Yesterday was an odd work-at-home Friday. Our power went in and out a few times during the day, and that threw everything off–laundry, work, plans for the day. But it did gradually and eventually all get finished in the end so Paul and I could spend the evening riveted by Under the Bridge. We only have two episodes left and it’s soooo good, and so delightfully queer-which was a delightful and unexpected surprise. Lily Gladstone continues to own the screen, and I can’t wait to see the final two tonight when Paul gets home from tabling at Pride for Saints and Sinners.
I slept really well last night, which was marvelous. I woke a bit later than I originally had intended, but that’s okay. I want to get some more cleaning done around the house this morning before I take books to the library sale, pick up the mail, and make groceries; then I intend to get some more writing done today. I did some more thinking about it last night before Paul got home, and I think I almost have the voice right. I also did some more research while he was at the gym–nothing like reexamining pop culture and the news during a distant time period (note to self: TV Guide archives must be checked as well), because it brings back memories, which also helps put me in the right mental place to write and create the story. I also kind of know how the story is going to go, and I also came up with another idea for the beginning, which I also really like. (I just had one of those imposter syndrome moments, where my brain suddenly panics and thinks, that isn’t going to work. Sometimes I really hate my brain…
During one of the power outages yesterday I decided to use the time productively and walked to the gym to do rehab exercises. It made sense when I thought about it–I mean, without power or Internet I can’t work, so utilize the time, right?–but after getting damp with sweat walking over there on a “feels like 105” afternoon, sweating more during the rehab exercise, and getting soaked with sweat walking home to a house without power that was getting hotter wasn’t perhaps the wisest choice? The power was still out for about an half hour or so at that time, so I took a very quick shower while the apartment began cooling down again and felt ever so much better. I also don’t feel exhausted or tired this morning, so maybe physically I am beginning to get back my stamina and getting back to normal, which is terrific. I was starting to worry that I was never going to do so, and I am nothing if not incredibly impatient.
I also watched Ode to Billy Joe yesterday (the film is on Youtube for those inclined to watch it again) because I’d been looking into Robby Benson for a Pride post, as he helped me understand that I liked men instead of women–so, so beautiful–and I realized I’d never watched this movie….and the movie, it turns out, is what fleshed the song out to give us a reason why Billy Joe jumped off the bridge; he’d been with a man, and the shame drove him to it because it was such an ugly thing to be that suicide made the most sense as an option. I’d heard the theory that he killed himself for being gay before, but didn’t realize it came from the movie…and the novelization of the script was written by Herman Raucher, who’d also written Summer of ’42, a coming of age novel and movie that were also kind of formative for me. Looking into it, it was released in the summer of 1976. We moved to Kansas that summer and the movie didn’t play locally, and I’d never watched any of its television airings. Anyway, the movie was interesting but there were lots of parts to it that didn’t play well for me today–I am always prickly about the way films have rural Southern people talk–but keep an eye out for my Robby Benson post if you’re interested in him.
I do feel good this morning, which is nice. I’ll go get cleaned up in a bit, but am going to work on either entries or the prologue this morning. I also plan on doing some rereading of my own work today–I am definitely moving Never Kiss a Stranger to the top of the to-write pile, because I am not entirely sure about the y/a I want to turn from novella into novel; I’m not entirely sold on the plot, to be honest. I also want to work on the kitchen this morning, too; I did buy the wrong vacuum cleaner (mine is a rug cleaner; so I can put water and shampoo in it to clean the carpets too, but it does work as a very powerful vacuum, so I’ll go ahead and use it–and maybe next weekend, I’ll clean the Oriental rugs with it.
Yesterday the right, through The Federalist, decided to come for Dolly Parton and basically call her a false prophet and a “danger” to Christianity. The recovering alcoholic who wrote the hit piece, Ericka Andersen, is about what you’d expect: a self-righteous born-again Christian who thinks she knows the faith better than anyone who ever lived or ever will live, which of course is apostasy, but she’s a soulless troll who got the attention she wanted. Andersen’s social media is now completely shut down as she is in the find-out phase of coming for Dolly. Dolly has not only given the world decades of amazing music and entertainment, she is also one of the most generous people alive, using her money and her fame to do good works in the world and is always kind and understanding and sympathetic; the woman literally loves everyone even her harshest critics. If ever there was an example of what it is like to truly follow the Christian path, it’s Dolly Parton–but you know, giving kids free books, donating millions of dollars to charity every year, and her incredible generosity to her employees at Dollywood? Sorry she won’t condemn people you don’t like, cosplay Christian piece of shit. And for the record, Megan McCain is married to the head of the Federalist Society–which is all anyone needs to know about what utter and complete garbage they are.
Seriously, they’ve come for Taylor Swift and now Dolly. Next thing you know they’ll come for Cher–which is something I would love to see them try.
And on THAT note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely Saturday, and I’ll be back later, okay?
Monday morning, and back up before dawn to get ready to head into the office. Huzzah! I slept really well last night, and had no trouble getting up this morning, which I was a bit concerned about given how much sleep I was getting over the weekend. But I feel awake and conscious and good this morning, so that’s very promising.
