This Old Song

This Old Song

Any time there is a new post by Paul Rybolt is cause for celebration. . .good stuff as always, Paul. . .

Lera Lynn. . .Oh my goodness--thank you Music Fog. . .

The End of Everything--Megan Abbott

The End of Everything--Megan Abbott

So happy for Megan that she's getting the recognition she so richly deserves. . .please, do her the justice and follow the link to her site. . .better yet, go buy The End of Everything. . .

Feature Blog--Nova Ren Suma

http://novaren.wordpress.com/

. . .I've been enjoying Nova's blog for quite some time now. . .Nova is also undertaking  NaNoWriMo as I am with my novel in progress, Permanent Declarations of a Temporary Love.

The difference is. . .Nova does have an excellent novel published--Imaginary Girls.  So, she's got that going for her. . .

Nova also went to college in Yellow Springs, Ohio so she's a "hometown favorite."  OK, so Cleveland's not exactly Yellow Springs.  But, she's quality.

Today, she has a guest blogger--Sara Zarr--who says this about the writing process:

"I’ve been doing this and observing others doing this, or things like this, long enough to know that every book, every painting, every dance, every song, every screenplay, every movie, every craft project lives most of its life as a failure."

And to this, I can only add amen.

This is my small way of saying Thanks  to Nova for a wonderful book and blog.  Thanks to Sara for a wonderful piece today.  You are both inspiring.

François Rabelais

It's amazing the things you run across while researching a novel. . .well, to be fair, I run across. . .such as:


François Rabelais

"Readers, friends, if you turn these pages
 Put your prejudice aside,
 For, really, there's nothing here that's outrageous,
 Nothing sick, or bad — or contagious.
 Not that I sit here glowing with pride
 For my book: all you'll find is laughter:
 That's all the glory my heart is after,
 Seeing how sorrow eats you, defeats you.
 I'd rather write about laughing than crying,
 For laughter makes men human, and courageous.

BE HAPPY!"

. . . François Rabelais

and from our good friends at Urban Dictionary :


"These two did oftentimes do the two-backed beast together, joyfully rubbing and frotting their bacon 'gainst one another, in so far, that at last she became great with child of a fair son, and went with him unto the eleventh month; for so long, yea longer, may a woman carry her great belly, especially when it is some masterpiece of nature, and a person predestinated to the performance, in his due time, of great exploits."

François Rabelais (c. 1494 - 1553)

"Gargantua and Pantagruel"

. . .and so begins the day. . .

Permanent Declarations of a Temporary Love

Amber brought me a cup of coffee to the table at the Arabica coffee shop.  She blew on the steam rising from her cup as she sat down across from me.  She stared at me.

“How are your classes going?” I asked.  I huddled my hands around my cup.

“Sweet Baby Jesus!” Amber stared at me.

“Look, I know you’re planning on continuing on to Seminary, but could you be more specific?”  Amber continued to stare at me.  She started tapping her well-manicured fingernails on the table.

“She gave you a toe-job, didn’t she?”  Now it was my turn to stare.  The water in the hot tub had been roiling.  There was absolutely no way she could have seen what was going on.

“Excuse me?”  With Amber, there was no such thing as buying time.

“A toe-job.  T-O-E dash J-O-B.  Toe-job.”  I looked around us to see if Amber’s voice had garnered us an audience.  Sister Lindy from Mount Carmel looked at me.  Through me.  I leaned over to her.

“I keep telling her, Sister, it’s pronounced Jobe, as in lobe, but she gets confused.”  Sister Lindy returned to her reading.  I looked over at Amber.  Now the middle nail on her right hand was tapping the rim of her cup.

“I’m gonna stick confused right up your ass until your prostate hollers uncle, you asshole.”  She continued the tapping, looked down at her cup and back up at me.  “Did you return the favor?”  If I said yes it would be a lie.  If I said no, it would mean the act in question had actually occurred.  Instead, searching for clever answers, I chose a poor one.

“If Sara had done that twenty-two years ago we wouldn’t be sharing this moment today.”

“That’s the best you can come up with?”  Okay.  She had me.  Memories of toes on flesh--even my favorite flesh--wilted under her stare.

“Did I do wrong?”  Was there no end to my stupidness?

“Define wrong.”  Her tapping on the cup rim intensified.  She was really the greatest daughter in the world.  Really.

“Well, wrong should really be my middle name--and I wouldn’t want to use my middle name as proof-text for my actions.  Is it possible I could just blame it on too much Southern Comfort?”  Stall, stall, stall.

“As opposed to lack of conscience, morals, scruples, and an assault on innocence?”  Okay.  So.  I know, I’d go on the offensive.

