Tuesday morning and am easing back into the week somehow. I was a bit tired yesterday, and felt a little low energy, like the prelude to an onset of something. By the time I got home from work I truly felt lousy, so relaxed for a while, took some Dayquil, and let my mind wander while watching the news, this week’s John Oliver episode, and decided to peek in on the most recent episode of The White Lotus, to see what everyone was talking about on social media all day yesterday. Okay, got it. We’ll probably watch the entire season once it’s all available; it definitely piqued my interest and I will have forgotten all or most of this by the time we watch anyway–one of the benefits of this truly shitty memory thing I have going on anymore. I did work on the book a bit, and knew what to do, but was just too fatigued to do it. I hate when that happens. But this morning I feel better than I did yesterday morning, so here’s to a productive day. I really hate feeling under the weather. Tired is an entirely different thing I don’t mind so much, but being sick can fuck all the way off.
The world, and country, continue to burn to the ground as the MAGA government by billionaire further establishes and consolidates power to the executive branch. (Thanks again, Sycophant Schumer. Your interview in the New York Times only served to further underscore how out of touch with your constituents and your base you are. You’re as big a disgrace as Roger P. Taney and James Buchanan. You fucking own this, you and the other nine who knifed the base in the back. Oh, and thanks again for shivving Biden last summer, you fucking piece of shit, and handing the White House back to the Right. Remember, we sent the Rosenbergs to the chair. We are where we are because of Democratic cowardice. I will never forget.) It’s hard not to get worried, stressed or be anxious. My job is federally funded, after all, and they are coming for queers and queer books, too. Woo-hoo, nothing like having both of your careers hanging over the precipice, is there? My Social Security and Medicare apparently are also on the line, so after a lifetime of working hard and paying into both systems, I’ll never be able to retire…voluntarily, at any rate.
Thank God I have anxiety medications. Thanks again, Senator Schumer and the Asinine Nine.
Heavy heaving sigh.
I am pleased with how the book is coming along, even if I was too brain-dead last night to do much more work on it. It’s going to be pretty good, I think, nice and spooky and Gothic and creepy. Years ago I read a John D. MacDonald novel called Murder in the Wind, which takes place during a hurricane, when a bunch of motorists take shelter in an abandoned house–all strangers, but one car contained a psychopathic criminal–and that’s kind of the tone I want to merge with the usual Scotty tone to pull the whole story off. I know MacDonald was a sexist writer whose work was very much of its time and some of it hasn’t aged well, but the man could write and tell a story and create some memorable characters, plots and situations; I’m sure a revisit of his canon would also turn up some racism and homophobia, too. I do think, were he to be alive and writing now, he’d be more woke than conservative; almost all of his later Florida novels had to do with environmentalism and how greed and corruption were destroying the state (Condominium, anyone?), and I have often longed for someone to write those kind of Louisiana books…I also think Carl Hiassen style novels about Louisiana would also be kind of awesome. Don’t look at me, I’m not a strong enough plotter to write anything like Haissen, just as I am not familiar enough with the environmental disasters conservative greed and corruption create to write about them…and doing the research would probably make me anxious again. I know I’ve always wanted to write about cancer alley and the poor Black communities poisoned by it, but how do you tell that story when there’s no justice in the end for anyone? Not to mention the disappearing wetlands. Who knows how long Louisiana can still call itself “sportsmen’s paradise” once everything is ruined down here?
Louisiana, and New Orleans, never cease to be sources of inspiration, you know?
And who knows? Stranger things have happened.
And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely Tuesday, Constant Reader, and I may be back later. One never can be entirely sure.
The bare curve of a male ass–do we think it will trigger Meta’s puritans?
Saturday morning and how are you, Constant Reader? I overslept this morning, because I was a bit tired from the gym and running errands yesterday. It rained all night (part of the late sleep, methinks) and it’s raining now, in fact. I don’t think the rain is going to let up again (or for long) until the cold weather gets here whenever it decides to arrive; probably overnight on Monday (it’s almost like God doesn’t approve of Monday, doesn’t it?). But I feel very good today. Paul will be gone most of the afternoon and will most likely be working upstairs for the rest of the day when he does get home. I need to make groceries today, but am hoping the locusts haven’t descended on the grocery stores to doomsday prep for the winter storm and snow in New Orleans. (Snow in New Orleans is absolutely insane. It’s happened before but it’s very rare–and I really do need to write a Scotty book called Winter Storm Waltz, or Snow Day Story or something like that.) I grew up in snow, and learned how to drive in snow when I was a teenager. I also lived in Minneapolis for an incredibly bitterly cold and snowy winter, so while I dislike the stuff for the most part (and because it requires cold to happen), it doesn’t really bother me when we have the rare, occasional frozen precipitation every few years or so. But New Orleans has no idea how to deal with it because most people here have never had to learn, and what to do when your car starts to slide has to be instinctive, almost a second nature, whereas here? Everyone will drive ten miles an hour and will slam on the brakes when they slide, which causes a disaster for them and everyone else on the road, so yeah, probably best to not deal with terrified New Orleanians on the road Tuesday. I imagine the roads will be closed, which will make getting to work difficult, and I’ll no doubt have to get up early in the morning anyway to find out if the office is closed (shades of snow days in school!), but who knows what’s going to happen–and the northern part of the state will get hammered much worse than we will down here south of I-10 (I-10 is the temperate dividing line in Louisiana). It’ll be interesting, to be sure. No model tracking seems to agree, which makes it all a SURPRISE.
I don’t have much to do outside of the house other than some errands, which I’ll do later on. I don’t think there’s anything pressing we need to see on television other than the Australian Open, which will also be great background noise. I don’t get into tennis as much as I did when the Williams sisters played, and I definitely miss Rafael Nadal. I’ve not watched enough of the younger players to be a fan yet–for some reason I don’t watch nearly as much tennis as I used to–but I used to get every excited when it was time for a major tournament, and now I forget about them entirely unless Paul mentions them–and even he doesn’t seem all that interested anymore, at least not the way he used to be. Of course, neither of us play anymore either, which might have something to do with it. I can’t even imagine trying to run around the court now, let alone trying to swing the racket with my bad arm (my backhand was two handed). That ship has sadly sailed, but I am looking forward to the day when my weight lifting is back to what it was before the injury–just being able to do heavier weights alone, and I am being patient with the slowness of the progress. (I got frustrated when I tried to go back the times since the surgery.) Patience is the key. I did make it to the gym yesterday–even walked over there–which did kind of wear me out a bit, but it was a good tired, and I am sure that helped me sleep so well last night. (The heavy blankets–man, who knew what a difference to sleeping that would make!) Yesterday was overall a pretty good day. I got my work from home duties taken care of, did some chores, ran my errands, and even wrote for a little while. I also started reading Farrah Rochon’s Bemused, which is absolutely delightful and a book I am really looking forward to getting back to (once I finish this and go to my easy chair so Sparky will stop attacking me and go to sleep); I’m also looking forward to getting caught up on things and doing some writing today. We watched LSU beat Florida in gymnastics last night at the PMAC, which was fun and the Tigers were even a bit off and could have scored way higher than they did. It’s going to be an exciting gymnastics season here in Louisiana, isn’t it? I also got some cleaning done around here, which was great and I hope to keep that momentum going so by the end of the long weekend, the Apartment will at long last be finally back in order.