LSU won both games yesterday (13-6 over Wofford; 8-4 over North Carolina) which puts them in the regional final, winner take all. I flipped between the games and whatever we were watching yesterday (we finished Anthracite, and caught up on Interview with the Vampire), which was nerve-wracking as always whenever LSU plays (I don’t stress or get anxiety over the games anymore–thank you, new meds–so I can enjoy it more, but yesterday I couldn’t bear the tension). I”m not entirely sure I am going to watch tonight’s game, either; I guess it depends on when it is. I also spent some time yesterday reading (The Rival Queens) and writing. I managed to get two or three blog entries posted yesterday, too, and I like that I am doing this “Great Gay Moments in Greg’s Life” type thing. I did Starsky and Hutch and an overall, general “meaning of Pride” post, and I feel pretty good about both of those this morning. I also worked on the prologue to The Summer of Lost Boys, which I will try to get more work done on that today.
The weekend was good, to be honest; I felt good all weekend (if lazy–the thunderstorms had something to do with that, and yes, we had them yesterday too), and while I didn’t get everything done that I would have liked to, I’m pretty okay with it. Today is forecast to be cloudy but without rain, which hopefully will make it cooler–or at least not feel as hot. I spent most of yesterday under my blanket in a chair, which was marvelous. When Sparky wasn’t being Demon Kitty he would sleep in my lap, which was very sweet. It won’t take me long to catch up on my emails, either–I’m doing a pretty good job of staying on top of those, too–and I’m pretty much caught up on my day job duties, too. I’m behind already on the writing schedule I set for myself this year–but the beauty of that is that it’s my deadlines, and no one else’s, so missing them isn’t affecting anyone other than myself.
I also scribbled in my journal a lot this weekend, which is very cool to be doing again. Overall, I am feeling good again these days, which is great. I’m starting to feel connected to my writing again, and remembering that I don’t have to kill myself to get some done is not a bad thing, either.
This morning’s coffee is quite tasty, too, I might add.
All right, it’s time for me to get cleaned up and head into the office. Have a lovely Monday, Constant Reader, and I’ll most likely be back later. If not, GEAUX TIGERS!
As I have been reviewing things that helped confirm to myself as a child that I was a big old homo (for my book The Summer of Lost Boys), I found myself remembering a lot of things, memories from the darkest dusty and cobwebbed chasms of my memory banks.
But as a kid, realizing that I was drawn to men more than women was difficult and weird, and not in the least because I didn’t understand what women saw in men; their sex symbols, to me, left a lot to be desired. I grew up on the cusp of some societal and cultural changes, and not the least of which was the fact that in the 1970s, men finally began being sexualized and held to a kind of male beauty standard that gradually changed that standard–which for a burgeoning young gay boy, was perfect timing. I never understood, for example, what girls saw in teen idols–sure, Bobby Sherman and Davy Jones and David Cassidy were cute…but I didn’t think of them as sexy or sexualized; the Tiger Beat crowd was very into guys who were not sexually threatening–these weren’t guys they wanted to fuck but rather ones they wanted to hold hands with and go on dates to malt shops and movies with, and chastely kiss good night. I never really got the sense that women ever wanted to fuck their sex symbols, either–there was an odd chasteness to women (the old madonna/whore paradigm) in their fandoms. You never heard a woman saying she wanted to fuck Paul Newman or Robert Redford or Burt Reynolds; there was more to it than just sexual energy.
But “Women’s Lib” began taking flight in the 1970s, as did queer rights, and a gradual shift in the paradigm of what is sexy in a man and what isn’t began changing. It was the decade Playgirl launched (more on that later), Jim Palmer began doing underwear ads, and the poster of Mark Spitz and his gold medals wearing a speedo sold like cheap beer on a payday.
And it also began the rise of the himbo shows; the male equivalent of all those jiggle shows with big breasted girls without a bra jumping up and down; those shows were almost guaranteed ratings in the Top Ten. Starksy and Hutch was the first real himbo show that I can remember; David Soul and Paul Michael Glaser were very good looking with great bodies that were very masculine as well–and the show showed them shirtless as much as possible, or in towels, or–you get the idea. They drove a fast car with an odd but distinctive paint job (cars were also stars that decade) and the show also not only was a hit but a part of the zeitgeist, too. I watched every week–as did my sister and almost every girl I knew–but it being a macho cop show, it was okay for men to watch, too.
And if there was an Internet and fan fic, a lot of people would have been writing erotic romances about the two of them.
Their closeness as characters as well as their chemistry, and their willingness to appear half-naked at the drop of a hat certainly made the show popular with gay men–and the stars also didn’t mind playing into the gay interest in the show, as you can see by the picture of them running hand in hand on the beach.
They also did a lot of those kinds of promo photo shoots.
Glaser’s wife later contracted AIDS from a blood tranfusion, and the two of them spent a lot of their time and energy working for AIDS treatment, education, and a cure.
That M People song was released in the mid-1990’s, and has become kind of a queer anthem in the time since. It was used in the original American adaptation of Queer as Folk, and it gets played a lot during Pride Month. I loved the M People; I have one of their CD’s and they were prominent on my dance soundtrack of 1994-1996 (“Sight for Sore Eyes” is still a great song I have on Spotify playlists today), which is also a time I am writing about (sidebar: maybe “Never Kiss a Stranger” is a novel not a novella), so it stays fresh in my head.
Pride is a direct response to shame–because so many of us were forced to live in shame about who we are and just existing for so fucking long, we now choose to come out and be proud rather than ashamed of who and what we are, despite the bigots who continue to try to legalize oppression of us while all we really want is to be left alone to live our lives in peace. I will never be made to feel ashamed of myself for who I am any more. And no, I’m not sorry that my existence bothers some people because you know what? Their existence bothers me–-but the primary difference is I am not trying to force them to stop existing or even to like queer people.
