The House on Clark Boulevard!

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Molly caught in a rare pensive mood. She probably wants a snow storm, too. 

Hi, everyone. I’m waiting for the snow. It insists on raining. Ah, weather! My book, the HOUSE ON CLARK BOULEVARD, is on sale for a bit, at about a dollar. For your Kindle or whatever you might have that lets you read e-books. 

The link to that?? 

Glad you asked, cupcakes!




I’m not sure who took this. I just like it. 

Golly gee galoshes, grubby grabbers! Snow. There’s snow outside. Coffee in my cup. Oh look at that. Perky perkings perking in my percolator.

Also, a dog or a ghost opened my door last night, left it open. I was uneasy all night and had weird dreams that I had to fulfill a community service sentence. I got to choose. One of the choices was being an usher. I was so happy! In my dream, happy I got to be an usher, for six nights. I marked that in yellow on a calendar! However, I had nothing to wear. I took out this pair of pants, that one, they all needed repairing. I had no nice clothes to usher in. Oh!

Girls, huh??! I could have gotten up to shut my door, hello.

Eastern Oregon hay wagon feeding elk. From Oregon Live. 


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from the Whiskey River Soap Company.

I read, somewhere, in the vague reaches of the internet’s reachage, that writer’s block happens because there’s serious doubt going on. Or some sort of self-ingrained idea that no matter what you write or create, it’s CRAP ON TOAST. So why bother at all?

Bingo. That one wormed inside, took up residence, made itself a cup of tea on the inner barely working stove. Where only two of the four burners work, and one of those working burners keeps trying to quit, too.

Obviously, I’m wallowing in those Don’t Wanna Write Nuthin’ waters.

There’s no joy left in creating anything word-wise. Even my silly, ain’t gonna show this to no one, crapwriting won’t flow like a sad little river these days. I’ve started the same file over about five times now.



Same goes for a play I started. Started it several times over. Want to scrap whatever I wrote, start over. It’s a compulsion at this point. Start over. Start over. START OVER. Write about fifteen pages, get that notion that even a dead syphilitic rat would not piss on this! Then I go read headlines about the state of the world.

That’s where I am, writing-wise. Defeated at the thought that not even a dead rat would bother wetting itself [I know, how can a dead rat pee on anything? I know. Just humor me a bit here.] on pages I’ve managed to form from the deep voids.

It has not snowed yet. It’s cold, it’s supposed to snow tomorrow. But today, no snow. None. Snow perks me up.

Maybe I’ll write the Bestest Thing Ever!!

when or if it snows tomorrow.

Maybe the dead rats will pee on it with glad singing in their dead hearts.

Maybe? Maybe. Maybe!!

And those little voices in my head whispering no no no nope no no way nope nope nope.

Little fuckers. They never shut up these days…!

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from Showpo. Yep. Yep yep. 

Hello, December

from Pinterest. One of the muses before she skips off for an adventure…

December rolls up like a gritty whore after a night spent with tourists on the Lost Wages Strip. Hello, December! You already tired and sore, honey? Yeah.

Now that you have that in your heads.

I did start a new play.

Three times now. I think this last time I’ll let it unroll how it wants, see what the tricksy muses wish to fart out.

My muses don’t murmur soft gracious urbane phrases and plot lines, oh no. They’re those terrible old women who don’t give a shit anymore. The ones that lift their butt cheek to let loose a long, satisfying ass honk. Then laugh, then cuss up a storm, trying to remember where they left their teeth. They wear comfy clothes splattered with stains and mysterious patches. Their hands could sand wood to a smooth finish. Feet like hooves.

Occasionally they take off for adventures, go get laid and run from foreign cops in stolen cars they can’t really drive. Before turning up to fart, belch, drink coffee and gossip in my head.

There’s no snow yet. A few tries but nothing that’s stuck. I can’t wait. That first real snow fall. Storms of snow. Makes me wish I lived in a snow globe. Not really, but it sounded poetic and sweet, didn’t it?

I’m wading into stagnant pond scum, inner-person wise. The inside tides have shifted. Abandon all hope, ye who enter here, yeah. That’s my life motto at the moment.

But hey. I started a new play.

I want to make rugelach [my computer wants to change that to rubella], even though I’d have to take a shower, put on town clothes, go fetch some cream cheese, apricot jam, cheap walnuts. Raisins?! I have the cinnamon. Maybe I’ll just sprinkle that on some toast, roll that up, call it good. I’ve never made it before. A little rolled up cookie full of jam, nuts and raisins. It doesn’t seem particularly hard to make. It’s a change from sugar cookies.

I don’t want to wander over into maudlin land. I know very well sharing the actual thoughts in my head are never really welcomed. By anyone. I always snort, get a cold shaky feeling, when someone tells me to be myself. No thanks. I’d rather roll in a dead deer carcass that believe anything that comes out of another person’s mouth. Cynical? Yep, that’s me.

Hello, December.



I had a movie review, of sorts, ready to go. Then, I went to Thanksgiving with the very very very red-hatted, MAGA relatives. It was fine. It was okay. Except for this odd twenty minutes or so. When this young woman, who had a year-old baby, went on and on about how homeless people are the real villains of American society.

When I hear how the young people of ‘murica are woke as fuck, I just start laughing. Not in Idaho, honey!

I mean, it was textbook Fox News talking points. Right down to my aunt sneering how those homeless people parked their expensive cars around the block after panhandling all day.

How this one homeless woman had a million in the bank. No name, no details, not a name or a state or even the name of the bank this alleged homeless millionaire lady had her money stashed away in.

Just this vague, urban legends, sort of riff. The welfare queen, which has always more or less been with us. The shifty beggar who’s scamming us. The panhandler who’s raking in big dough! How dare they?! They spend all that money they get on drugs and liquor! They just throw away the food you give them!

