraft, can I get an amen??] See Malleus Malificarum.

Women and power, it’s makes people uncomfortable. I get it. There’s reams written here. The powerful woman getting reduced to evil crone who licks the devil’s bottom during ceremonies held beneath the full moon. Read all that stuff. Read about the witch craze and how midwives were suspect and…yeah. But.

Part Three: A Tale of Love Gone Wrong

That rebellious beautiful angel who went against God. That reads more like a love story gone horribly wrong than some servant acting up and getting spanked, big time, for all eternity. Actually, that fallen angel gets rewarded, by being made the Big Baddie who gets to pretend to go against God. [And here, you can start screaming I don’t know anything about religion, the devil, God or blah dee blurg. That my years in the Lutheran church apparently did nothing more than give me a curious case of soul rash.] After all, does it not say, in Revelation, that God wins?

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from Pinterest

It’s right there. That’s bad storytelling. You don’t invent this great villain and then say, baldly, that that villain is going to lose. We know the villain loses, we want to pretend some actual surprise. There has to be a moment when we think the Joker is going to squash Batman and yank his wings off. That’s just how good stories trot along. We want, maybe, to even believe, for a bit, that the villain, the Big Bad, will win the day and destroy the planet, kill the tied up girlfriend/love interest/wife/some random girl; uh, get that death ray to work, etc, etc. You don’t state that so and so will win while presenting some Big Bad as the ‘villain’. Unless you plan on springing a surprise on us. Like some super-villain in the wings. Maybe her name is Mary who wraps her holy thighs around the devil and God and devours them both with her girl parts and comes out the winner of it all.youtube.jpg

I would so watch that movie. I would even buy the over-priced gold-plated popcorn to munch as I watched that movie.

You cannot announce that you’re the winner ahead of time. It’s insulting. Why do you need an adversary? Especially one that seems on the payroll? Why is he needed at all? Oh…because the devil has a case of bitter grapes and seeks to take down as many as he can before THE END OF IT ALL. [No, seriously, that’s the answer I’ve seen to this one. The devil wants to have a game of freeze tag before the End. Yep.] Cue evil laughter, ala Vinny Price.

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from Churchpop

PART FOUR: MORE GENDER POLITICS AND EVEN MORE LOVE GONE WRONG MUSINGS

How bitter do you have to be to infect as many humans as you can before God yanks the curtains closed?? That’s female territory…that’s spurned lover territory. That’s…yeah. I’m marching out some rather tired female tropes here— the woman scorned, the bitter woman who wants to repay her ex in spades, the nasty woman who will do anything to smear her ex, etc. Entire industries chug along on that crap alone. There’s also the crazy ex who stalks the current Pretty Young Thang and there’s a catfight where boobies bounce a lot. That’s both a movie plot go-to and the newest ad campaign for Chanel Number Five. Petty revenge against a force that’s all-powerful and who announces they’re going to win no matter what happens…doesn’t seem like male on male catfighting. [Can men have catfights?? Mmm. Maybe tomcat fights? Because tomcats are both slinky and possess testicles? MMMM!]

PART FIVE: WHAT SORT OF DAY DOES THE DEVIL HAVE?

But anyway. The devil, in my opinion, always has a good day. The list of sins is long and people are stupid. You can’t even have naughty thoughts without making God’s I Saw That! list. You can’t lust in your head, your thoughts are on trial. God is literally the thought police. The devil wants you to run that hardcore dungeon daddy fantasy involving a Viking era cowboy-ish muscled up pretty boy who puts you through your paces with a small whip and a large donkey. The devil is saying, hey, baby, go for it. You say, okay! Good day for the devil. Or maybe, hey, you’re in charge of an entire country. And you’ve got pretty bombs and tanks at your disposal. Why not use them on something? Like Chicago?? Yeah, the devil doesn’t even have to do more than shrug and go, hey, baby, go for it. That whisper of permission to give in to your darkest or most silly little vices. Instead of living with your knees crossed and your mind full of amens and hallulujahs and notions that the world is burning alive.

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from Pinterest. Fifty Shades of Vanilla

So it makes sense, to me, to make the nemesis of the desert God who stalked about in the lands of Canaan and Judea and so forth…a girl.