Pride is of course one of the seven deadly sins for Christians—Proverbs 16-18: Pride goeth before destruction, And a haughty spirit before a fall. Better it is to be of a lowly spirit with the poor, than to divide the spoil with the proud.
So, the use of the way “pride” for our month of celebration inevitably brings out the faux-christians, screaming about sin and…but as I said, our pride is the opposite of shame, and we are reclaiming ourselves and refusing to be shamed for who we are anymore. And yes, the shaming always comes from christians cishets (I prefer the French pronunciation shah-SHAY) —you know, the ones who are supposed to love without question? And ultimately, my life and my sins are between me and God—and none of your fucking business.
But this post is for those of you who stubbornly refuse to get it: my sexuality doesn’t impact you AT ALL.
Why do they need a whole month? Veterans only get a day is one of my absolute favorites. First, the use of “they”, while politer and not quite as insulting, is really no different from the ever-popular bigoted “you people”; so I guess props are in order for being slightly more polite (although I suppose if they knew it was politer they’d use you people, or to be grammatically correct, those people)? As for veterans only getting a day while we get a month, well, I don’t seem to recall legislation being passed on any level of government legalizing discrimination against veterans. (Although the way our government treats its veterans is disgraceful–and as always, the war hawks who love to send young men and women to risk their lives, mental health, and limbs for a foreign policy predicated on ensuring corporations make as much money as humanly possible will always vote to cut or eliminate veterans’ benefits while waving Support the troops! banners and flags–because they are nothing if not craven, vile, and completely soulless.) The combined efforts of government and medical science were applied for years to criminalize and stamp out the existence of queer people. Homosexuality was still considered a mental illness (!!!!) until I was twelve years old. How precisely does one grow up well-balanced mentally and emotionally when you are repeatedly told that what you are is actually insane? (And coming from a family where mental health issues are genetic…and knowing that I had my own mental health issues already wasn’t helpful; I thought for a long time the two were connected.)
And for the record, May is Military Appreciation Month, and the fact they don’t know this makes a mockery of their religion, their intelligences, and their feigned concern for the military.
If the cishets had to put up with, for one day–a mere twenty-four hours–what queer people do every day, they’d become homicidal.
And telling people they cannot legally discriminate against a fellow American citizen is not forcing them to accept and/or like queer people; it’s merely telling them they must treat queer people with the same respect they’d treat anyone (oh, the horror). The entire point of this country, from its beginning (although it has often failed to live up to that ideal) is that every citizen is equal in the eyes of the law–regardless of anything that might make them slightly different, especially when the difference is so slight as to not be noticeable. I don’t know why this is so hard for people, I really don’t. (And yes the convictions of Greg Stillson last week affirmed this guiding principle for the nation and his worshippers choosing to not accept that is more example of their utter contempt for this country, period. Some ‘patriots’.)
And if you don’t want to be compared to Nazis, then stop coming for marginalized groups and scapegoating them. Your dishonesty is not only un-Christian, but inhuman. It is not for other humans to judge sin; that is, per your own Holy Book and what you theoretically believe, reserved for a God who is very jealous about what is His and what is not. I believe in Christianity as a game-plan or road map to being a good person and doing good things in my life; I do not believe in talking snakes or trumpets so loud they can make walls collapse or that having heatstroke on the road to Damascus was actually divine intervention. I do not believe Paul had visions of Jesus, so anything written by him in the New Testament is suspect and not gospel.
I am also willing to account for that, if need be, if there ever actually is a Judgment Day. But what I believe is between me and God. To paraphrase Cher, I account to three people: myself, Paul, and God.
What I do know is that if there is a God and such a thing as a heaven, going to church three times a week while acting like a hateful piece of trash the rest of the week ain’t getting your ass into your heaven. You’re literally doing the bare fucking minimum, and those three hours or so you’re spending in church are just a waste of your time because you aren’t learning anything or striving to be better.
And any heaven that welcomes people like Phyllis Schlafly, Anita Bryant, Maggie Gallagher et al is not my idea of heaven; spending eternity with those people would be Hell.
This year, Pride seems all the more important–certainly more than it has in years. I haven’t been to Pride in a very long time–I’ve been to a lot of Prides over the years–and probably won’t attend this year either; it’s too hot for one, and the older I get the less I like being hot, sweating, and tired in crowds.
I hate to break it to the homophobic trash, but nothing you say is original or something we haven’t heard a gazillion times before. I’ve said it before and will say it again: fuck all the way off. Miss me with your concerns about “the children” when you aren’t concerned, for example, about the need to teach kindergartners what to do if there’s an active shooter in their school. Miss me with your concerns about “the children” when the states passing the worst anti-queer laws are the same ones where child beauty pageants are the most popular. Where is the outrage about sexualizing children in that instance, Moms for Liberty? Yes, painting a six-year-old’s face like she’s a streetwalker and dressing her provocatively for a chance at a sash and a trophy is absolutely one-hundred-percent okay with you? These are also the same states that allow underage marriage and have almost complete abortion bans.
Moms for Liberty is just another incarnation of the hate group One Million Moms (who never ever had more than fifty thousand members); which is why I always say queers can never completely trust a lot of straight white women. (Let’s never forget that straight white women gave us President Donald Trump. Ever. This should be their everlasting shame.)