Hilariously, yesterday I actually failed in my “block and don’t engage on social media” vow when some stupid troll tried coming for me. Before remembering not to engage, I fired off several rapid-fire trolling responses, and waited an hour to block the bot/troll/subhuman, to make sure they saw the responses before blocking. I had commented on one of Carrie Underwood’s posts about her getting on her knees for MAGA (y’all called Kamala a whore; for me that means MAGA women are not off the table and deserve every pie in the face they so richly deserve), and here comes the fucking bot/troll/subhuman out from underneath “her” bridge (quotes because I am not convinced it was actually a woman; frankly this person’s humanity was definitely questionable. Her response to me was hey beta boy and went on to be the usual drooling lickspittle bullshit MAGA subhumans they are. So, I looked at her profile: proud gay conservative woman, wife, mom and grandmother. MAGA! Patriotism! I replied, oh a gay conservative? Please die in a fire. Not nice, but how could a so-called “gay conservative woman” use a gay slur to refer to someone else in the community? They don’t, and any queer person who would is simply a quisling hoping to be a guard in the camps. “She” then told me she was going to make me “internet famous” and tagged some gay conservative “influencer” (please) to “blow up my life” and “regret ever being born.” Naturally, I clicked through to this person’s profile and WOW. A whole 32k followers, most of whom were most likely bots and alt accounts. I replied, do your worst. I fought off the Wildmons, Concerned Women for America, and the American Family Association. You think I’ms cared of some nameless faceless bitch on social media and the pathetic expired twink you snitch tagged? Bring it on. After fifteen minutes, I added, still waiting. Maybe you don’t have any friends? I waited another fifteen minutes, and added, big talk and no action, what a surprise from a sad pathetic soul whose life is as empty and sad as “her” threats. I waited another hour, and nothing. I blocked them both. I guess she thought I was going to curl up into a ball and cry myself to sleep? I also said I’s rather be a beta boy than an omega skank licking Trump’s ass-crack. Nothing. After another hour waiting for the promised Internet pile-on (I was going to just block them all), I blocked both her and the expired twink she tagged.
And for the record, I can’t speak for all, but I have never, ever known an actual woman who called herself “a gay woman.” The word is lesbian, bitch. “Gay woman” is an absolute red flag for me; the only time I ever hear a woman say she’s gay is in a TV show or a movie, and it never sits right with me. Gay is almost exclusively used for men, and saying “gay woman” is, at best, misogynist because using that word, even to describe the entire community (which is why I say queer) erases women. So, I find it really hard to believe there’s any lesbian out there who would be misogynist; but then again, conservative gay woman says it all, doesn’t it? If she were a real person, she’s more deserving of pity than contempt; imagine hating everything you are so badly.
Don’t bring the heat for me unless you are prepared to be incinerated. I never start it, but I will fucking finish it–and trust me, straight people, I’d highly recommend you don’t poke with the homophobe stick unless you are prepared to have your self-worth decimated.
And for the record, straight people joking about being in a same-sex relationship isn’t funny, it’s actually pathetic and homophobic–and it’s as tired as your macho man masculinity, girls.
And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a great Saturday. Constant Reader, and I will check in with you again tomorrow or perhaps later today; one never really knows, does one?
Here we are on a cold Sunday morning and I hope everyone is doing as well as they can this morning. I went to bed early and slept well–I really do think adding another to the pile of blankets, and its additional weight, is making a difference. Today I have to do some reading and some writing, go to the gym and make groceries. I feel rested and awake this morning, so as I slurp down my coffee and wake up while Sparky wants my lap in the easy chair I have to admit I feel pretty good this morning. Maybe I shouldn’t let myself sleep so late on Saturdays? I don’t know, but the coffee is hitting the spot and I do feel more rested than I did yesterday, so your guess is as good as mine. It’s kind of gray outside this morning, and it’s forty degrees–yikes–but it’ll get warmer later once the sun is higher in the sky.
We watched LSU Gymnastics compete against three of the best teams in the country yesterday, and with half of their usual competitors out with an injury, they only came in second by three tenths of a point; and Haleigh Bryant can make that difference up all by herself, not to mention the other two powerhouses who sat this meet out–which bodes well for the rest of the season. It’s so cool knowing they are the defending national champions! We also watched some of the Australian Open last night, and I went to bed early. I also managed to get some chores done around here, and overall, it was a pretty good day. I don’t think I even went outside yesterday, to be honest–which is always a good day for me.
I spent some time yesterday morning with Ode to Billy Joe, and while Raucher is a very good writer, he doesn’t really know how to write for teenagers, I think. Just because the story is set in the early 1950s and people were more innocent (?) back then in theory, it’s almost like reading something from a past civilization, and in some ways it kind of is. Raucher tries very hard not to condescend to rural Southerners, but there is a touch of that “zoo animal” thing to the story, if that makes any sense? It doesn’t quite seem real, and Bobbie Lee, the female lead, seems so child-like it’s hard to believe she’s supposed to be fourteen, and “receiving callers”–did Southern girls still say that in the 1950’s? It’s like something from The Glass Menagerie, and I don’t know if that archaic social phrase was in use, if at all. But there’s definitely more depth to the book than there was to the movie, and I think I’m going to end up enjoying the book more than I did the movie–despite the beautiful presence of Robby Benson and his amazing blue eyes and surprisingly deep voice.
Thinking of Ode to Billy Joe being a historical now made me realize that my own 70s book is kind of an artifact of another time, too. Researching and remembering things from that time of my life is always a bit of a surprise; things that had been locked away in a corner of my brain coming back to the front of the memory banks. Television shows and commercials, the looming Bicentennial (which was, at the time, shockingly commercialized; although the Tricentennial–which I won’t make it to, but hopefully the country will–will be even worse), the gas shortages and economic fears, the ever-present threat of nuclear war and annihilation, the never-ending conflicts in the Middle East, and the massive clean-up of the country’s air, water and litter. Top Forty radio was a weird mishmash of all kinds of music, from the bubblegum of the Osmonds to the Rolling Stones, Queen, and the Who to horrible novelty songs that were incredibly popular and were overplayed to death to the point I never want to hear any of them ever again, and everyone watched American Bandstand on Saturdays to hear music and see the latest dance moves. I am really looking forward to writing it. I also have two short stories to complete sooner rather than later, and of course as always I have too much to do in too little time–but I can make it work.
