- I often “forget” to get something from the store after I leave it. I usually do this on purpose, to save money.
- Yeah, I’ve eaten the coffee grounds that occasionally fall from the percolator into my coffee cup. And there are times I’ll re-use the cup without rinsing it. Hell yeah.
- Selective hearing continues to be a major survival technique.
- I am 100% more interested in anyone who has a dog with them at that moment. It might be personal.
- I only sometimes like Schitt’s Creek, unless I love it.
- Doom scrolling until 3:00AM? I’m there.
- Love eating at restaurants, hate ordering at them. Tip your servers, everyone.
- The person who leaves the empty toilet paper roll in the bathroom isn’t just me, it’s always me.
- I think is better to be sociable rather than agreeable and asleep rather than sociable.
- I wish I had more to confess. But not that much more. Only a bit. That would be more than enough.
The following: A list of things people have recommended to me, ordered according to our relationship to each other, arranged by order of importance and/or frequency of occurrence of said recommendation.
- Downton Abbey
- Fifty Shades of Grey (book and movies)
- Afternoon naps
- Game of Thrones
- Jimmy Fallon
- The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up
- The one on the left.
- All lady fight club
- To prove it by choosing which limb.
- Mint tea
- Chewing gum
- Downton Abbey
- March Madness
- That cute place down the street.
- To give up the coordinates for the rest of him we swear we only want closure.
- To value “experience.”
- To treat co-workers “like family.”
- To give 110%
- Offal on demand.
- Game of Thrones
- THE BOX
- To call more.
- A career change.
- A nose job.
- The key so we can finally know what he hid in that room we found behind the fake bookshelf in his workshop.
- To please god stop reminding us.
- Downton Abbey
I finally came home from some nerve-wracking grocery shopping and had carefully removed my mask and gloves and was about to strip away my “compromised” clothing and hop in the shower when Stephen, standing behind the glass door separating the foyer from the living room, informed me that he had just watched the black squirrel (the one that lives in our yard and periodically tries to kill me) get into a fight with a grey squirrel of unknown origin.
“Who won?” I asked, instantly curious. “Our squirrel or the other squirrel?”
“Our squirrel,” said Stephen.
“Good,” I replied.
Because even though I dislike our squirrel (and also, it’s periodically, I’m more than sure, tried to kill me), it’s still, at the end of the day, our squirrel. And doesn’t it therefore seem that some solidarity, some sense of loyalty is order?
It’s not personal at all. Trust me.
To see a pelican in real life. Have I seen a pelican in real life? I’m not too sure. Doesn’t have to be where pelicans live; a zoo or, better yet, an aviary will do. Perhaps one attached to an eccentric billionaire’s house or a haunted estate. Either works. I’m not picky.
Homemade bread. Not to make it, but having some would be nice.
Clean my keyboard, iPhone and stove or at lesat think about doing these things as if I’ll actually do them.
Plant a seed and watch it grow.
Actually, I have seen a pelican in real life. But I thought it was a heron and didn’t really look at it till too late.
Use the word, “fantastical” as often as seems warranted.
Finish reading one book for every two that I start.
Better late-night snacks. Something tangy and sweet.
I have just been informed that the bird I thought was a heron but was actually a pelican was not actually a pelican but was, actually, a heron. Therefore, I will continue accept any and all invitations to billionaire aviaries and/or haunted estates, fantastical as that may seem.
Just started two more books. And all my seedlings died.
Also: is salsa a good 2:00AM snack? It expired a week ago. Going to eat it warm with a spoon.
My stove is so dirty tho…
Still waiting on that bread…
Realize that herons are just as good as pelicans and leave it at that.
First publication of 2020: “Chicken & Egg” in The /tƐmz/ Review!
It’s a story about consequences, intended or no, and life’s little inevitabilities.
Here’s a brief excerpt:
“It was a disastrous time to be alive.
The city pulsed and swelled, reeked and buckled as people realized – slowly at first, but then with increasing desperation and that telltale resignation that festers during slow-burning disaster – that the summer, like the summer before and the one before that, had become something you had to get out from under, whatever the cost.
Some made it. Others did not.”
To read the rest and to dive into some other great works of fiction, poetry and reviews, please visit The /tƐmz/ Review, Issue 10 here.
- It’s right there in the title.
- I wouldn’t if I weren’t you.
- Rough assemblages still count.
- Out, but not down. (Not yet). (Not yet?).
- Yes, you did.
- For fashion, of course.
- Tomorrow’s tomorrow, or yesterday’s tomorrow?
- I heard it too.
- Prestigious hardly pays.
- So is that the score?
- Status v. Stature
- How about no?
- That last bit, though.
- Today’s no good.
- Happily Not Yours.
- Punctuation! Matters?