It’s also going to be interesting to see what companies and corporations will be making a play for queer dollars during Pride Month, while donating money to anti-queer politicians and stay silent when all these horrendous laws are being passed. Target? Anheuser Busch? Miss me with the rainbows and pride statements this year. You have a chance to stand up when it mattered and instead you turned into pathetic sniveling cowards waving a white flag–proving that your so-called “commitment” to equality and my community was nothing more than a disgusting, shameless attempt to attract queer dollars and the money of our allies. Shame on you both. I don’t drink beer, but when I did I drank a lot of Bud Light in gay bars because of their support of the queer community. But when they had an opportunity to take a principled stand for equality and against bigotry, they crumbled like a finely aged feta. Same with Target, which was even sadder because they had been so supportive. But I will never step inside another Target and I will never order from their website. My Target credit card will get paid off as quickly as possible so they make as little money from me in the future as possible, and I have already cut it up because I will never support that shitty, backstabbing, cowardly piece of shit company again.
I’ve always kind of had an issue with the corporatization of Pride over the years. Yes, I get it; they are usually non-profit organizations who need to raise money to pay expenses and put the show on. You need donors for that–as every nonprofit does–and so the swing to wooing businesses and multi-billion dollar corporations began…as well as the complaints about the merchandizing of Pride. But Pride was, and always has been, an event to celebrate every color in our rainbow and to show the world that we’re here and we aren’t going anywhere; we are not ashamed nor will we be shamed. We aren’t going back into the closet for anyone. Period.
It’s always amused me to listen to people complain about Pride, with the leathermen and the kink fetishists and the drag queens. “I don’t want my kids to see that!” Then keep your fucking kids at home. Any Pride that turns it back on any part of the community is notPride. I’m tired of being penalized because other people have had children—your children are NOT my responsibility.
I already pay taxes to educate them.
I also hate the shaming of kink; the attempt to remove drag queens and the leathermen and so forth from Pride celebrations because that makes the straights uncomfortable frankly disgusts me. Just because some queers have issues with kink—well, that’s their problem, and if anything, we all should be grateful to them. The leathermen and drag queens were out and proud when a lot of their current critics cowered in their closets, while the kinksters and queens were out fighting for the rights of the cowards, creating a community and a world in which they were free to come out…only to want to drive the people responsible for that freedom and community out of Pride. “I want to bring my kids to Pride but I don’t want them to see that.”
What the fuck, people? Don’t you understand that the only reason you can be queer in public with your kids is becauseof the very people you don’t want your children to see? It’s bad enough the straight use “the children” to try to take away our rights; it’s even worse when people within our community try the same tactics. I don’t know, maybe reexamine your own internalized homophobia rather than trying to reshape the community?
The original Prides were protests, and the original parades were protest marches. Seeing how Pride has, over the years, sold its soul and meaning to corporate sponsors saddens me. Those sponsors are mostly interested in queer dollars only (see: Target and Budweiser) and not in actually supporting the community and our rights (see: Target and Budweiser); you can tell by how quickly they back down when the Christofascists have a problem with their support of our community (see: Target and Budweiser).
That shallow support is unwelcomed and unwanted and very transparent.
Learn your history, queers. It wasn’t that long ago—during my own lifetime—that our sexuality stopped being considered mental illness. We’ve come pretty far in those fifty years, but we have a long way to go and the fight is not over. So, come out to Pride, and celebrate our hard-won freedoms. Be visible; because that visibility might help someone else come out and stop feeling shame. Create and live and love and vote and above all else, maintain queer joy in your life.
Because all of those things? Well, they’re also victories.
Today is two things–the start of hurricane season and the start of Pride Month. I have a Pride post that I definitely want to finish and post at some point, and I’ve not really decided what kind of entries I want to do–social media and here–to mark the month. I still think the thirty-four convictions of Greg Stillson was the best gift for Pride American queers have ever been given, to be honest, and I still am a little in shock that it happened–trial and verdict. And of course the traitors have all lost their treasonous little minds, too–my personal favorite is “if they can do this to him they can do it to anyone!”
Um yes, that’s precisely how laws and the judicial system work–no one is above the law in the United States.
Period.
I way overslept this morning, but we stayed up super late last night watching Bodkin (we only have two episodes left to go, and it’s really interesting; much more complex and clever than I’d originally given it credit for) but I wound up not getting into bed until midnight, and I didn’t get up until about nine thirty this morning. While I wanted to sleep in, I didn’t want to sleep in that late; I feel discombobulated and like I won’t be able to get the things done this morning I wanted to get done–but that’s just loser talk, methinks, and a way to give myself excuses for not taking the books to the library sale or washing the car or picking up the mail and dry cleaning or go to the gym. But now that my coffee is kicking in, I’m feeling more alive and awake and like fuck yeah I can get that shit done, get out of my way.
Always nice.
Yesterday was a good day. I worked at home, got all that done while laundering the bed linens, and ran my errands, did some cleaning around the house and later in the day we had a massive and marvelous thunderstorm. I grabbed The Rival Queens (my current nonfiction read) and spent some marvelous time with it in my easy chair. I do love that period of time, and I’ve always wanted to write about an adventurous fictional woman who was a member of Catherine de Medici’s Flying Squadron; an accomplished seductress spy, navigating the complicated politics of France during the Wars of Religion and the decline of the Valois dynasty. It was truly a fascinating period, not only in France, but throughout Europe. My next non-fiction read will probably be The King’s Assassin, the book on which Mary & George was based, and that’s another fun period I would like to write about. Someday. There really was nothing like the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries for upheaval and Game of Thrones-like cutthroat politics.