I’ve also, since the election, been thinking about how to resist the new regime and the inherent hatreds, cruelties, and horrors that are coming with them. Our only hope as a country depends on the Republican-controlled Senate (well, Republicans plus the bootlicking traitor John Fetterman) actually standing up for the Constitution, and looking for a spine on the Right is as fruitless as a snipe hunt. I am not getting involved with the Democratic Party, because it feels like I’ve been throwing my time, money and energy on them while they just roll over and play dead since the 1990s; and nowadays seems to be no different. Here’s the thing about our system; the only difference between the two parties since World War II has primarily been on domestic and interior policy; the foreign policy has always been the same, and a lot of bad things have been done by our government in the name of “national security” and our endless thirst for oil. This changed a bit under the MAGA monarchy the last time around–turning our backs on traditional allies while cozying up to Russia, North Korea, and China (Ivanka needs her trademarks!). I also love how the MAGAts are so quick to whine and complain against the forever wars they fully supported, and does anyone else remember their toxic patriotism on the eves of the invasions of Afghanistan and Iraq? How questioning the invasion decisions was basically treason and not supporting the military and pissing on the graves of the 9/11 dead? Because I sure the fuck do, and I also remember how the Right created cancel culture for the Dixie Chicks, as country music began to swing from being about the working class and resisting the rich? It’s also amusing to me that they complain about “forever wars” without remembering that the same people they are supporting today are the exact same people who lied to them and whipped them up into a disgusting “patriotic” frenzy?
I spent some time this weekend thinking about writing as activism, and that it used to be just that; my very existence and my career are made political by evangelicals and others of their ilk, and I had no say in that at all. Would I prefer to be left alone to live my life and make my own decisions without government interference? Absolutely. Is that ever going to happen? Not as long as trash and liars and false prophets continue to abuse the faith and the faithful for money, power, and control. How can anyone actually be a Christian and believe that the Prosperity Gospel of wolves in sheep’s clothing like Joel Osteen and other con artists of his ilk? Sinclair Lewis exposed all of this horror with Elmer Gantry, which is still as current as it was when first published in the early 20th century. Maybe Elmer Gantry, along with All the King’s Men, should be required reading in high school–but high schoolers won’t care anymore now than they did when I was one. (Also, back to the 1970s–there wasn’t an expectation that everyone would go to college, either. Only five kids from my graduating class went to college, I think, I could be off by one or two, out of forty-eight.) I’ve not thought of my writing as a way to make political statements–or at least I haven’t in a long time, at any rate, but someone pointed out to me several years ago (or longer, who knows anymore?) that my work was a lot more important than I’ve ever thought or believed; I did document what gay life was like in New Orleans before Hurricane Katrina changed everything. I also documented life in New Orleans in general, before , during and after a hurricane. I’ve written about gay con artists and corrupt hateful politicians and the far right and evangelicals and race and homophobia and misogyny. I often explore something that I find interesting in my books so I can learn more about the topic I am writing about as well as process my own complicated feelings about sensitive subjects. I even wrote a throuple into the Scotty series long before that ever became a subject for conversation in the community. It’s weird to think that my first two novels were released before Lawrence overturned sodomy laws nationally. My sex-life was against the law until I was forty-two. Forty fucking two.
I was filling out the pre-production form for Hurricane Season Hustle Friday, and I went to Amazon to look at the page for Mississippi River Mischief to see if information I needed was there–it wasn’t–but I also noticed I have forty-seven reviews and an average ranking of four and a half stars, which was kind of a surprise, albeit a pleasant one. That meant that overall there had to be more five star reviews than any other kind, else the average wouldn’t be over four, you know? This was a very pleasant surprise, in all honesty; I never look at Amazon pages for my books and especially never at the reviews; likewise, I will never go wading in the fetid swamp that is Goodreads. Who needs that aggravation? But as I said, it was a pleasant surprise, one that almost tempted me to look at the others, but I resisted the urge. I am more emotionally stable now than I’ve ever been in my life before, but why borrow trouble? And sure, it could be another ego boost but it could also be a blow.
And the last thing I need right now is something to rock my already shaky foundations.
California continues to burn, and people continue to expose how dark and twisted their souls and psyches are. It’s beginning to sound like most of these fires were started as arson–which would definitely count as a terrorist attack on Los Angeles, in my opinion; if Luigi shooting that fucking piece of shit counts as terrorism, burning down billions of dollars of property and destroying people’s lives as well as killing some of them definitely is an act if terror. Please don’t be a dick about the fires on-line, people. I’ve lived through a different kind of “act of God” that basically destroyed my city and generational wealth with it. Angelenos are still in shock and are going to be for a long time. This is a serious trauma, and believe me when I say a lot of Angelenos are going to be medicated for years to come. I’m still not entirely sure I’ve gotten over Katrina, in all honesty. So, for God’s sake, show some empathy and compassion for their suffering. Playing the blame game or bringing politics into this is fucking bullshit, so can you not do that? There’s no place in this country that is safe from an unexpected natural disaster.
And trust me, when it happens to you–you will hate those people. I’ve never forgiven any of them, including Chicago Bears fans. I had hoped that disgusting child rapist Dennis Hastert would die in prison, but he remains proof that only the good die young. Henry Kissinger and Anita Bryant is more evidence of that as well.
So, think before you post or comment. I hate Florida and Texas and their politics, but I also worry about them and try to do what I can whenever a hurricane devastates them.
And if you’re feeling smug and judgy–I’m looking at you in particular, Louisiana MAGA racists, remember that when a hurricane comes crashing through your home town.
And on that note, I am going to my chair to read my book for a bit before I get to work. I worked on the book yesterday and it went very well; I am feeling good about writing again and think I am going to be able to hit my stride again sometime soon. Huzzah! Have a lovely Sunday, Constant Reader, and I’ll talk to you again later at some point.
Remember that stomach thing I had going on yesterday morning? And it had resulted in my not sleeping well? Yeah, well, I was very miserable and tired all day at work, and my stomach just felt worse and worse and worse. I finally left work early, came home, and just chilled out. I also took today off as a cautionary measure. So far so good, and here’s hoping I am rested and can do something with this extra free day that so unexpectedly dropped into my week. I think it means some time with Lavender House, and I do need to clean this messy kitchen up, beginning with the laundry room. Maybe I can put on some Orville Peck while cleaning. I’m really enjoying his music.
Last night I watched the first half of the Ken Burns documentary Leonardo da Vinci, and I quite enjoyed the fact they didn’t try to shy away from his sexuality or try to straight-wash him, like Da Vinci’s Demons did (still enjoyed the hell out of the show, anyway) and so many other shows and movies have, but actually talked about his male relationships quite openly. That was rather refreshing. I’ve always been interested in the Renaissance, and with Leonardo and the great Michelangelo as well. I was thinking about this while watching last night, ferreting out of my brain’s fading memory banks where my interest in Italy came from, and I was able to peg it properly: when I was ten I spent five weeks in the South, including about three at my paternal grandmother’s on a bay in the panhandle. Her second husband loved nothing more than a good flea market, so we often went to them, and I got to buy books for pretty cheap. I remember one time I got two books: one, a lovely but crumbling old edition of a biography of Francois I, King of France; and the other a book called Italy in the Golden Centuries. I think maybe I also got a turn of the twentieth century translation of a history of France; it may have been on that same flea market visit or another, but it was the same summer. I was in my Tudor/Stuart phase at that time, but that July I started learning about France and Italy…both of which were way more interesting than English history. There was a hammock strung between two massive live oak trees in her backyard, dripping with Spanish moss, and I would lay there in the shade with the cool salty breeze from the bay and the steady lapping of water, and just read. It was wonderful. I could have spent the rest of my life in that hammock, reading. The connection between Italy and the French kings, the great artists…since we went to Florence I’ve had this idea for a book I want to write about a lost piece of Michelangelo’s art, going back and forth through the movements of the piece through time and the present day thriller of trying to find it in the present day while others (BAD GUYS) are trying to beat them to it. (I love that kind of shit.) I may even take a stab at this sooner rather than later. I mean, it sounds fun–but my word, the research! And of course I would need to return to Italy for research purposes, wouldn’t I?