And hey, if we keep the devil a boy, well…kettle of very LGTBQ fish, can I get a high five and a clobber verse, amen? [There are six, by the way, six. That’s it. There’s about six maybe references in the entire Bible about this issue. Uh huh.]  You can’t have women with power, after all and you can’t even entertain the notion of God and the also-male devil being exes…because how soon before we’re making bestiality and incest legal and letting people marry their own houseplants?? Hello!

A seductive temptress whispering, go for it, baby, as she picks your pocket and paints a target on your back. That, after all, is what women are…we’re either whores or good girls. That Madonna/Whore dichotomy. One fall from grace and we’re forever branded a sin-filled whorebeast, we gals. There’s no forgiveness for us if we tumble a bit or a lot or at all… We have to be kept covered and controlled and in our place otherwise…chaos. That’s the central core message of pretty much any major or minor religion…women are suspect. Big time. Beware. You give women any sort of freedom and they turn to the devil and become witches and try to become men and want to vote and shit. Gol durn it, not on my watch!

PART SIX: WHERE I FINALLY MENTION SOME WRITING PROJECTS OF MINE!! YAY!

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from My Auto World. A 50’s Caddy Eldorado. Before the flames got painted on the sides…

Which leads me to…yes, my piddles in this area, writing-wise. Gotcha!! I wove a pretty web, I offered some sweet blasphemy and oh, viola…here we arrive at some stark PR for my products. Oh my!

Being a writer chick, I invented a character. It’s kinda what I do on occasion. She drives around in an old Caddy, seeking whom she may devour. I didn’t give her a name, other than ‘devil’. She’s a black woman riding the roads of America, offering deals. I was writing along in Alice in Oregonlandia and went, as you do, hey…what if the devil shows up.

What if the devil shows up.

And, sometimes, my mind-worms poop out some useful smeary images. One of those 50’s monstrosity cars with fins that get about three miles per gallon because gas was cheap back then. Flames painted on the black doors. An engine that can heard miles away, one of those big powerful V-8 take on all comers engines. And a woman at the wheel, a powerful woman, a woman to be feared, a woman of sadness and fierce laughter, the devil. With dark skin , a body that’s hers and hers alone, a confidence that her road trip isn’t gonna end any time soon. She suggests sins, doesn’t tell you to actively commit them. She knows you and maybe even loves you a little, but still wants to turn you inside out to watch you strangle in your own guts.

She also turns up in my third book, Saint Lysette and Bloody Alice. Which I’ve let ‘rest’ for a week, as other writing urges hooked me like a fly fisherman hooks one of those trout in a river in Montana. Must write this now! I’m mulling ideas for that third book, deciding just who and what Mr. Blue, Bong Bong and Mr. Peepers are. [If you have no idea who those characters are, it’s okay. I forgive you. Go in peace.] I’m inventing the mythology and reality of this world Alice, and her mother, Nancy, exist in. What happens if there’s devils within devils within devils? What happens if. It’s what writers do, after all. I’m not thinking Overall Literary Theme. I thinking, what if the devil is trying to fix her mistakes? What will Alice do when she finds out what Lysette is? What does Aaron know? I am thinking in terms of what comes next, not Man’s Inhumanity to Man.

The devil, after all, is in the details.

PART SEVEN: BWHA HA HA

Bwha ha ha.

The devil always has a good day. She likes to keep busy and she’s a multi-tasker, as women have been since the time they lived out in the open scavenging lion kills. God will snap His fingers and the devil might very well not even notice. She’s bent over whispering into a susceptible ear to some sexually confused young Christian man to look up three-way twink and bear porn [if you have no idea what this is, boy, are you gonna have some fun with Google today] over on porn hub [a real site, in case you thought I made that up, my innocent sweeties]…whispering in that ear to go for it, baby. God will be saying, hey, I’m ending the game. The devil will look up, from whispering sweet nothings into various ears. You do that, baby, if you think that’s best.

And God will swell up and stomp back to heaven, with a hearty string of expletives for his Ex and the devil will smile. It’s always a good day for the devil.

 

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random pic of a sunset. 

The Ghosts of Pets Past

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from PETA

The baby bird made it through the night. The heating pad, the hasty scrambling for something to feed it, the toilet paper nest. Oh, did I not tell you? Yours truly acquired a somewhat newly hatched baby bird. Species, don’t know.