I also watched LSU’s thrilling baseball win over Wofford in the regionals yesterday, and they play again today at 4. GEAUX TIGERS!
I also looked at the submissions call for the story I am working on–thinking the deadline was May 31 only to discover it was actually June 1, which means I can let the story sit a while longer before revising it one more time to see if I can make it stronger. I am very pleased with how it’s going so far, and looking forward to getting some more writing done today. I am a little behind on my schedule thus far (the one I made earlier this week, remember?), but the deadline being later certainly has made that a bit simpler and easier to navigate without feeling pressure.
And on that note, I am going to get another cup of coffee and head into the spice mines. I’ll most likely be back later–that pride entry I want to write–and I also need to think about what kind of entries to do for Pride Month. Anyway, have a lovely Saturday, and I’ll check in with you again later, okay?
Ah, the Tuesday after Memorial Day and back to the office with me. Such an exciting life I lead, don’t I? I didn’t sleep all that great last night, to be honest–the kind of half-sleep/sort of awake kind of nights, which I didn’t quite understand until I came downstairs to find my sleeping pill (Trazodone, if you’re keeping track) sitting next to my keyboard, where I left it last night. Mystery solved!
But as I wake up, I’m feeling better–more alive and awake than usual, but I imagine I’ll be running out of steam later this afternoon. LSU is in the Chapel Hill regional for the NCAA baseball tournament, playing Wofford. GEAUX TIGERS! I did do some other things yesterday, including finishing the dishes and laundry, and doing the floors. I think I need a new vacuum cleaner (I saw a meme the other day that said “now that I’m an adult I understand why so many prizes on the The Price is Right were appliances”, and yes, very accurate). I didn’t work on fixing the garbage disposal or get out the vacuum handbook for maintenance help this weekend, but it’s something that can go on the list for this coming weekend. I won’t have as many errands to do next weekend, if I plan properly; although I will need to go to the library to donate books.
I also managed to make it to the gym yesterday to start the arm-rehabilitation process again. I went back to the light-weight-one-set thing, worried about overdoing or re-injuring (my biggest fear, seriously) my arm…which seemed easy-peasy, but we’ll have to see if stiffness or soreness sets in any time today. But the stretching and exercise felt great, and I was on an endorphin high for the rest of the afternoon, which was pretty fucking amazing. We’ll see how long I can keep this up for…I am looking forward to re-acclimating and getting back into a regular workout routine by mid-summer. Huzzah!
I read Michael Thomas Ford’s story inthe queer horror anthology We Mostly Come Out at Night, edited by Rob Costello. Ford’s story is called “Be Not Afraid”, which is what I recognized immediately as what angels say in the Bible when they appear before humans to bring them messages from God, and I love some Biblical based horror. But even better–it was a Mothman rural West Virginia story, set at Christmas, and what a delightful story it turned out to be. Ford is a master at voice, and writing sentences that make you keep reading on to see what happens next. His characters are likable and relatable and absolutely real, and it’s always delightful to read one of his stories–he always seems to write about people who are lost and become found, but not in a Christian way, if that makes sense; he writes lovely hopeful queer stories. In a just world he’d be more successful than most other authors…he’s one of those I think will be studied as a queer literary giant by future generations. He also always can do poverty in a way that isn’t moralistic or judgmental; you understand the characters and what they are experiencing, but not in an exploitative way. Highly recommended, and I am looking forward to reading the other stories in the book, too.
I wrote for a little while yesterday, too. I worked on something I’ve been thinking about over the weeks–The Summer of Lost Boys, which I think is going to be my next book, once I finish the current in-progress one–and I also did some brainstorming on the next Scotty book, which I am hoping to finish writing by Labor Day. It felt good to be writing again, even if it was so very little, and I think my creativity is coming back in a major way after being dormant for so long. It feels good when I write. The writing I did yesterday didn’t feel like it was garbage or anything, either. Here’s hoping that feeling continues, shall we?
And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely Tuesday, Constant Reader, and no doubt I’ll be back later–I am definitely making progress on catching up on blog entries, which is terrific–and so I bid you adieu for now.
Wednesday and midweek, with only two days (inclusive) left in the office, can we say hallelujah? I am still struggling to adjust back to getting up early and going into the office, and this morning was a bit better than the others this morning in terms of getting up–my alarm went off, for one–but I am still struggling yet to adjust. I was low energy most of the day yesterday (I got all my work done, though) and then came home to do literally next to nothing the rest of the evening. I pretty much wasted most of the night, really, because I was physically and mentally fatigued. I fell asleep almost the moment I got into the bed, and I slept well for the night. But this too shall pass, and hopefully next week will be a return to my normality as far as sleep and work are concerned.
