Friday, August 09, 2024

relics

Scouring the globe 
Ocean to desert
For trinkets, charms, amulets, fetishes, talismans, minkisi

Whatever bits of captured magics that have survived 

Pool them together 
in a forest glen 
next to a moonlit lake
Chained with copper wire
plates of hammered zinc
Voltaic piles
under the right Star Signs

ancillary
perfunctory 

futile 
probably 

still, it's something to try
I've tried doing nothing
and that didn't work 

All that's left
is everything else

pain goes somewhere

Surely it goes somewhere

playlist

I made a playlist for when you end it
Wean you off me like a drug
Our suns will set in separate valleys
And we'll pretend it's just begun 

You let me go, once, when I asked you
Now we're even

Carouse

I was not prepared for the loss of you. It's been 48 hours without your voice in my head. I'm happy you're on vacation and I'm also not happy without you. 

Fearful also, maybe. That a few days without me will feel like you're free of the shackles of my attention. 

Not that I don't think you love me. You do. It's the difficulty of the thing. The hyper-vigilance and the distance and needing your touch. 

I suppose we're both familiar with these things. It still feels different now. 

Before, I think, we didn't have clear boundaries. There was a lot of me hiding my feelings for you. It's a cruelty I've regretted. 

Writing Learnins Notes

"I thought I was looking for someone who was like you. Turns out I was just looking for you."

1757. Thursday. Airport security was easy. I'm at that point where I'm in between a 36 and a 34 waist so my pants are a little loose but good for traveling. In case I gotta do a jump kick. 

My flight is delayed a bit. There's a large fire at some part of the US and I assume that's why. Everything's connected. 

I smell food. It's dinner time around here and there are plastic containers of pastas, salads, french fries, and chicken strips. Not all together. Although that would be awesome. Wrap it all in a tortilla. 

The Nashville flight is boarding. It's completely full. I am not going to Nashville. But it's so popular. 

No. My writing conference is not in Nashville. 

I've filled my water bottle. That's important to me. If the plane crashes I'll at least be hydrated. 

I didn't bring a pen or a laptop to write with. I may look pretentious writing on my phone. But it's practical, dammit. My hands are clumsy and I really dislike typing on my compact laptop. I use an external keyboard at home. But it's longer than the laptop and it defeats the point. 

And I'm not sure if this matters but writing like this is mostly silent. TV shows always make the tic-tic-tic noise, but I can't recall the last time I heard someone around me texting. 

I'm starting to think TV is not like the real world. 

I ate my usual bowl of oatmeal after work. I also had some toast. I can go a full day without eating with no ill effects, but it's not my preference.

1612

1636. A woman weeps in the corner of the terminal. She is sitting on the ground, against a kiosk, and has draped her coat over the handle of an upright roller suitcase. A fabric shield against the world. I wonder why she weeps. 

The flight to St. Louis is missing three people. Where are they? I should take the case. They must be somewhere in this city. But no. I have a writing conference to go to. It might change my life. Or my life's already changed and this is just locking it in. 

The fight is boarding. I'm in the middle group. I am prepared. I also have a coat to tent my emotions. And a neck pillow. And a seat cushion. That's new for the trip. My butt gets sore now that it's more muscular. That's what I tell myself. Maybe I just don't know how to sit right. 

2024-03-01. 0722. Free breakfast at the hotel. Hungry writers descend like locusts. Which I call grasshoppers. Cuter, not as biblical. 

1039. The conference is fascinating. Many writers with no marketing understanding asking all the questions I didn't know I had. It's similar to what I say about doctors: they know medicine, and I know everything else. How to get the treatment, I mean, to the patient. We can write? Great. Do that. Here's how to help the people who want to make money off your writing do that, because they get more money by getting your book sold to more people. 

It's pretty similar to any other business-building. The similarities to the movie industry is striking. 

1226. I'm enjoying it. The guy leading the conference is very good at cutting through our writerly nonsense. We can all ask questions but much like a comic convention panel, most questions start with a rambling backstory about the person asking. He's quick to ask 'What's your question?" Professional and direct, with a subtle acerbic edge where you notice it but yes, you're wasting everyone's time and you should stop thinking about yourself and ask your question. 

I'm learning a lot. Or at least the shape of the challenge. It's not as hard as I expected. That is, it's much like any job interview process. Write a bunch, and make it good, and then condense it in a way that an agent (who sees thousands of these) will be able to identify the elements that resonate with them. Or at least sell it. 

I feel a great deal of relief, really. The writing is hard... But this? Selling the books? That's a technical skill, and learnable. 

The person at my table has been gone for a while. Hope they're okay. 

They're back! They're from Missoula. There's a writing thing there too, and also the Sibbits. 

Except I have to actually write a manuscript. 

I suppose I better get on that. 


Wow I am just falling apart.
Oh drat