I am one of those folks who, yes, go out of their way to try and save wildlife and stray dogs and lost kitties. My life has been picking up stray little souls on the sides of roads, finding little feeble nestlings in the lawn and generally trying to save tiny lives others have dismissed as ‘why do you bother?’ Because something in me actually cringes at leaving something to suffer a lingering death. Or a quick awful one from being smacked by a rapidly moving vehicle. My mother also did this. I remember her stopping to help strays and little lives, too. Once a baby rabbit somehow got in our house and she tried to get it fed and calmed down. It died, being too stressed and too afraid to recover. That was the last year of my mother’s life. If you want, you can see that an omen or a foretelling. Or a warning not to try and save anything, we all die. We all die.

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from Den Herder Vet. Hospital

Except for those little lives we manage to save.

I’ve had some success with baby birds. One summer I managed to save and release back into the wild about seven or so. A robin and some tiny quarrelsome sorts that I found huddled up and freezing in a blown down nest. I raised the baby robin and wrote a short story about her. It never developed the colorful breast of the male robin, and it was too big for a starling, so I’m gonna go with it was a robin. It never got tame and as I had no intention of keeping it anyway, it got to hop-fly away. On the day I could not catch it again to put it back into the big cage it hated, that robin signaled I’d done perhaps a little good. Or not. That robin stuck about and took its chances with humans and dogs alike, and then it disappeared…but it survived, for a bit, got to grow up, and then discover the joys of finding its own bugs.

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from iEmoji

My mother once brought home a goat she found wandering about on the road. She also found a home for it, as we were not set up for keeping it permanently. It had a personality, it liked to drink beer, it head-butted whatever dogs we had at that time. I also remember this old cat named Alice who found my mother at a livestock sale– back when we were living in Southern Washington State. Where we were set up for livestock and my mother had gone to buy some young pigs. Alice went straight to my mother, meowing very loudly. Everyone looked at my mother. Who made it clear that Alice, as she later called that calico cat, was not actually her cat. Why would anyone bring their cat to a livestock auction and sale?? But Alice persisted, and as cats do, Alice adopted my mother and decided my mother was hers for life. Alice then starting bringing her kittens to my mother…who of course took Alice and her batch of kittens home. I don’t remember if she bought any young pigs or not at that particular sale. Alice proved to be a one-cat woman. She was also the best mouser this side of the Mississippi. And an ugly cat, this was not a show cat, this was an outside, scruffy, skinny, barely tolerant of anyone except my mother sort of cat. Rough calico fur, a loud voice, not fixed that I remember.

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This is obviously not the famous/infamous Alice. This cat just resembles her a bit.

I won’t go into the Ghosts of Pets Past. The tragedies and triumphs. The assorted scruffy little lives. The bungled and the botched of wild and domesticated alike. But I will try to keep the nestling remanded to my clumsy care alive as best I can.

Don’t worry. No insanely precious stream-of-consciousness poetry is forthcoming. Yet. Yet!!

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A fuzzy, bad pic of my new house guest.

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An update: This afternoon, that little life grew still. Breath stopped. The tiny peeping. I wish I could write something here profound and deep as the Marianas Trench. It lived, and then it didn’t. I buried it beneath the oak tree, beneath the carpet of old leaves, among the shy worms and the tunneling gophers from the neighboring fields. I should have made a little boat, Viking style, and let that very young life rise back up into the sky…fire and ash, the ash floating upward, upward toward that sky. I could have sailed that tiny boat, set on fire, in the deep puddles in the lane we have yet. Goodbye, little bird. Say hello to all the other birds I couldn’t quite save.

THIRTEEN QUOTES

I shall follow up my wildly popular and highly fluffy post, Let’s Go to the Movies, with some quote mining from yours truly. Titles with numbers in them seem to be known as ‘clickbait‘ and by Jove and by gum, I wish to be clickbaited! I know how that sounds, but I’m both needy and indifferent to the world. I am a contrary  contrarian. If you repeat a word twice, you sound either Dickensian or that you have a scratch and your devices are having trouble playing you back.

Thirteen quotes.  I suggest some of you make memes out of the following. Or a GIF. Or is that just ‘gif’? Ugh, modern spelling, amirite?

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#1– from my short play, the Bluegrass of God, which has actually been performed!