I continue to follow this Oklahoma suspicious death–the autopsy was recently released, and it’s horrific what happened to this kid–and also realized last night that I not only didn’t want to use All Their Guilty Stains as the title of the book that might grow out of this case; but didn’t know what to use instead, and I always have to have a title before I can do much of anything with the research etc. It hit me right in the face this morning; Justice for Abel, which is a stopgap name for the victim that I’ll probably change later. There are also several ways to write such a book–from the perspective of several people from the area impacted by the death; from a journalistic POV, of either a reporter or true crime writer interested in the case; or as a straight up cop story, like a deputy sheriff or something who becomes very aware there’s corruption in the area’s justice system (or a Kansas Bureau of Investigation agent). But I’m nowhere near ready to write this one, and so I need to just vomit out all the ideas and thoughts about it so I don’t forget them, and dig into the unfinished stuff I need to get done. I know what I am going to be working on next, of course, but I also need to get some of these damned short stories finished, too. Focus, Gregalicious, focus.
I also need to get back to my Scott Carson book, so I can move on to my next read, which will most likely either be the latest Kellye Garrett, Angie Kim, or something else out from the stack of books.
I’ve been up and down lately about my career; which is, of course stupid to think about right now. Of course your career feels a bit off this year–last year was horrific emotionally, spiritually, and physically–so it was kind of a lost year, and this year has been pretty much a wash. I seem to be coming out from under all of that at the moment (at least for the time being) and so I need to make a summer to-do list as well as one for this weekend and next week. It’s been a hot minute since I set any kind of goals for myself, and I don’t think it’s wrong for me to take it easy this week and put no pressure on myself to acclimate faster to my reality. So it takes a while to get back in the saddle and feel like I belong in my own life when I was able to bounce back from trips and breaks in routine faster. But I am in my sixties now and that does impact everything…even if I forget to account for it regularly. I do worry that I am simply justifying being lazy–something I’ve been accused of for so long now that I’ve simply accepted the fact that I am and don’t defend myself when someone says it anymore. But that’s a touch of anxiety, isn’t it? No one cares how hard I work when I am not at my day job, and as I often remind myself when I start to head down the path of self-recrimination, everyone else gets time off, so why shouldn’t I? And not taking down time to rest my creativity and my intellect and my body would just lead to burn out faster, and when I’m burned out there’s nothing I can do at all, so what is better?
So, here’s hoping I can make a to-do list today, get some chores done when I get home from the office, and read for a bit before Paul gets home. I am going to take my leave of you now, Constant Reader, before I head into the spice mines. Have a lovely Wednesday!
Despite everything that is wrong with Alabama culturally, societally, spiritually, and politically, I’m not ashamed of being from there (and never will be). I do shake my head with every new law passage or court ruling there that flies in the face of decency and the Constitution, because it is sad that the majority of people there are not only so lost spiritually and intellectually, but also defiantly cling to their backwardness. My part of the state, where my people are from, used to be very remote and rural; many native Alabamians, when I tell them where I’m from, are often confused, having never heard of it before. It isn’t on any interstate, rooming options are limited, and you really have to drive for about an hour from the nearest interstate to get there. It’s not quite as remote as it used to be; many of the roads that were dirt and/or gravel when I was a kid are paved now…but there are still plenty of unpaved roads up there in the hills and along the countryside. It’s very different there now, too–the country stores are all gone, and there’s definitely a lot more McMansions than there ever was when I was a kid. (Dad and I often marvel at the palatial homes we come across driving around the county, as Dad shows me places from his childhood and when he and Mom were first married.)
And it’s not cheap to buy property there, either, which was also a bit of a surprise.
Dark Tide was my first attempt to deal with my history and where I am from, but was cowardly in the end and wound up editing most of the backstory of my main character out. It didn’t really fit and made the book something different from what I was trying to do with the book, but as I edited it all out I also felt that I was being a bit cowardly. I knew I was going to have to deal with the troubled history (and present) of the county and state, so I wrote Bury Me in Shadows to not only try to get a better understanding of the area, but to deal with that troubled past. It wasn’t easy–I often found myself cutting things to a bare minimum in a stupid attempt to not give offense, and there were many times while writing it when I’d wince or skip a scene because I wasn’t sure how to word it properly without being preachy. I wanted to show through the story how refusing to face the past with a realistic and jaundiced eye can cause generational trauma and how that, in turn, perpetuates societal racism and homophobia in an endless cycle that strangles growth.
But writing that book also took me down a research wormhole that I’ve never really climbed back out of, and being there last weekend also reawakened some memories as well as creativity and potential future stories. (Dad and I found a really sad set of graves in the same cemetery as my maternal grandparents and uncle; parents and two small children –one was only four months–who’d died on the same day. We speculated as to how that happened, tornado or car accident or house fire, but a distant relative my father also knew explained that the father killed them all and then himself…which naturally started churning things in my brain again.)
I also discovered, during the pandemic, a horrifying documentary called Alabama Snake, which focused on the snake handling churches of northeast Alabama and a minister who tried to kill his wife with snakes…and then discovered there was also a book about the culture from a reporter who’d covered the trial, and continued investigating and looking into the snake handling churches.
I finally read it last week.
The first time I went to a snake-handling service, nobody even took a snake out. This was in Scottsboro, Alabama, in March of 1992, at The Church of Jesus with Signs Following. I’d come to the church at the invitation of one of the members I’d met while covering the trial of their preacher, Rev. Glenn Summerford, who had been convicted and sentenced to ninety-nine years in prison for attempting to murder his wife with rattlesnakes.
The church was on a narrow blacktop called Woods Cove Road, not far from the Jackson County Hospital. I remember it was a cool evening. The sky was the color of apricots, and the moon had just risen, a thin, silver crescent. There weren’t any stars out yet.