I also have been doing the weirdest research for a future book project you can imagine: I’m watching Youtube compilations of television ads from the late 1960’s through the early 1980’s, and it is fascinating how many of them I remember–and can sing the jingle along with. I may have hated the ads–still do–so I guess they were effective? I don’t know if they ever shaped my buying choices and decisions (price is always the most important factor, and store brands are no different from name brands; Costco’s brand is better than most competitors), but I sure do remember them. That’s kind of the grounding in the period that I need to write about it, to trigger memories of what I watched and what was going on and what kinds of bikes did kids ride and music did they listen to and games did they play. Going down this memory hole has been interesting, because I am also having to revisit those periods of my life from the perspective of a much older and very much more tired gay man who really hasn’t developed a whole lot of wisdom about either myself or life in general, but I can see things I couldn’t then. Perspective? A little amusement about how things that didn’t “exist” then that we know about now and I could have been medicated for all those years? Yeah, I can’t be bitter or mourn something that never could have been. And despite how much I grouse and bitch and moan and complain like the old man I am now, I am very pleased with my life and where I am with it. My mom always said (some of her stuff was wise, some of it was kind of horrible, but it was always absolutely real) you can’t have regrets if you’re happy, and I think that is very true. And examining my own history is kind of not painful anymore in that context, if that makes sense? I always never wanted to look back because it seemed like I always got angry when I did–but I wasn’t really being angry; because I am not angry about it anymore. I do remember the anger, the pain, and all the emotional rollercoaster ride that came with it. When I tell the stories, whether face to face or write them on here, I do channel that emotion again into the telling to make it clear just how horrible it all was and how horrific it felt. I guess I can write passionately, and I do not think that’s a bad thing at all.
I am having fun writing the essays, too. I am having fun writing again. That is very pleasing in my eyes. And I am hoping all this free time (five days off in a row) will get my butt in this chair and writing. Sparky hasn’t quite figured out Paul hasn’t come home yet, so he’s not super needy yet–but I am pretty sure that moment is nigh. I slept so good last night, y’all, and it’s nice to wake up feeling so good this morning. This kitchen/office is an utter and complete disaster area, and I definitely must do something about it sooner rather than later. I think I’m going to finish this, start straightening up, and then repairing to my chair to spend some time with Lavender House (it really is quite superb), and I think I’ll finish watching the Leonardo documentary today, too. Heavy sigh. I may even try to write later on too. #madness
And maybe I’ll even finish assembling my desk chair. It’s been about a month since I bought it and started putting it together only to get frustrated and walk away from it before I took a sledgehammer to it. I may even put that on the top of my to-do list.
And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. I hope you have a lovely Thanksgiving Eve, and I may be back later. One never can be sure, and I have a lot of free time to myself over the next five days–except, of course, for my darling Sparky.
Being Southern hasn’t been as difficult for me as it is for most Southern people, when it comes to forgetting the past and not taking pride in a heritage that includes racism and bigotry and enslavement. Some of the earliest lessons I learned about life in these United States was that I was one of the few people who started recognizing something that I wouldn’t know the name for until I was much older: cognitive dissonance. What I was being told at home was different from what I was being taught in school, and even that, while better balanced, was “patriotism good rah rah rah U!S!A! U!S!A!” all the time, nonstop. I began wondering about how much of an American “hero” Christopher Columbus really was, as all he brought to the New World was genocide, slavery, disease, centuries of oppression and looting the resources of the Americas. I started dealing with more cognitive dissonance as I got older and began seeing the flaws in white American supremacy, the contradictions and conflicts, and I had to think and reconcile all of these differing opinions. As I got older, resolving those cognitive dissonances required abandoning the education I got as a child about our country and its history because it was drenched in white supremacy and American exceptionalism and, well, lies to make white people feel better about themselves1. Reading and studying history made me look at modern Christianity askance–your religion has always been bloody, intolerant and cruel; but I’m supposed to believe the faith that slaughtered non-believers gleefully has changed and learned the errors of its ways?
Likewise, the Civil Rights Movement was in full swing when I was a child, and saw I watched the marches and the horror of the violence on the news. I didn’t understand nor believe the so-called religious justification for bigotry–my view of Christianity was markedly different from what I was learning in Sunday school for sure–but as someone blessed with white privilege I was also oblivious to a lot of what the Black community has dealt with throughout our bloody and horrific national history. My beliefs and values have never stagnated or been chiseled into stone; I appreciate gaining new perspective and examining my own internal biases and prejudices, and changing my mind predicated on the new perspective.
There are some things, however, I will never change my mind about: bigotry and prejudice are evil and have no basis in anything except vile ignorance and emotion.
The “we need diverse books” movement on-line was absolutely wonderful, because it gave me an easy opportunity to find books by diverse authors that either didn’t exist before or did and weren’t given much of a push. I loved the expansion of the crime and horror genres to include these characters and themes and stories; I love their fresh perspectives on society and culture and yes, the genres themselves. Books by S. A. Cosby, Kellye Garrett, Rachel Howzell Hall, Tracy Clark, Cheryl Head, and other racialized authors have not only been revelatory, but so strongly written and brilliant that it’s pushing other authors to better their own work to keep up. I’ve also been reading a lot of non-fiction about the civil rights movement and the history of prejudice and racism in this country, informing not only myself but with my own work, as well.
And in a class almost by itself is Tananarive Due’s The Reformatory.
Robert Stephens held his breath and counted to three, hoping to see Mama.
Some mornings his nose tickled with a trace of talcum powder or Madam C. J. Walker’s Glossine hair grease, and he felt…something hovering over him, watching him sleep. His groggy brain would think…Mama? If he gasped or sat up too quickly, or even wiped the sleep from his eyes, it was gone like a dream. But sometimes, when the June daylight charged early through the thin curtain and broke the darkness, movement glided across the red glow of his closed eyelids like someone walking past his bed. He felt no gentle kisses or fingertips brushing his forehead. No whispers of assurances and motherly love. Nothing like what people said ghosts were supposed to be, much less your dead mama. That morning he was patient, counting the way he’d practiced–one one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand–and slitted his eyes open.
A woman’s shadow passed outside of the window above him, features appearing in the gaps between the sheets of tinfoil taped across the glass. In a white dress, maybe. Maybe. Moving fast, in a hurry.