“I don’t think a toe-job would be construed as an act of innocence.”  There.  She sat there silently.  Clearly my plan was working.  I looked over as Sister Lindy’s chair slid back.  She got up, came over to our table, and put an index card in front of me.  She made a tsking sound and walked out the door.  Amber grabbed the card.

“Romans 12:2.  Do not conform any longer to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind.”

“So she thinks my mind needs renewing?”  It didn’t hurt to ask.

“You’ve deeply offended the penguin.”

“That’s the last time I play bingo over there.”  I took a sip of my coffee.  I was deeply offended myself.  Deeply.

“Well, well, well, Father, you are quite the man.”

“So some would say.”

“But not many.”  Cut to the quick.

“Harsh you are.”

“So was it good?  The toe-job?”  She looked at me.

“Define good.”

. . .from the novel in progress.  . .Permanent Declarations of a Temporary Love

Permanent Declarations of a Temporary Love

Astrid poured me a cup of coffee.  It was noon.  I floundered my way through the tunnel to see if anybody might be alive.  I knocked on the door, since I was not provided with equal opportunity numbers to get back into the women’s dorm, and was met by a Brazilian glare.  She didn’t say a word to me, just nodded for me to follow her up the stairs.  This wasn’t difficult because of Astrid’s penchant for wearing a thong and precious little else.  The movement was hurting my eyes as I was following her up the stairs.  We were half way up and she stopped and I collided into her left cheek.  She turned around and snorted.

“What you think there’s going to be a quiz on them?”  My attempt at a witty repartee was hampered by the result of her turning around and now my nose and mouth being just north of all things precious, good, moist, and welcome to all males save the members of Frankie Goes to Hollywood and the Will and Grace fan club.  She reached down and lifted up on my chin. 

“I’m sorry?” was all I could manage.

“Yes, you are.”  Astrid continued her ascent up the stairs and I contemplated life with my new diverse friends.  “Coffee?” I heard her faintly.  Only if it’s fair-exchange I heard the good, moral part of me say.  It was a faint voice to be sure.

“Please.”  I made it up to the top of the steps, wishing my daughter had sprung for an elevator and a need for less companionship.  Astrid settled two large porcelain cups on the table and poured.  Apparently we were to have a conversation.  I looked around for a to-go cup and saw nary a one so I settled into my seat and Astrid sat across from me.  She adjusted her thong from the looks of arm and hand movement and cleared her throat.

I did likewise.  Cleared my throat that is.  I popped my eyes open and shut to keep the memories of her thong tucked away.

We both took sips of coffee.  Didn’t she have laundry to do?

“I used to be a hippie chick,” Astrid said.  She stirred sugar into her coffee and continued.  “I lived on a commune.  A nature commune.  A nudist commune.”  Why was I continually being tested and teased.  I closed my eyes.  Of course, that’s when the projector went off in my head.  There was Astrid in a tie-died shirt.  There was Astrid sans shirt.  There was Astrid serving tea to her friends buck naked with flowers in her hair.  I shook my head and looked up at her.

“And then what happened?”  The projector was stuck.  I tapped the side of my head.

“It was all crap, man.”  This chick was like the damn princess with the pea.  She could take a bath in yogurt and get a piece of glass stuck up her ass.  Why did I always think so visually?

“Well, we all have our ideals and then we tend to lose some of that when we mature a bit.”

“I know you’re not calling me immature.”  No, good god no.  I liked life far too much to be that foolish.

“That wouldn’t be prudent of me.”  Or of anyone who valued their penis.

“A wiser statement was never spoken.”  I didn’t need circle conversations.  Not with that Southern Comfort still banging up against important brain cells, laughing at my every attempt to make sense of speech and darkness from glare.

A bird came to the feeder at the window and started tapping away at the food.  Astrid got up and threw some milk into a blender, added a banana, a raw egg, and blasted it all to smithereens.  She got a glass out of the cupboard and poured the goop into a tall glass.

“Drink,” she said, putting the glass directly in front of me.  She sat back down and put her feet up on the table and crossed them at the ankles.  She started rubbing her toes together, looking at me.  “What?”

“Nothing.”  I gulped down the mess without breathing.  Rin’s toes.  Dammit!

“ ’nother?”

“No thanks.”  I wiped my mouth with the back of my sleeve.  I suddenly wondered where the rest of the crew might be.  “Where is everybody?”

“Gone.”

“Gone?”

“Gone.”  Wordy sort.

“And they might be where?”

“Practice.”

“Practice?”

“You’re wearing me out.”  Astrid got up, adjusted her thong and left the kitchen.

. . .from the novel in progress. . .Permanent Declarations of a Temporary Love