After I crossed a set of railroad tracks past the hospital, I could see the lights of the church in the distance, but as I drew nearer I started to wonder if this was really a church at all. It was, in fact, a converted gas station and country store, with a fiberboard facade and a miniature steeple. The hand-painted sign spelled the preacher’s first name in three different ways: Glenn, Glen, and Glyn. A half dozen cars were parked out front, and even with the windows of my own car rolled up, I could feel the beat of the music.
It’s very difficult to think about Alabama without religion being involved in some way. Alabama is a very religious state, with churches everywhere–one of the things I always comment on whenever I am up there driving around with Dad is “there sure are a LOT of Churches of Christ up here”–you really can’t go anywhere without driving past at least two. Both of my grandmothers were devout (paternal family was Church of Christ; maternal Southern Baptist, although both my mom and uncle married into CoC and joined), but only the CoC was a fanatic with a Bible verse for everything and the uniquely American/Christian methodology of interpreting everything to justify her own behavior and conduct–which wasn’t actually very Christian (memorization doesn’t mean comprehension). I can remember driving around down there once with my grandmother–either in Alabama or the panhandle of Florida, where she wound up after retiring–and driving past a church (I won’t name it because she was wrong) and I said something and she sniffed in disgust. “They speak in tongues and take up serpents,” she replied. “Which is apostasy.”
Apostasy. What a marvelous word, and one that has always snaked its way through my brain, and comes up often whenever I talk about religion. But I digress; I will someday finish the essay in which I talk about my relationship with Jesus and my rejection of dogma.
I also liked the phrase “taking up serpents,” and always wondered why she said that instead of snake-handling.
I had originally thought, when I bought this book, that it was about the attempted murder by rattlesnake and subsequent trial, like the documentary I mentioned; rather it’s an exploration of this sect of Christianity by a curious reporter, and how being exposed to this style of worship made him rethink his own past, his relationship with his own faith, and about Alabama people in general. One of the reasons I enjoyed the book so damned much–even as I was repelled by its subject matter (snakes are the source of some of my worst nightmares; even harmless little garden snakes turn my stomach and engage my flight mechanism)–was because Covington has a very easy, natural and authentic authorial voice, and he really can put you into his mind as he witnesses and experiences this uniquely American brand of Christianity. It was also interesting as he got caught up in the entire experience, as he talked to the members of the various sects (there’s no national structure to the snake-handling churches, as there is with say the Southern Baptists or the Methodists), and watched them actually take up their serpents in the name of the Lord.
There’s also interesting information in the book about how these sects were created–or how they were descended from, surprisingly enough, the Methodists and how that evolved into these Appalachian sects, as well as where the people of the Appalachian regions came from, and that entire Southern mentality of fighting for their traditions and their “way of life” (it was also interesting that it’s a white phenomenon, at least as best I could tell in the book); of how they secluded themselves up in their mountains and hollows and were self-sufficient…but modern technology has forced them into a world that has left them behind.
I’ve always wanted to write about snake handlers…but as I mentioned before, snakes are the stuff of my worst nightmares, so yeah going to witness in person their rites is a big “no” from me, but I feel like I can maybe do that now, or at least make an attempt. I don’t know how much more research I’d need to do to fictionalize snake handlers, but some day it will happen.
I had never read Jim Thompson before this past week.
I knew of him, of course; it’s very difficult to be a crime writer/reader and not to have. He probably isn’t as revered as authors like James M. Cain or Patricia Highsmith, but he also wrote dark stories about outsiders from society living on the fringes who tend to do whatever they need to in order to go on surviving, and that’s the kind of fiction I’ve always enjoyed reading for the most part. I kind of avoided him because…well, because straight white male writers of his era tend to be misogynistic, racist, and homophobic; those things tend to make me recoil as well as take me out of the story. I bought my copy of The Killer Inside Me a number of years ago, primarily out of curiosity and feeling like I should at least give him a go, and for some reason it jumped out of me when I was selecting books to take on the trip this past week…although thinking about it more, I think I bought it (and took it on this trip) because I was thinking about Chlorine, and wanted to read some noir. This was the one everyone seemed to think I should read, and so…into my backpack it went. I read it at night in the motel in Alabama last weekend, and it did not disappoint.
I’d finished my pie and was having a second cup of coffee when I saw him. The midnight freight had come in a few minutes before; and he was peering in one end of the restaurant window, the end nearest the depot, shading his eyes with his hand and blinking against the light. He saw me watching him, and his face faded back into the shadows. But I knew he was still there. I knew he was waiting. The bums always size me up for an easy mark.
I lit a cigar and slid off my stool. The waitress, a new girl from Dallas, watched as I buttoned my coat. “Why, you don’t even carry a gun!” she said, as though she was giving me a piece of news.
“No,” I smiled. “No gun, no blackjack, nothing like that. Why should I?”
“But you’re a cop–a deputy sheriff, I mean. What if some crook should try to shoot you?”
“We don’t have many crooks here in Central City, ma’am,” I said. “Anyway, people are people, even when they’re a little misguided. You don’t hurt them, they won’t hurt you. They’ll listen to reason.”