“Mama?”
This book is a revelation. It is without question one of the most powerful books I’ve read in I don’t know how long.
I knew it was going to be a hard read, because I knew what the book was based on. I also don’t remember when I first became aware of the horrors of the notorious Dozier School for Boys in Florida, but it was a horror to be sure. I’ve read some novels based on that story (I loved Lori Roy’s The Disappearing) already, and so was familiar. Reading about enslavement and the Jim Crow South2 is inevitably a hard slog for me, and not just because of the white guilt it deservedly triggers; it just staggers me that in a country that supposedly is about equality and freedom such things could happen, be taken as normal, and changing the system is so violently opposed…a lot of racist Southerners see nothing wrong with that history and would like it to return, so these kinds of stories of American atrocities against its own citizens are incredibly important. The pen is indeed mightier than the sword, which is why repressive governments always go after journalists and writers; a well-told story that illustrates the injustice for the reader and humanizes it can change minds.
The Reformatory is about the Gracetown School for Boys and a young twelve year old Black boy who is sent there for absolutely nothing; an older white boy was sexualizing his older sister Gloria, and when young Robert stands up for her he gets a brutal shove, and he retaliates with a kick. Alas, the white boy’s father is wealthy and therefore powerful, and he wants this “uppity” behavior punished. In a joke trial that’s not even a trial, the corrupt racist judge sends Robert to the hell of the reformatory. Robert’s story doesn’t become about a search for his own justice, but the hell of surviving a place where boys die regularly but never of natural causes. Young Robbie has a gift, too–he can see ghosts–and there are a lot of ghosts there for him to navigate. Gloria’s story becomes about her desperate drive to get her brother out of there and correct the injustice. Their father was also a union organizer, and was falsely accused of raping and beating a white woman, so he fled north to Chicago. So, the boy in custody is also a pawn for the white power structure who really wants to get their hands on Robert Senior.
The warden, Haddock, is a sadistic predator who enjoys torturing and raping and murdering his charges. He also has a special need for young Robbie’s ghost seeing abilities, wanting to rid the campus of the ghosts of his victims. Due manages to make the horrors of that place absolutely real, with some of the most vivid and powerful images I’ve come across in a novel in years.
But the true horror of the book isn’t the ghosts at the school. The true horror is its horrific and realistic depiction of the Jim Crow south, and the lack of hope for change in the Black characters. It was about halfway through the book that I realized, as much as I was loving this book, that there was no happily ever after for Black people under Jim Crow, before civil rights. They might be able to escape a predicament, but there was no escape ever from the system.
Which is absolutely terrifying.
Definitely check this book out, and I am going to look for my next read from Due.
Manifest destiny? I could write an entire book about that bullshit. ↩︎
Someday I will dismantle To Kill a Mockingbird for the racist lie it is. ↩︎
Yeah, I’ve been big on the Tudors for most of my life–first the Virgin Queen, and then her father, Henry VIII and his many wives1, and eventually the entire family (Henry VIII’s sister Margaret was a pistol–and it is her descendants who sit on the throne today, not Henry’s). As I got older, I became more interested in the century as a whole, and eventually I moved on from the Tudors to the Stuarts, who I find much more interesting. I still love the Tudors, and will watch documentaries and films, but won’t read any more books about them, especially because I’ve not really scratched more than the surface with the Stuarts, and I want to read more about the Tudors’ French contemporaries, the House of Valois. (Yes, I loved The Tudors, because it was more of a Renaissance version of Dynasty; I don’t watch historical films and expect accuracy2, and if you are, wake the fuck up. Book adaptations are never the same as the book, either. It’s entertainment, not a fucking documentary.)
Speaking of entertainment, I finally gave up on Jon Stewart with his defense of the indefensible. His joining in on the media’s decision to badger and hound Joe Biden–one of the most successful presidents of all fucking time–out of the race? None of that, not one bit of that, was actual concern; they all were giving (and continued, until recently) Shady Marmalade a pass on his obvious mental decline…and Jon’s decision to defend the indefensible “because comedian”? Fuck off and die, you arrogant rich white cisgender piece of shit. I’ll never watch him again, so congrats on that year contract extension, Comedy Central. You thought calling Puerto Rico a floating pile of garbage was funny? You thought comparing Travis Kelce to OJ, implying he’ll murder Taylor Swift, was funny? And on and on and on. Straight white male comedians will always circle the wagons for another comedian with a penis, but when a woman comedian (see: Kathy Griffin) is being attacked, not a fucking word? So he’s a misogynist, too. I’m not telling you what to do, Constant Reader, but Jon Stewart is dead to me, now and forever. And don’t even get me started on the 49ers and Nick the Traitor Bosa. Talk about pussy. Someone got slapped down by management when he hit the locker room and before he talked to the press, and like a good little beta soyboy, he caved and sulked like the pathetic emotionally-and-intellectually stunted bitch he is. He’s not being punished because when asked he shut his fucking mouth, which is the other primary difference between him and a true hero, Colin Kaepernick (besides the obvious “white man gets away with shit a Black man never could” racism).
And really, 49ers managers and coaching staff? Your team represents San Francisco, the most tolerant city in the country. Trade him to Dallas, where he belongs.
Thank God I am on anxiety medications. If not, I probably wouldn’t have slept at all since June. But the medications and my personal ban on legacy media companies who are garbage and untrustworthy has helped a lot with my election anxiety, and refusing to engage with the trash on-line (block, block, block) I’ve managed to take good care of my own mental health this time around. I refuse to worry about what will happen if he wins, or if he loses and they try another violent coup; I do, every once in a while, think you always wondered what it was like to be a Berliner in 1933…and I didn’t really need to get an answer to that question, you know?
I feel good this morning yet again; I’ve been sleeping well every night this week and it’s been really nice. I did my errands last night, got home and got started on the dishes and did some other clean-up around here. Paul didn’t get home until late, so I mostly went down Youtube idle curiosity research holes. I also managed to get the Scotty Bible’s first draft finished; it’s just raw information for now that I have to reorganize and pull together. I am also realizing, as I mentioned yesterday, that I should do a concordance of everything I’ve written by place; Kansas, California, New Orleans, Louisiana, Florida, and Alabama. That’s the problem of having characters cross over from stand-alones to the series and back again, you know? I was realizing that the lawyer the boys hire in Royal Street Reveillon doesn’t have as much information in the Scotty series about him as I would have thought…only to remember that Loren McKeithen has a much larger role in the Chanse series than the Scotty. Oops!