ALITA: I buried all my things. In my backpack. I buried my past. It was nice. I said a little prayer and I think God heard me cause I found this place and the wind, it blows through like fiddle music, and it don’t care, it don’t care that I’ve been slapped by the Devil. So you see, Miss Paula…I can’t go with you. My past is buried nearby and it might, it might just burst out of the ground like a rocket. Just like a rocket.

#2– from my completed novel, The Adventures of Sexy Jesus and Grumpy Odin. That’s right, completed. I had fun writing it, even if no one ever reads it, publishes it or goes near it with a twenty-thousand foot pole:

Jesus came swanning in and women and yes, the men, too, watched him. That careless human beauty he wore as his own skin. The graceful workings of his slender frame. Loose sweatpants the color of November nights, a loose brightly printed shirt covered with abstract squiggles and squares, a forest green background, bright blue designs. It was rather like a cardinal landing among a flock of wary, admiring sparrows. That buttery dark hide had been burnished by his time in the harsh Nevada deserts. Those dark eyes held murder and rage in the center of each, twin black flames that promised a horrible, prolonged end to whatever crossed his path or even looked at him a little funny. Lights flickered. The dirt monkeys murmured, looked up, their faces open and wondering. They were moments away from asking the gods to make the lights stay on. No amount of modernity could reroute that urge to appeal to whatever forces might be listening for help, for comfort, for an ending of a torment.

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Vale, Oregon. One of the many Oregon Trail signs. The Starlite Diner is just down the way a bit…

#3–Ah, here’s the latest from my Wind in the Willows, American style, knockoff. I wrote this in the last couple of days, so it’s FRESH. This concerns the two sides about to have a fake war to bolster economies and get rid of the giant squids of Jesus that Luke and his side have had to take care of, since Deadlion’s End does not have a public aquarium.  Meryl, by the way, is the mayor of Deadlion’s End. From my Tales of Beastface Bay, War Talk:

Or we can cobble together something ourselves, said Meryl, thinking of the expenses for hiring speech writers, then paying them extra to be quiet about the speeches they wrote. I’m sure, said the mayor, we can all write our own speeches here. I mean, how hard is it, really, to write a good, stirring patriotic barn burner of a speech? Rah rah, freedom, courage, we all have to sacrifice, liberty, they won’t beat us into the dust, we’re better than this, they can’t break us, courage, liberty, freedom, the blood of our ancestors, freedom, liberty, courage, freedom isn’t free, giant squids must go, courage, liberty, freedom, they can’t break us down and make us lose our liberty, courage or freedom. Something like that and then we all hug and cry, and go off to make sure our side wins.

#4– I shall make most of these short, don’t worry! From my massively produced and even published! short play, the Mating Season of Flying Monkeys:

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from the Martha Vineyard’s Times. Marsha Draper as Marjorie and Felicity Russell as Belinda

BELINDA: Marjorie. You can’t tell me what to do anymore. I’m…an old woman now. You’re my sister, not…not my mother. I’ve decided to have a one night stand, if you absolutely must know.

#5– From a poem I wrote for a monthly poetic challenge, where Rattle puts up a random picture and poets of all stripes who so wish can compose a composition inspired by said artistic photo or rendering. M’kay? This is from She Enters the Forest:

She can see the cerulean hint
of bluebells
just there oh just there.
I am not a good girl.
She smiles
over her shoulder toward
the anxious eyes awaiting her return.
Forgive me, I think
I’ll need forgiving.
I think this is unforgivable.
I hope so.

#6–Ah, my next selection is from a short play of mine, the Man Who Went Insane From Money. A bank teller has had enough of the world. This one came from a happy, fun conversation I had with a fellow artsy sort, in Eugene, Oregon, at a party. What if bank tellers were honest about your bank account? We were laughing back and forth about what bank tellers would actually like to say to customers, and indeed, what all customer service sorts would like to say…and so I wrote a bit of a play. Inspiration sometimes comes from actually talking to other people. I know!