- Emphasis mine.
- Really, anywhere that puts me closest to the coffee maker.
- Untitled Works are just as good.
Last year, I started writing fiction – specifically, short stories that I’ve kept, in various forms and fragments, on my computer but until recently never had the courage to finish, let alone send out for publication.
For this and other reasons, 2019 has been a year of hard knocks. My skin stings from the red hot burn of the rejection letters heaped up in my archives folder. But I’ve learned a lot with a lot more to go. And that’s…strangely reassuring.
I love sci-fi, fantasy and speculative fiction and tend towards that in my writing.
Here are my awards eligible short stories for 2019:
Good Books All – in Astral Waters Review, Issue 2. Available online.
Monstrous Attractions – in Augur Magazine, 2.3. Available online (samples of longer pieces available for free on the website).
I also published a non-fantasy/non-speculative fiction piece earlier in the year:
Flesh, Not Blood – in RicePaper Magazine. Read online.
Finally, in the coming days I will be adding a new section on the blog to keep a running tab on my publications and where to find them. Hopefully, I will be able to add to the list as time goes by.
Here’s to all good things (rejections and all) for 2020!
I’m not sure whether I’d say that wax figures are replicas or facsimiles or tributes, just that they look like someone you may know, or at the very least represent someone (alive or dead, real or fictional, to use those terms very loosely) known. Celine Dion or Flash Gordon.¹ Virginia Woolf, Stevie Nicks, David Hasselhoff or Alf.
Those types of people from which those type of figures are made.
Not living, but life-like…actually, larger-than-life. Posed, if not poised. Fake flesh, real clothes. Shoes to match. Jewellery, sometimes. And hair, human or otherwise.
Effigies, all. Graven images? Maybe.
Some faces you see more than others. Some figures just dominate.
Olivia Coleman plays the Queen Elizabeth II on the series “The Crown,” and Helen Mirren played her (Queen Elizabeth II, not Coleman) in the movie, “The Queen.”
I went to a wax museum, my first, which was buried in a mountainside in Vietnam. Ba Na Hills. Inside were life and near-life wax figures of (in no particular order): Kobe Bryant, John Rambo, a very scary Micheal Jackson, a weirdly proportioned Mr. Bean and, finally, a royal tableau featuring Prince William, Kate Middleton and, standing off-side for some reason, the Queen, Elizabeth II.
Only, that queen didn’t quite look like the Queen. Yet, she did. Because, well, it seemed very much like Helen Mirren’s head – not hers but the one she wore for the movie “The Queen” – had been placed on what looked like the body of the Queen, wearing a Queen-looking (matronly?) dress and the kind Queen-looking jewellery befitting a royal (big knots of it like babies’ fists).
Or am I wrong? Perhaps I’m only seeing something I only think I’m seeing, but that’s not actually there. Like how you confuse someone for their younger, yet very similar, more familiar (you’d swear by it) brother. Or friend. Or cousin. Or whatever.
Not a double or a doppelgänger but someone like that.
In recent years, it appears that they’ve changed the wax figure Queen. Her face, at least, looks more Queen-like and less Mirren-esque.
Strange things happen when you go traipsing through the hollowed-out landscapes of the Uncanny Valley.
But I know what I saw, even I didn’t see it.
1. For the longest time, I confused “Flash Gordon” with its soft-porn, sexploitation counterpart, “Flesh Gordon.” I thought the latter was the former, which defined the character and films for me for years. Similarly, I had always assumed I had seen “Top Gun” when in fact what I had watched and assumed was “Top Gun” was the movie “Hot Shoots.” Finally, Bill Paxton and Dennis Quaid are not the same person, despite their apparent interchangeability, which honestly seems to me to be some kind of low-end superpower.
Does anybody get as angry about wrecking the perfect egg as I do?
I’m not actually looking for an answer. It’s just…I get so angry.
Eggs are just about the perfect food vessel. Fragile, sure, but also not really: try to squeeze an egg from end to end and you’ll find it pretty hard to break. You can smash an egg on the table or the ground or your forehead with ease, I suppose, but what then have you proven? You just broke something that wasn’t meant to be smashed. Gold stars all around, big fella.
There was a time when eggs were forbidden in my family because of the tendency among the adults (now referred to by us as “the Old People”) to obscure (then ignore) cause and effect, a kind of shirking of responsibility in order to get through the little cruelties (and ultimate tragedies) of an uncertain life. Or so it seems to me.
Fear can make people do scary things.
Sunny-side up eggs are a particular favourite of mine – that delicious, velvety yoke, warmed but not overcooked, sprinkled lightly, delicately, with a little bit of salt and a dash of pepper. A tiny sun, a taste of heaven. Perfect.