As simply written as this book is in terms of language–you’re not going to find complicated sentences in Thompson’s work–it’s actually a very smart and clever novel that kind of sneaks up on you, and also pulls the trick Patricia Highsmith/Daphne du Maurier were so good at: making you root for a horrible person to get away with committing crimes. Thompson has captured Lou Ford’s point-of-view and voice so brilliantly that you can’t help admiring him as he goes on his spree of torture, illegality and murder, fooling almost everyone in “Central City” (I loved the comic-book simplicity of the city name) into thinking he’s not only a good guy, but a decent one and a friend to everyone who is just going around doing his job. He also is very quick on his feet, often confounding people asking him questions about the strange crimes on his periphery by the intelligence and honest-to-God-seeming confusion by the questions in the first place. It’s a great act, and he pulls it off time and again over the course of the book, and Thompson/Lou do such a great job with said act that you start to root for him to get away with things. All the interior happenings and crimes also tend to distract the reader from what is actually going on in the book–which is that all of Lou’s crimes circle a local businessman/power broker whom he blames for murdering his half-brother…who took the blame for a crime involving a little girl when they were young that Lou committed. Lou also is a very unreliable narrator, who doesn’t give us anything beyond his own point of view and train of thought, which disguises from the reader brilliantly his own pathology.
I can imagine this book alarmed and disturbed people with its stark and realistic view of what can go wrong when a sociopath is given a gun and a badge, and how an exceptionally smart killer, which Lou is, can use the system to cover up his own crimes and pin blame on others. And it does seem, all the through the book, like Lou is going to be able to explain it all away and get away with all of his crimes…
I really enjoyed this book, and it made me realize I’ve been a little unfair to the straight white male writers of the past by avoiding their work. I’m definitely going to read more Thompson; this was exceptional and I do recommend you read it.
Ah, Sunday. I slept in this morning–almost all the way to ten o’clock, it’s like I don’t even know me anymore–but it felt good and I am awake and enjoying my first cup of coffee this fine morn. I did some errands and chores yesterday, which was great, and watched a lot of nothing on the television while I was playing around doing research on-line. I did finish reading Carol Goodman’s marvelous The Bones of the Story (more on that at another time), and spent some more time with the Scott Carson I started reading in Kentucky. There’s still a lot that needs doing around here, but it’ll get done and I still am a little worn out from the drive home, so maybe today’s not the day to try to be super-productive. I also spent yesterday trying to catch up on the state of affairs in the country and world (glad to see people still dragging the puppy slaughterer), which was depressing but necessary. I am way behind on my emails, which is something I will have to address (tomorrow). Heavy sigh. But one can’t hide in their unreality longer than one can and still be functional, can one?
Ah, well.
I also got a signed copy of the new Lori Roy novel, Lake County, in the mail yesterday, which was marvelous. She’s one of my favorite writers, and has been ever since I met her on a panel at Bouchercon a million years ago and then read her Edgar Award winning debut, Bent Road, which was incredible, and I’ve been loving her (and her work) ever since. Once I finish the two novels I am reading, I am digging into the new Roy. Huzzah! I have so many good books on hand to read–I still have the latest Angie Kim, among many others, in that stack on the end table in reach of my chair–that it’s hard to decide what to read next, and then books like the Angie Kim (and the Celeste Ng, and the Angela Crook, and the Jess Lourey, and on and on and on it goes) end up not getting read in an expeditious manner. I have certainly been enjoying all the reading I’ve been doing lately, and need to stay on top of it as much as possible.
The more I look into the suspicious death of Noah Presgrove, the more intriguing the story becomes. It is, as Carol’s latest title proclaims, ‘the bones of the story’; obviously I am interested in what happened the last night the young man was alive and how he actually died, but the basis of the story, it’s fundamentals (small rural town; corrupt local justice system; three day long weekend party serving minors illegally; and of course the battered naked body in the fetal position on the side of the road) make for a fascinating and interesting foundation for a fiction novel, exploring the bitterness and old hurts and feuds and nastiness in a poor, small rural town in Oklahoma (which I will probably change to Kansas, naturally), and peeling back the layers of deceit and resentments and lies and relationships is kind of appealing to me.
It’s also Mother’s Day today, my second without one, and I am not actively avoiding it today, either, the way I did last year. Last year it was still too new and too fresh for me to even be on-line much on that day, but this year is easier. Seeing Dad around Mother’s Day (since it’s always the weekend after Decoration Day, or The First Sunday in May) also made it easier. We talked about her a lot, and Dad told me a lot about their teens and the early years of their marriage, when they were very poor (I didn’t realize how poor we actually were when I was a child and a teen until many years later; living in Kansas kind of twisted that as we were considered well-off there), which made me smile a lot. Obviously, I will always miss my mom, but it’s not as painful to think about her as it used to be. That’s progress, and now I can remember her without recriminations about being a bad son or taking advantage of her kindness or disappointing her. I think that’s normal when you lose a parent or a loved one; you regret time not spent together and think about all the times you were a shitty person. But…I was also horribly spoiled by my parents, and they never stopped trying to spoil me even after I was an adult, because to them I was always their baby and since I didn’t have kids…well, they never stopped seeing me that way. Then again, it may just be a parent/youngest child thing.
And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. I’ll be back later–I have soooo many entries to catch up on; the books I’ve read alone need to be discussed–but I am also not putting any pressure on myself about getting things done today as I am still in recovery mode from the trip. So have a great Mother’s Day, everyone; hug your mom for me and if yours is also gone like mine, I am giving you a big virtual hug.
Queer and Loathing in America 