TYLER: Just turn on your too-high heels and totter out of here. Go get drunk and find a new man to suck dry, though you are kind of old. I’d max out your one remaining credit card for some plastic surgery, get your ass tightened up, your vajayjay, too. The boobs, goes without saying. Get those wrinkles filled in. Do some high class fucking and sucking and then presto, back in business. Just some friendly free advice

#7– Be patient, we’re more than half way through my self-induced tour of quote mining from my own stuff!! This is taken from City Full of Rain, a short story I need to rework. I think the ending…yeah. If you’re a writer [hashtag WeAreAllWriters] then you ‘get it’. You ‘get it’ so hard right now. You are ‘getting it’ with a cherry on top.

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This is taken by me, a few days ago, of one of the big storms that came across the Treasure Valley like an actual lion. City Full of Rain is set in an unspecified Pacific Northwest somewhere or other so here’s a picture of a place that has nothing whatsoever to do with the quote. 

I probably am crazy, I probably made this all up to amuse myself because life is so very un-amusing. But I doubt it. I’ve been writing all this down for a year or so, hand-written in those single-subject notebooks they still sell at the supermarket. Each little scribbled word drains me. Yet I do it anyway. I want a record of what I did. Don’t we all? A record of why I did what I did and why it mattered. Don’t we all? I am not violence-minded, don’t worry. How could I hurt them? They’re angels or whatever they are. Survivors to this modern age. Nothing is that careful or cautious, nothing. Not even God. They’ve survived, Mike and Penny, because they’re impervious, not because they’re cautious. I could expose them but who, honestly but a handful of other crazies and wild-eyed breathless others, would take me seriously?

 

#8– Ah, from a Christmas short tale I penned. Seven Swans A Swimming Toy Store and Comic Books Emporium. Some writing challenge thingie for some vague project that might happen and so I wrote a short tale about an uncle and his niece and a ghost in a toy store. And it’s not even scary. I’m slippin’, I tell ya. Slippin’. La Grande, Oregon, by the way. Since that’s my college town and…yeah. Yep.

Allegedly, he was quite sad his older sister had died so tragically, in a giant city famous for crushing its inhabitants in traffic jams, mudslides and tales of the once-famous reduced to tiny, faded ends. The rise and fall of the famous had become Los Angeles’s gasoline of choice. But, he and Holly had never been close. He could not fathom such a nomadic sort of life. He could not fathom creating a child and dragging it around like an extra-annoying backpack…as Holly had once labeled her own offspring. La Grande had been where he had attended school and then La Grande had become his home when he got a job teaching indifferent teens elderly literature selections they could not fathom as in any way relatable to their lives. They memorized bits here and there for the tests that would open doors to elitist liberal bastions of indoctrination that they’d spend a lifetime paying for if they took out student loans. Dreams in America now seemed for the very rich or the very delusional.

#9– Hang on, Sloopy! Almost at the end! This is from a rather sweet short story I puffed out on a Sunday afternoon, about an elderly lady named Maybelle and her very special doll. The story is, of course, called Maybelle.

Judi had gone out for ‘supplies’ or rather, a lunch with her friend, Beau, a married man. Maybelle found that rather sad but said nothing. It was Judi’s life. Her own life had been a series of dead ends, heart aches, losses and quiet little deaths of her every dream and most of her hopes. The only bright spot remained Baby Cynthia. The one boy who had squired her about a bit had gone off with another, prettier, livelier girl without a backward glance and no one had stepped in to take that place. She had tried to be a nurse, had tried to be a teacher, had ended up taking odd jobs here and there when she had no talents for nursing and no backbone for teaching. She had dreamed of her own little house and times being what they were, always, for her, that had never come to pass. Sometimes life just shunts people gently or not so gently aside.

#10– Oregon Gothic gets a nod, my patient lovelies! This excerpt from Bailey, the first salvo in my OREGON GOTHIC collection, is a real treat. It’s candy corn, Peeps and Cadbury Eggs kinda special. Or  a kale smoothie, organic yogurt enemas and rain water collected from one of those temples in Cambodia treat special. Hey, I try to cater to all reading and other sundry tastes here.  Our plucky heroine has broken down after enjoying a meal with her grandparents…

Because it’s perfect.

How many horror movies had she watched with just this crap going on? Storm. Broken down vehicle. Girl alone. Psycho with knife, axe, gun. It was practically an American institution, an American movie classic shown every single freaking Christmas and twice at Easter. Halloween. Night of the Living Dead– the original, not the shitty remake. Friday the Thirteenth, the very first one. Carnival of Souls. Every Dracula movie ever, surely. She couldn’t think of any more movies, her mind just refusing to spit out any more examples, because she seemed too busy trying not to piss herself in fear. So where was the psycho?