But there are times when I mess up and the yolk breaks, spreads, then overcooks into a gelatinous clump of yellow-on-white. Not exactly inedible, but certainly far from appetizing.
And then what? Then fucking what?? No such thing as the perfect egg, not this time.
I’m not eating that!
Ugh. The fruitlessness of it all. The absolute waste! Is a little perfection – the joy of it, the fulfillment therein – too much to expect? What is this world even? I can’t.
Yeah. Yeah, sure. Sure, there are always more eggs (they come by the dozen, don’t they?), but who knows? Don’t you realize…? I just –
Also, those eggs are not that egg. That egg is ruined. Forever and endlessly.
And now my toast is lonely.
My aunt’s boyfriend was neither smart nor kind, but he was tall and with a good amount of hair, all things considered. That was more than enough. That was all that it took for him not only to become a part of our lives, but placed at its very centre by the adults in the family. To this day it disturbs me how small we were; how easily we shuffled or were pushed to the periphery.
Eventually, they married. Then divorced. I don’t know where he is now, but it doesn’t matter.
This story is about what happened before all that. This is about that one time with the brick.
He stacked the brick on a set of rough wood planks, and left the setup in the parking lot behind my parent’s store. For about a week, you could find him back there, s-l-o-w-l-y bringing his arm up past his shoulder then s-l-o-w-l-y easing it back down again to touch the brick with the base of his open palm, feet planted wide, knees bent, cheeks puffed out and sucked in by big, exaggerated breaths.
Just like that for days and days. Preparing. Getting ready. “Training.” All this (need I say it? He had absolutely no martial arts training whatsoever), because he was bored and because people had stopped paying attention to him and because Jackie Chan was huge that year.
Rumble in the Bronx? A classic even still.
But Jackie Chan wasn’t all that tall and his hair was only OK. And besides, boyfriend knew that he could do it – break that brick straight in half – because he not only did he believe in himself, he’d never stopped believing in himself, no matter what. He was, in other words, a winner. Number 1!
And wouldn’t you know? Could you guess?
YES. Of course the stupid motherfucker broke his hand, and badly. The brick remained totally unscathed because OF COURSE IT WAS. The second best part? Boyfriend kept his busted-up hand wrapped in dirty bandages for weeks until he finally went to a doctor, who admonished him for waiting so long to get his “work accident” attended to.
The day after he broke his hand, the brick was gone. Gone like it had never been; as if everything surrounding it had never happened. Even the wood planks had been disappeared. No one needed to tell us that under no circumstances were we ever, ever to talk about the brick again or about martial arts or about Jackie Chan (who, in any case, used a stuntman sometimes, the wimp, or didn’t we know that?). No need to embarrass ourselves, talking about something that didn’t happen, right? Also, these bandages are from WORK ACCIDENT.
Sure, asshole. But why couldn’t you just keep them clean?
Time makes fools of us all, no matter which direction it comes at you from. Telling you all this now, about the brick, after so many years, makes having lived through it doubly worth it, even if I’d give most anything not to speak of him, as if he’d never been. As if he’d never happened.
Like I said, fools of us all.
I saw a zebra once while driving. That is to say, I’ve seen a zebra once, while being driven.
I was not driving. I was in the car while it was driven and I, therefore, being driven.
To the Tyrone Mill, just outside (or inside, depending on where you’re coming from) Bowmanville, Ontario. That’s where I saw the zebra.
Pronounced: zee-bruh or zeh-bruh (therefore rhymes with Deborah, like in the song by T.Rex [as featured in the movie, Baby Driver]).
You know the song?
Oh Debora, always look like a zebra
Your sunken face is like a galleon
Clawed with mysteries of the Spanish Main, oh Debora.
The zebra was gazing in a paddock close to the mill. It was a quick glance, but undeniable. There it was, a real, live zebra somewhere in and/or around Bowmanville, Ontario.
I would swear to it, and I would pass every test, every lie detector, withstand any interrogator (military or otherwise) who pressed me on it. And I would be right. And I would be wrong.
Because I was right; I am wrong. Mostly so. Either way.
According to the clerk at the Mill – who is friends, it turns out, with the daughter of the people who own the properly with the field in which I saw the zebra – I did and did not see a zebra. The zebra. Because the zebra is a horse, the horse (the mostly white horse), cloaked in a zebra-striped horse blanket.
The zebra…it was a horse, of course (dressed as a zebra).
Now, surely. You can understand my mistake, which is not so much a mistake, I think, so much as a calculated misunderstanding (done by me on someone else’s behalf…who dresses up a horse as a zebra, and a mostly white horse at that, without expecting people to see a zebra where there is no zebra but a horse dressed like a zebra?).
A horse, of course, of course, and not a zebra but the guise of one.