There was also a brisk discussion of public parks, what homeless people do to the porta-potties and bathrooms. How guards have to chase them off. Because the homeless sorts are doing drug deals and probably having sex with each other.

In the porta-potties! I’m never using a porta-potty again, was, I believe, the conclusion drawn from all this. 

There was the groaning from the relatives and this young woman, who’s a relative by marriage to my relative, I think. I find this young woman forgettable. A baby factory for the upcoming civil war, frankly. Yes, I am awful. Yes, I am.

Now, me breaking in with how full of shit that all was. No. Me breaking in with name names, what are your sources. Nope.

Because the relatives and relatives of my relatives don’t fact check anything. Why should they? It’s far more sexy to believe there’s a legion of homeless scammers doing lots of drugs, eating steak and lobster every night from their food stamps wrangling, and driving about in a Mercedes after spending all day in smelly rags pretending how poor they were. You don’t have to feel guilty about them folks, after all. Not if they’re all drug addicts, thieves and the worst of the worst. The beggars now are not the virtuous sorts they had in their days, no sir!


I think of my self-preservation during these absurd sneerings about the truly down and out. I also think I have to avoid Christmas, because I really don’t enjoy these people anymore. Nor do I wish to sit there doing a slow burn, with my fingernails dug into my leg to stop me from smacking the holy living verbal shit out of these clusterfuckers. Sure, it will feel so good, it would make a great moment in a play or a movie,. But. Real life, you have to deal with the consequences of turning into a rabid hyena and chewing up your racist, awful relatives.

Which marks me as a coward. A silent one.

Which claws at me far more than anything ‘those people’ can sneer out about this group or that one. That I kept my head down, rather than risk being flayed alive by the entire crew. As I have spoken up before, I have. I know what will happen, right down to the last eye roll.

That I kept silent so my own failures and lack of anything resembling a life or career would not be thrown at my head. I have not been writing. I have not felt bold lately at all. The rejections roll in in a thick, steady stream. My few submissions sent out net me zero results. Which is standard writer crap, but still.

That old crud of why bother, you’re a loser drifts into my head like a stinking poisoned fog. That old music playing and playing. And the realization. That I think every day of ending it. Every day.

Every day.

I dread what they will say at any funeral services held for me. I dread hearing it. If I hear anything at all. But perhaps no one will notice that much. Be relieved I am gone. Or tell stories of how I panhandled, and parked my spendy ride around the block to fool everyone. Perhaps I will join the parade of unkind myths about such people as me. The next generation of babies will be trained to spew the talking points. Beggars bad, rich people angels.

The bungled and the botched, I believe, is what will be written in the dirt. Then carelessly smudged by passing feet. Spare change will remain in pockets as people virtuously ignore the scammers holding out dented old tin cups. My little world has turned into some sort of absurd Dickens-like tale. Like Miss Havisham, I seem frozen in time. 

Little Ornaments

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I’m not writing. I have maybe two words rattling around in my writer jar. Those two words seem to be slurgatt and fzzutrty. I can’t really do anything with those two. No stories seem to form, not even bad poetry slinks off into the wastelands where bad poems go to die.

Instead, I’m obsessed over making little ornaments for Christmas presents. I got some paints, some brushes, made that salt clay. The kind you used to make at school or maybe even at home. Salt, flour, water. You work it into some sort of shape or get the cookie cutters out. It dries, you paint it! DIY!

Yep, that’s what I’ve been doing instead of writing. So, still being creative, just not writing. I got two submissions done this week, so that’s, um, good. I feel guilty. That I’m not writing. I survived the midterms, and took up painting clumsy little hand-cut clay ornaments.

Ah, survived the midterms. There it is. What a…mm. The blue wave did show up. It took a bit to notice that, but it did show up. Cutting through the babble exhausts me. So I watch old cooking show contests and jab Christmas hues on dried flour lumps. I like the sparkle of silver, the luster of antique gold. I wonder how to make the red look less flat. Maybe I can just paint everything blue? I love glitter and glue, but now there’s glitter from one end of the house to the other! Can you paint something orange or is that too Halloween? I don’t even have orange! What do I have for string?

I love painting. I love coloring, too. It’s very soothing. I have something finished at the end. Look, I finished this, it looks okay. I used to love painting anything for a stage production as well. Detail work on something meant to look like a wall. A floor that needs something to make it seem not a stage floor. A costume that needs hand-painted flowers on it…oh yes. I haven’t done any work like that for ages. I can write bad plays, then slap paint on flat backgrounds for them! I rock and roll this planet, ya’ll! Sarcasm aside, I do like seeing something blank turned into something. Yeah, it’s that simple.

Little ornaments, before I wander off into some other subject entirely. That’s the other thing. I find it very hard to concentrate on writing anything right now. I’ll open a file, then just close it back up, with a notion that. That. Yeah. See what I mean?

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But the owls call at night again. I open the door, it’s dark yet. Coyotes squabble nearby. The corn fields have been mostly cut around here, the deer run about, the pheasants scoot here and there. The two dogs want to hunt mice, though it’s cold out. No snow or rain forecast here. It’s just cold. Nothing profound here but the turning of the season toward winter’s thrall. Great writers have surely exhausted that seasonal change. Perhaps nothing is left to write about. Maybe that’s why my brain shut off, went into drift mode.

Maybe I should take up a career in tentacle porn fanfiction. Take various famous figures, have them encounter…mmm. What other color combos are used for holiday decorations?

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Further examples!
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Our fall foliage is either this rather eye-watering yellow or sickly dead leaf brown. See? No snow or rain for quite some time. That’s the Malheur Butte!