Stop it, Bailey, just stop it. She scolded herself as she walked along, trying to hurry. It was not that far to town. And she had been discussing local murders with her grandparents. No wonder she was spookedy-spooked. Weiser, Boise, nowhere near here though. Nowhere near. Miles away, in a different state. Idaho was full of crazies. Oregon was not, which was not true but still comforting.

And like some malignant cue from the universe, a male voice said, “ Hey. “

#11– This is yet another tale that graces Oregon Gothic, also about a ghost at Christmastime time, that visits one of the residents at a nursing home. Tiny Rooms.

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from Ali Express. 

“It’s all right. I don’t mind. So you sit with a little ghost and cook things for Christmas. What’s crazy about that? That’s rather nice.” I had somehow said just the right thing. Nora smiled, that rare real smile she had.

“I think so, too…or I’d have told her to go away and leave me alone, ” Nora confessed. “One Christmas, I had a tuna sandwich and a cup of tea. It was all I had in the house. I was just grateful I didn’t have to go hungry. I couldn’t afford a tree that year, either. And. And I never bothered to buy one after that. It was just…not worth the bother. It was a relief. To be done with it all.”

#12– This is from Lady Judas, one of the first plays I ever wrote. It’s been rewritten X amount of times since then and I rather like how it’s evolved. A suicidal woman comes home to a family dinner where Jesus shows up. Now, originally, I had Jane, the protagonist, actually dying as she’s imagining a homecoming of sorts. But. What if she lived and had to face everything and everyone? Ray speaks about his wife and the mother of Jane and her sister, Lanie, toward the end of this latest rewrite, about what love is, to him.

 
RAY: Is that what you all think? She ripped her arms open because of me? Is that what you think, Jane? I loved her. I loved her, I love her to this day. She was a mean, bitter woman and some people are just like that, but I loved her. I cleaned her up when she had her spells, I put bandages on Lanie and you, I cleaned up the mess so nobody had to see it but me, I…I did what I had to because I loved her to pieces. I loved her to pieces.

#13– Something wildly cheerful to round up my baker’s dozen! This last long quote, ha ha ha, is taken from my soon, I hope, to be published novel, The House on Clark Boulevard, about Nancy who’s both battling the holiday cooking and family demands as well as battling the Forces of Darkness. Enjoy!!

“Is there going to be those eggs?” Art asked, as he did before all holidays. Those eggs. Deviled eggs. Mayonnaise and mustard and egg yolk, mashed together and spooned back into shiny white egg halves. That’s how he knew it was a special day.

“Yes. Mom will probably make a big batch. Anything else you want? Apple pie or cherry or maybe a chocolate pie?” She sent out and Art just smiled, he was back on familiar ground, not dealing with a crazy wife with her cracks showing.

“Apple pie is always good. Do you like apple, Alice?” Art threw an unexpected curve ball at his strangely silent daughter, who turned her eyes to her father, her mouth full of mushy egg noodles.

“Can we have lemon?”

Lemon?? Art shrugged, cast Nancy a why-are-kids-so-weird glance. “Sure.”

Oh yes, lemon. When both Art and Alice hated lemon anything. “I’m sure we can make a lemon pie,” Nancy replied very agreeably. It seemed vastly important to reassure everyone she was back to normal, that she was mama and wife again. With some stitches and blood loss, but still mama and wife, no name at all, just mama and wife. That her only interests were cooking for Christmas and cleaning up after one and all and being pleasant. Nancy quickly shoved that thought far far down, shoved it into a ghost bottle with a bit of her own fingernail in it. She was Nancy the Magnificent Mr. Blue Fighter. She had conquered an invader here in the lands of Oregon East. “A big ole lemon pie with a playing card crust!”

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Yes, taken by yours truly. The actual Clark Boulevard, in Malheur County, Eastern Oregon. Yummy, huh?

 

 

Whew!! Thirteen quotes! I had fun. Did you? I seem to have a real spite against Christmas. I left out most of the writing that contained adult themes or language. I tried to keep it short and snappy. Tried being the operative word. Well, goodbye until next time. I’m sure yours truly will come up with something like Five Ways to Write About Potted Plants or perhaps 16 Ways Socks Figure in the Cannon of Western Literature.