I also realized last night, as I watched news clips and documentaries about the Civil War, that with my anxiety gone I no longer feel the need to belittle and dismiss things I’ve accomplished in this wild and crazy career of mine. I’ve written a shit ton of books, short stories, and blog posts–and when I think about all the queer papers and magazines that I’ve written for over the years, yes, my output has been a bit prodigious. It wasn’t false humility (though I am often horrified at how easy it is to slip into egomania, and always over-correct once I catch myself); I honestly still thought I wasn’t very good at what I do. I always compare myself to other writers and come up wanting; but it’s really not a competition of any kind; I appreciate great writers who produce great work, and my work is different from theirs. I always strive to be better, to get better, and not stagnate–the problem that creates is it extrapolates to I could have done that better and dismissing it. Those are the kind of brain landmines I need to watch for, and avoid whenever possible. I’m proud of all my work, for the record. Sure, going through the old Scotty books was always difficult (I always edit it another time as I’m reading it) but doing it for the Bible, where I’m just looking for information, was different. Sure, there were some clunky things I could have said better, but overall, I was actually a little surprised to see how good–and clever–the books actually are. It also reminded me of how I used to write the first ones, what I have always tried to do in my work–whether anyone notices or not. (Someone once emailed me after reading one of my books and said, “Did you deliberately do this?” and delighted, I wrote back “Absolutely!” That was a big thrill for me.)
And I am proud of my work. I overcame so many obstacles to build this career, and I am pleased with myself, too. My books are pretty good–yes, there will always be a few where I think, God I wish I could give that one more pass, but even those are pretty good. There are some I am more pleased with than others; yes, I have favorite children. But that doesn’t mean that I am not pleased with all of them. How many people told me along the way that this would never happen for me, that I didn’t have what it takes, or that I have no ability at all? Maybe, maybe not–but if that’s what you think, how many books have you published? How many awards have you been nominated for, or won?
I really wish I’d known it was anxiety much sooner.
And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely Wednesday, Constant Reader, and I will check in with you again, perhaps later!
I love that historians count all of the women he married as his wives; although technically the first two were actually annulled, so the marriages were never, at least legally, valid. ↩︎
I totally understand why films and television shows based on history have to make changes; the actual stories don’t play out perfectly for different media and thus must be adapted. I do ↩︎
I got to the hotel after dark Friday and felt very tired. Dad had gone to his alma mater’s football game with two of his teammates (I started to say old in the generic sense and then realized Dad IS old and so are they so best not to, or at least write a caveat so here we are). It was a peaceful, lovely drive and I was listening to my audiobook (Paul Tremblay’s Survivor Song and I HAVE THOUGHTS), and there wasn’t much traffic, if any. It was a beautiful drive, and I never cease marveling at how beautiful Mississippi and Alabama are. I had planned on stopping to eat at the Whataburger in Tuscaloosa, but for some reason the map app did not take me that way this time; it seems like I never come up here or leave the same way twice in a row. It always takes the same amount of time, though it’s been interesting seeing parts of both states I am not familiar with. I almost stopped at a Jack’s in some small town I passed through after leaving 20/591; but I thought there would be somewhere else before getting here.
NARRATOR VOICE: There was, in fact, nowhere else.
I always forget how little there is between Meridian and Tuscaloosa, or between Birmingham and Chattanooga. It’s best to eat when you get hungry, and get gas before you get down to a quarter tank else you could be fucked. I know I’ve been ravenous sometimes when I’ve had to wait till past Chattanooga to eat, and same for going up from Mobile to Montgomery. It’s weird to feel so anchored to Alabama, isn’t it? I don’t remember living here; I was two when we moved north. We came down to visit a lot, and I know for Mom and Dad (and my grandmother who also lived in Chicago) they always referred to these trips as “going home” and so I, too, have always thought of Alabama as home in a corner of my mind. I never felt like I belonged almost everywhere I lived once I became more aware of just how different I was from everyone else. I felt displaced, like my life was supposed to have happened in Alabama but it didn’t, so in addition to feeling different I felt almost like a transient everywhere. New Orleans is home now, was always meant to be my home, and I have never felt more like I belonged than I do there. I think my life would have been very different had I grown up here, maybe even harder or more difficult; I don’t know. New Orleans and Alabama are, oddly enough, the only places where I don’t feel like a tourist.
I’ve always written about Alabama, and I do sometimes think that somehow my Alabama stories are my best work, as far as the writing is concerned. The story I’m revising right now was the first work I turned into a college writing class (after the first course I took was such a horrific, unmitigated disaster that basically pulled the rug out from under me and derailed my life for years) that not only the professor was incredibly enthusiastic about, but the entire class was as well. This was the story that made me start believing in myself a bit more after the asshole professor derailed my life2 when I was seventeen. Anyway, I digress. Driving through the countryside after getting off the interstate up there always is weird to me in many ways, because it’s so different than I remember. When I was a kid, most houses in the county were old and made of wood, and there were still tin roofs around, although mostly on barns and out buildings on the farms. Now the houses are mostly brick, there are a lot of McMansions, but there are still a lot of blighted buildings rotting and falling to pieces where they stand. There are abandoned country stores and dead gas stations, the store built from cinder blocks and the rusting pumps still out on a crumbling concrete island. It’s also funny because I wrote Bury Me in Shadows from memory, having not been up there in over twenty years, and seeing the differences now…I guess I never had to worry overmuch about basing that book in a county based on where we’re from, and the differences are so striking no one would recognize it as the same.
Saturday I went with Dad to his high school reunion lunch, which was at a nice restaurant where we always eat every time I’m up there (they have the most amazing chicken fajitas), and that was nice. We headed back to the hotel after and spent the rest of the day watching college football games. The LSU game was amazing, but they sent me into despair a lot during the night. They won the game without ever having the lead! A bitterly disappointing loss for Mississippi (how many times have their dreams died in Tiger Stadium? It’s really no wonder why they hate us so much), but a very exciting game. The Tigers are now ranked in the top ten–which is great, but a big win does not a season make, if you know what I mean–and the rest of the schedule isn’t easy, either. Two road games in a row, then Alabama before one more road game at Florida before finishing out the season with two home games in a row. There has been a lot of great football games this season already, which has made it a lot more fun to watch than it has been in years. Saturday alone, there was the LSU game; Alabama-South Carolina (Alabama eked out a two point win); Tennessee beating Florida in overtime; Penn State-USC went to overtime; Oregon beat Ohio State by one point; and Vanderbilt kept up its winning ways by beating Kentucky. I ain’t going to lie, I am rooting for Vanderbilt to have a great season.
Yesterday I drove home, finished listening to Survivor Song, and then listened to the “My Dad Wrote a Porno”. I was very tired when I got home, very tired, so I spent the day in my chair getting caught up on the news from the weekend before we started getting caught up on our shows. I went to bed early and slept well–I was tired all weekend, but had slept well both nights, but not long enough. I did sleep a little later this morning (I took the day off) than I was expecting (but I also woke up at 5:30 the first time), and feel good. There’s still some residual trip hangover today, but I don’t mind that in the least. The apartment is a mess–I left it one when I left Friday afternoon, and so that needs to be handled today and I am also going to have to run some errands and get reoriented back into normality before heading back into the office tomorrow morning bright and early. I also have some things that I need to get done today–probably will be able to get all that done this afternoon–and then probably will settle into a relaxing evening. We started watching season four of Outer Banks last night, so we’ll watch some of that I am sure.
I didn’t have time to do much reading or writing this weekend, either, but I feel like today I can get to some of that. I do want to finish Gabino’s book this week, so I can move on to another as well.