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Torn canvas, blue sky. Ah, life!

Honeyfuggle

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from Pinterest. The Oregon Coast

Goodness, gentle readers and assorted riffraff– yours truly truly did tackle the writing prompt I made up out of thin air for some vague sarcastic point in riptide. Lesbian giraffes attacked by a giant squid sent by Jesus. I imaginatively called it The Giant Squid and wrote it in an afternoon’s passing. A little over five thousand words. I made up this sort of coastal community peopled by animals acting like people, ala Zootopia and every other fucking animal-based whathaveyou where the animals talk. Wind  in the Willows, Watership Down, Duncton Wood, The Plague Dogs, Animal Farm, the Velveteen Rabbit, the Jungle Book, Redwall series, the Narnia Chronicles, Charlotte’s Web, James and the Giant Peach, the Last Unicorn, the Tale of Despereaux, Babe the Sheep-Pig, the Tale of Peter Rabbit, Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH, Stuart Little, the Trumpet of the Swan…

Here’s the big reveal:

I LOVED WHAT I CAME UP WITH

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from Clipartix

It had an odd gentle fairy tale feel to it. I kept the sickening violence and adult language mostly to off-stage and not written into the tale at all levels. Yes, the squid does attack the elderly alcoholic zebra [you read that right] but the zebra dies of fright and shock and a heart attack. I just found all this…stuff pouring out of my suddenly revved up little brain and flowing out through the medium of my flying fingers. Words formed! Entire paragraphs bloomed! I smiled the whole time I composed! I wanted to find out WHAT HAPPENS NEXT. I grew to really like the voices that developed among my various characters, even the not so likable ones. I grew to completely SEE this little village of Deadlion’s End set right on Beastface Bay. A cozy little collection of houses and cottages! That there were other communities and settlements up and down this imaginary coastline of mine. Driftwood and Seagull’s Feather and Starling’s Wing and Froggy Pond and Deadlion’s End! That there were hidebound laws and traditions. That some were trying to change those laws and traditions. That it seemed this little world had been waiting for me to discover it. It seems all there, I just have to write about what I observe in my brain’s widescreen, featuring Dolby Surround sound,  inner movie theatre.

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from the Turtle Forum

Even now, I want to dive back into this insular world. To explore it. See what pops up over in Froggy Pond, which is not so welcoming to visitors anymore, or if Teddy, the Irish Wolfhound, actually does have a litter of illegitimate puppies with a loose Labrador over in Furcape. Which is the nearest big city to Deadlion’s End or just the End as inhabitants along this coast of mine refer to it…

Now, I do have a second tale about the Beastface Bay-ites completed. About the mixed species couple that run the antique shop in Driftwood, just down the road from the End. It turned rather dark, but I am a rather dark writer most of the time, and it was also funny. What unfolded I just let unfold. I got out of the way of the story that wanted to be told. I called a whale Bluebell. I invented a sullen little feud between turtles and goldfish. I wanted to next tackle life in Froggy Pond, and why the two turtles fled its confines. I want to explore what happens to the one goldfish, Liam, that escaped the nighttime massacre of the fish pond he once dwelled in. I want Judy, the otter, and Burt, the weasel, exposed and yet I don’t want them caught for what they did, because that’s real life and people get away with all manner of stuff all the time, that’s real life. But these are talking animals living in houses and selling teapots for a living. So?? The creatures that live along Beastface Bay honeyfuggle me into telling their stories. They entice me. I am enticed.

The ideas are churning through my brain meat. I need to make notes and write down names. I need to map out relationships and who said what to whom. I need to write write write. Compulsion roils through me. It’s fantastic.

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the riptides of rebellion and the salvation of savagery

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from Goins

Alliteration aside…or not, that is up to you, toads of the post-modern landscape…this is going to be about me swinging back to JUST BEING ME.

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from the BBC

I have lost my way. As a writer, as a human, as a human writer. I’m more focused on what can sell or does sell or doesn’t sell at all, fuck it god damn it fuck…than on actually writing stuff. Stuff and things. The things that catch my attention. Instead of focusing on market trends and just how much to blog and share and how to infiltrate writer’s groups and not come off as creepy or aggressive bitchy salesperson…I should instead glory in figuring out how a giant squid can devour an entire village of lesbian giraffes. [I made that up. I’m not actually working on a tale or play about a giant labial-ish squid, in the manner of Cthulhu, set to devour a village full of prickly quadrupeds who are full of the love that dare not speak its name. Mm. Mm!! I could call it–Jesus Sends a Squid, and then market it to fundie Christian markets. Or not.]

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from Wikipedia. Lovecraft’s sketch of his most enduring and iconic monster, Cthulhu.

I need to stop trying to be commercial or whatever that is.  Stop being hesitant. Self-censoring. Hesitant.  JUST BE ME, MYSELF AND I, HELLO, SHUT THE DOOR, GET OUTTA HERE, DUH. Just fucking write. Stop worrying about how to sell it or market it or get it into the correct slot!  [Except realistically I can’t do that. I don’t have a trust fund. I’m not in a Hallmark movie. Reality never bothered me much before so why start actually facing shit now?] Gosh, will this fit into the PG family-friendly horror category my publisher wants or more toward kitchen sink post-apocalyptic anti-modernist comedy stylings that seem to be trending right now? No!! Just write. Write. Let it splatter out like hot shit from a goose’s saucy backside. [As they poop a lot. A lot. As in they have lots and lots of poop and it splatters.] Stop caring about things like dragging in pennies every few years for something I’ve put out there! So what if my family has written me off as a good argument for an abortion. Just write.

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Peanuts, by Charles Schultz

If you don’t know already, I’m not talking to the collective you. I am ripping into myself in a sort of pep talk. I am trying to get some inner riptides to savage me. Yeah, I went there. I had to find a way to give that romance novel bodice ripper compound title up there some sort of legitimacy.  I’m trying to rip the scabs off and let the inner infected fluids fly out as they will. Splatter and splash as they will. Yippee kye aye!! Stop trying to be something you’re not, kiddo!! Stop trying to please everyone with your bowl of limp wilted lettuce offerings. Stop trying to produce prose that slinks apologetically about like a whipped canine. Get busy writing or take up sculpting!

Gol dang it, could you be any more precious and fragile?

I could be. Oh yes, I could be.

For those of you who might be confused, this is where I pretend I pretend I don’t actually have inner voices talking to me all day long. It’s cute. It’s probably getting stale by now. It has a whiff of cutesy stale crackers by now. Okay!

Well, don’t. End this buckaroo burbling and bumble off…BINT.

Funny. Bint. Ha ha. Urr urr urr. Too bad I can’t harness you to a wagon and turn you into cash.

What? Was that a crack about how we’re not pulling our weight?

Kinda. If the shoe fits.

Maybe you should try writing something people actually want to read. Try that! Why has that not occurred to you?

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from the Atlantic

Like what? I am open to suggestions. Hit me. Power point me. Note card it and do a speech at the podium.

Are we actually having this fight in public for the one person who actually bothers to read this bumblesnatching burblefluff?

Why not? Posting my actual work seems to be a real snort-and-ignore.

A snore?? Bwha ha ha ha. Bwha ha ha. There’s more laughter coming at your expense. For the rest of the day.

Thanks, as always, for your non-help. You do realize we’re all in this together?

Hey, we can migrate to other brains and infest them any time we wish. We’re imaginary!! Maybe you should get back to being precious and writing creativity checks you can’t cash.

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from Never Date A Writer

Oh fuck you.

That’s the spirit! You go, girl!! Go write something good for once. Don’t worry, you’ll get all tough and don’t-care and then come right back to wah wah wah can’t write can’t write wah wah wah!

That was just mean.

Oh we’re sorry. Do you want a donut? Hey…

I’ll end that there. Because why be self-indulgent when you can be off writing about a giant squid attacking a village full of talking same-sex giraffes?

PS– Hi. Hi there. It’s the day after this, um, we’ll call it a post and not a mental breakdown…Yours truly has, indeed, tackled the lesbian giraffe village attacked by a giant squid possibly sent by Jesus. Apparently, Sunday afternoons is when my short story gears grind into motion. I plan to clean said short story up and submit it. I might even do a series of tales about my beloved, now, to me only at the moment, characters from Deadlion’s End, who live along Beasthead Bay. Always Be Hustling. ABH.

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