And on that note, I’m heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely Monday, Constant Reader, and I may be back later; one never knows.
The two highways run together from Meridian to almost Georgia–somewhere in northeast Alabama at any rate; it really is always mostly a blur. ↩︎
I also realized this weekend that horrible professor fucked up my life for a very long time, and I’ve never given him enough credit for unmooring me and setting me adrift. I’ve always hated him, but now I hate him even more, and what an abuse of power and control! He shouldn’t have been allowed near students under any circumstance. ↩︎
Friday, and after I get my work at home duties finished, it’s time to head up to Alabama. It’ll be nice seeing Dad again, and I will be listening to Paul Tremblay on my way to and fro; Survivor Song, in case you were wondering. I’ve almost finished all of his canon, which means the last book will be saved until his next new one drops, so I won’t be out of his work to read (I know, it’s silly to do this, and maybe I’ll finally stop holding books in reserve because I don’t want to be out of that author’s work to look forward to *coughs* Daphne du Maurier *cough* Mary Stewart *cough* Shirley Jackson *cough*)1. I think I am going to have some down time while up there, so I can possibly get some reading of the new Gabino done as well. (Dad is doing some things with the other survivors from his graduating class2.) I did wind up sleeping in a little later than I intended, but I was very worn out by the time I ran my errands and got home from everything. I relaxed last night once I was home–Paul was at an event and didn’t get home until later (we watched this week’s Agatha All Along and the season debut of Abbott Elementary)–with Sparky (who was a demon cat for a lot longer than usual) and got caught up on the news while resting and waiting for Paul to get home. I feel a bit more rested this morning, but I have to drive for between five and six hours tonight, so I worry that I’ll be super tired when I get there tonight. We’re having a cold spell (for us) and the temperatures are very fall for us. Next week it’s going to be in the fifties at night, with highs in the seventies during the day. Woo-hoo! The season of sweat appears to be behind us at long last.
I saw hints and rumors that the same area in the western Caribbean that spawned both Helene and Milton might be looking to hatch up another one of these accelerated storms that will follow the same approximate path, which is horrifying; Nadine will be the name3. What a horrible season–and I also can’t help but remember former patterns, in which New Orleans and Louisiana got slammed pretty hard the year after Florida got hit four times in one year. (I always look for patterns, because on a deep level I find patterns very soothing)
I did do some work on writing last night; I started looking through the new Scotty to see where I was already wrong on things (I have always based his grandparents’ home in the Garden District on one specific house; I was writing it from memory, but in reviewing a lot of the photos I took of the house at one point, I saw my memory had been faulty and incorrect. I need to have some things wrong, of course, so people won’t know the actual house (or so the owners can’t sue me for having people murdered on their property), but it cleared up some confusion in my brain about what I was writing, and so I will need to go in and fix that. I think that’s my project for the next week; revising and correcting the chapters I already have finished, while also preparing a cast list and an outline as I go. I also have to come up with a synopsis and cover text and marketing copy for it; so those are all things I can work on over the next week. I also have to finish revising that short story for the anthology whose deadline is the 15th; I think I know how to really make the story finally work after all these years…and if they don’t take it, I can put the revised version in my new collection. I love that for me, and I also figured out what story I am going to write for another anthology I’ve been asked to contribute something to; and I also want to write something for another anthology whose due date is November 1–so I’d best get cracking on that, don’t you think?
I was starting to feel a bit overwhelmed and stretched pretty far this past week–lots of things to do, more pressure at the day job (and it’s temporary, Mary, so get over yourself), a messy home, a trip to take and another to plan, and of course my own pressures from deadlines and writing. That’s not even taking into consideration the existential crisis facing us in this upcoming election–blocking and avoiding all legacy media has been wonderful; their corrupt betrayal of the American public since 2015 (if not sooner; I am pretty sure they didn’t report on Obama fairly, either) has rendered them forever meaningless in my eyes. I am not nearly as stressed about any of this as I usually am. I am sure that’s partly the generalized anxiety disorder being medicated properly, and the other was a conscious decision. The deletion of Twitter has been probably the best thing I’ve done for my mental health since deciding last year to get the right medications for that (properly diagnosed at sixty-two at long last). It has freed up so much time–I thought of myself as a casual Twitter user, but now that I no longer have that wretched app, I am seeing that I used it a lot more than I ever thought, so breaking that wretched addiction and walking away from it for good was incredibly wise. Paul isn’t on social media at all, and he is much happier without it than I was with it all this time.
But now that I’ve had a good night’s sleep and got some extra, I am feeling good and like I can handle everything. I am not going into the office on Monday–I have some appointments so took the day off–so I am going to be able to get the house worked on some and run some necessary errands on that day to prep for the week. I’m going back to Kentucky later this month for a longer visit, but I’ve not really figured that out just yet, either.
And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines so I can get my work done and head north. Have a great Friday, Constant Reader, and I’ll be back tomorrow–and if not, definitely Sunday after I get back to New Orleans.
There are also a couple of Agatha Christies I’ve not read–Death in the Air and Murder in Three Acts.↩︎
Yes, I can hear how grim that sounds once I started typing it out, but it’s accurate. How else to say it simply? They all graduated sixty-three years ago (and yes, I was born three months after my parents graduated), so they are all at least eighty-one–and much as modern medicine has extended longevity, they are also the last generation that was encouraged to smoke, along with all the other unhealthy ways they loved. Imagine cooking with lard, for one. ↩︎
IMPORTANT CORRECTION: It was fake news. There’s nothing there right now, but it’s possible and any potential path of something that doesn’t exist is obviously incorrect. Sorry for including this, but I did say it was a rumor. ↩︎
It was chilly yesterday morning when I left the Lost Apartment for the office; I actually thought about going back in for a light jacket, but decided eventually to simply tough it out because I suspected (correctly) that the once the day got going it would get hot out. I was tired yesterday–fatigued, more than anything else–but the day was relatively calm at the office which was a lovely respite from the shit show of the earlier days of the week at the office; yesterday, however, we had several amusing intercom system mishaps. A code was called seven times…for a floor we don’t have. Another time the intercom system got turned on and a conversation between three women was broadcast through the entire building. Needless to say, our entire department was in hysterics.
Kind of a silly day around the office really.
But I was very tired when I got off work again yesterday, which comes mostly from stress at at the office. Yesterday was much better than the previous days, but those two days kind of wore me down for the entire week. I did manage to work on a short story I want to revise and submit to an anthology next week, and once I did go to bed, I slept extremely well and feel rested this morning, which is awesome. I don’t think today at work will be terribly stressful, but you never know. I haven’t yet checked the news about Milton and what’s happened to Florida overnight–mainly because I’m almost afraid to; just as I’m a bit worried to check the hurricane center for new developments occurring. The season doesn’t officially end until December 1 (!!!) and there have been years where we’ve had hurricanes through November. Yay.
After my brain finally became too tired to do anything last night, I just spent the rest of the evening before going to be watching hurricane coverage. I lived in Tampa for about four years or so, back in the 90s before cell phones and before everyone had the Internet; a simpler time if you will. I’ve only been back once, and I could hardly recognize it from when I lived there before (I did fly into the airport two other times, one for Bouchercon in St. Petersburg and the other when we went to that tennis resort just north of the city), it’s changed so much. That’s partly why I don’t write about Tampa; I have fictional places in Florida I write about because it’s how I remember things. I should probably go back to Tampa once more to research how the city is laid out and other things, get a feel for it–or I could just keep writing about fictional cities that are based on real places. Muscles is a Florida book, should I ever finish it, and there are several other ideas I have for Florida books. Will I ever have the time or opportunity to write them? I still delude myself that this I will.
I am glad, however, that bad as it was–Milton wasn’t as bad as he could have been. But I am sure those who’ve lost their homes probably aren’t feeling grateful for anything this morning other than being still alive. Trust me, I know the feeling. It’s sometimes hard to believe that Katrina was over nineteen years ago. I don’t know what we do if we dealt with another one of those here; we’re both kind of old to go through the rebuilding thing again, so we maintain a sense of denial about Louisiana’s hurricane vulnerability. I also kind of feel in some way–the superstitions left over from the primordial ooze brain deep inside–that writing about a hurricane hitting New Orleans will cause one, because I am just THAT powerful. There was a lot of that after Katrina in the first few days, until I realized how incredibly narcissistic that is. Yes, Greg, your city was destroyed because you were writing about a hurricane at the time; everyone else is at your mercy. Talk about a God complex.
And tomorrow I’ll be working at home before I leave for Alabama. I may stop by the office on my way out of town; but we shall see. And on that note, I am going to head into the spice mines. Have a great Thursday, everyone, and I shall chat with you tomorrow morning.
Ugh, the forecast for Milton and Florida remains extremely dire this morning. I feel you, Florida. It also hasn’t escaped me that I am writing a hurricane book for Scotty and this hurricane is Milton–which is Scotty’s actual first name(!!!). I hope everyone able to leave were able to get out safely, and that those who could not are safe as they can be when this storm comes ashore.1 Please help out wherever you can for the victims of this, while not forgetting those still struggling to get over Helene’s fury. Awful, just awful. (And yes, hurricane victims DO need feminine hygiene products, so get the fuck over yourself, Senator Cornpone. I know how squeamish vaginas make you, but that doesn’t change women’s realities, you miserable piece of shit.) I will never understand why men like him hate women so much–and I don’t get how the women in his immediate family haven’t smothered him in his sleep yet, but here we are.
Yesterday was exhausting, not going to lie. This week has been exhausting at the day job this week. My supervisor is in London for two weeks, so I am loosely in charge of my program and I. Do. Not. Like. This. One. Bit. She’s been gone for two days. TWO DAYS. So many things have gone wrong, so many challenges have come up, and I’ve had to come up with workable solutions. It’s not that I can’t do this kind of work–I definitely can–but I do not like to do this kind of work. I don’t want to feel like something Sparky dragged in when I get home, so I am too tired to write or read or do much of anything. This is why I have never wanted to be in management, you know? But all I can do is my best–it’s hard to keep up with everything, I can see why she’s pulling her hair out on a daily basis–and hope that’s good enough. No pressure at all, right? But…I also don’t want her to come back to the office after two weeks and have everything be on fire–especially since I am going to Kentucky a few days after she gets back.
I am definitely leaving for Alabama on Friday. I am going to do my work-at-home chores, and then hit the road and head north. It’ll be nice to see Dad again; one of the only good things that’s happened since we lost Mom is Dad and I have become a lot closer and have spent a lot more time together than we ever have. It’s actually very nice. I just wish Kentucky wasn’t so far away; if he were over in Houston or Alabama, I could make it over there for a weekend every month like I used to do when I worked for the airline and lived in Tampa; at least once a month I’d hop a flight for Houston to go chill out and visit them. I missed that when they moved to Kentucky, but a twelve hour drive is still a twelve hour drive. It’s why I didn’t see Mom more, and that’s something I’ll probably carry to my grave with me.
I also had a ZOOM meeting last night with some writer friends about a project we’re working on, which is always delightful; spending time with writers, even if we aren’t specifically talking about writing and publishing, is always lovely. Paul got home late last night, and all I basically did after the ZOOM call was escape to my easy chair to be a Sparky cushion. I watched hurricane updates and the news, as is my usual wont, and Paul came home just as I was getting ready to go upstairs and go to bed. I slept well last night, which was great, and my brain feels alert and ready to go even if my body feels a bit tired. Tonight on the way home from work I am going to go uptown to get the mail and maybe stop to make groceries…I’m not so sure because I have to figure out how to feed Paul while I am gone–and the big grocery run will have to wait until I get back.
I also figured out how to rewrite a story for an anthology call for submissions yesterday, which is very exciting. I am hoping to get that all worked on and going over the rest of the week. Going to Alabama while I am rewriting an Alabama story–the very first one I ever wrote, back in 1983–and I think I can finally make the story work the way it should have all along. I’m also finding that lately I am solving a lot of problems in work of mine that has been stalled for a long time, which is very exciting. I am hoping to have a very productive 2025, in all honesty, and bearing any tragedies or disruptions (God only knows what’s around the corner for me) but there’s nothing wrong with making plans, you know? So what if plans can get disrupted for reasons that are out of my control? (There’s so little in life that is actually under our own control; the only thing we do control is how we handle things, how we react, and how it changes us in ways we won’t understand until later–sometimes much, much later.)
And I have, recently (pardon me if I mentioned this already) realized that, with my anxiety medicated and under control, I’ve been able to be a lot calmer and cooler about things, and realized how much of my own behavior was anxiety-driven and the result of “trauma” (I feel like this word is used too much…to the point where it’s becoming almost meaningless) I experienced and learned (not always the right lesson) from. I’ve also realized that I’ve never put myself first–especially not my own mental health–and that is going to be a huge priority going forward for me. People may not like it, but I also don’t give much of a fuck what other people think, you know? You don’t like me? Not my problem, really. I feel like that’s an important breakthrough for me. Maybe it’s homophobia, maybe they think I am an asshole, but it’s really none of my business what other people think of me, and it is assuredly not my problem. And it feels good, you know? I always worried that I was too selfish (been told that enough by toxic narcissists to believe it), and yes, I can be…but I also don’t want to let anything or anyone come between me and my writing anymore (well, that doesn’t include Paul, of course).
And on that note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a great Wednesday–oh, it’s even Pay-the-Bills Day! I may be back later.
Why is “sweaty shirtless man holding a tire” a trope in physique photography? I’m assuming it’s because of Herb Ritts.
After Katrina, I made the decision to never be one of those horrible people who blame victims for their bad luck; it isn’t cheap to evacuate by any means, and some people can’t afford to, don’t have an automobile that can last in evacuation traffic, or have some other reason they can’t go. Don’t judge them, for fuck’s sake, you heartless assholes. No one “deserves” this. ↩︎
Queer and Loathing in America 