The Children's Hour

A number of photos in no particular order. I don't think I've ever done a large sculpture quite this quickly. Hmmmm. I don't know that I want to again, any time soon. But I did enjoy showing you lots of the steps involved. Still he came alive for me late one evening and I'll never forget that experience, and the piece came out rather well, I think. It's not your everyday floor lamp, exactly. One day possibly I'll show you all the steps involved in making a rat...there are more than you might think, and probably different.

The Children's Hour

Closer look at his face. I'll have to try to get a better photo of his eyes during the daylight.

The Children's Hour - little puppets

A closeup of the puppets in his pocket, and a look at some of the surface texture, which I'm rather pleased with.

Here with his beacon lit. 

The Children's Hour - puppet

A closer look at the puppet, who wears a fox mask. I stayed with a monochromatic finish. It just seemed to work for this piece. There's a lot going on with this piece, so I'll try to get some more photos on a less hectic day. I do hope you've enjoyed it's creation.

The Children's Hour

Busy night. Trick or Treating for Orion, I'm so ready for food and sleep.

Something October - Part 3 conclusion

“I’ve played this game before, with you. The board was bigger then. No. I was smaller.”

“Yessss.”

“I left this dream, and you came with me. And…my mother…”

“Brought…us…BACK!!” he roared the words. My hair blew back in the gust as he stood, violently striking the chessboard. The pieces flew, tiny missiles into the darkness. The board crashed into the shelves, shattering glass jars filled with horrors and sending shards flying in all directions. One tore into my cheek.
The noise was deafening. The wind was a discordant symphony of shrieks. A palm tree had just crashed onto an iron bench on the balcony, knocking it through the French door. Loosed curtains whipped in the violent, sandy air, creating strobe-like shadows. Fragments of glass littered the carpet. I was shaking, my fingers curled like two dying spiders. I pulled myself up and reached for the lamp. My hand brushed something soft…the cat? No, it was the puppet. I flung it to the floor.
Panicked, I was tangled in the covers, stumbling, half falling down the hall slapping at light switches as I went. To the kitchen, bright now as an operating room. I pressed my hands to my face like a madwoman. One cheek was bleeding. I bent over the counter, gulping air, staring at my bloody hands. Oh God, help me. I’m losing it. This time I’m really losing it. My chest felt raw. Breathe. Breathe. No. I wasn’t crazy. Just very, very frightened. The wind howled. A deck chair clattered, then splashed into the pool. Good. Something familiar. Something real.
Real? What is real? How could I know?

But I did know this: That sometimes we trade memories for dreams, dreams for memories. These were more than dreams. I was going back to a place I’d been before. A place with a door I’d left ajar. A door my mother had died trying to shut. At her death, grief had stunned me into a quiet where my inner workings would reshape things noiselessly, without expression. Now I cried like the child I had been; loudly, openly, tears streaming, nose running, body quaking. Then, after awhile, I stopped, took some ragged breaths and stood. I tore two paper towels from the roll, wet them under the faucet and wiped my face. I might need some stitches.
But first, it seemed I was ready to learn something new. October had come to the desert after all.
I tore off a dry towel, blew my nose and walked to the studio. I surveyed the evidence of years of work . My gaze rested on the stacks of drawings and blueprints for the carnival.
They were using me. I was the puppet. I’d let them in and my mother had found a way to drag them back, close the portal. Now I was building them a new home in the desert; a carnival. The were awaiting my invitation, again. They couldn’t come without it. But why the nightmares? Those were more like warnings. My mother, and the puppet…
Oh Christ! I remembered the puppet. I sank to the chair like a rag doll. Then shot up and tore down the hall to the closet where we kept all the things we didn’t know what else to do with. The puppet had been in the old box of photos from my parent’s house. I tugged it out, threw open the lid and began clawing through it. So much for not being crazy.
Piano recital, no. Birthday, no. Welcome to Virginia, uh-uh. My sister; ugly prom dress, uglier boyfriend, toss. Christmas, Aunt Ester, another piano recital. There. There it was. A black and white photo with a scalloped white border. A six-year-old Sara looked back at me through years suddenly as clear as glass.
And, this is what I knew; There was a closet in my mind where I locked all the things I didn’t know what else to do with…
She sat on her bed, a thin little girl in pajamas, smiling at the camera…like memories for dreams, dreams for memories..
Mother held the camera, but for now, the little Sara was smiling at me and the key turned in the lock.
She was surrounded by plush animals, get-well cards, coloring books. She held one hand up for the camera, for all these years, on it was a white-faced jester puppet. The puppet was the same as every other puppet given every other child in the pediatric ward. The puppet was what she wouldn’t let go of, even as nurses cut her pajamas away with scissors to get around IV’s, even when she heard her mother sobbing in her father’s arms, even as she heard herself scream in the icy bath that would stop her brain from cooking in her head..
The door swung open.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Sis.”

“God, Sara, it’s four in the morning there. What’s happened?”

“ I need to ask you something, Evelyn. When I was in the hospital, when I was six. You were there, right?”

There was a silence. She’d dreaded this moment for a long time. I knew it, somehow. I’d nearly asked her several years ago, after our dad died, when we found the puppet.
Well, here it was.

“What the hell happened to me?”

“Sara, you were very sick. Your fever…Then Mom. Everything went to shit.”

“I died, didn’t I?”

Silence. “Evelyn. This is important.”

“Six minutes. They were ready to pronounce you.”

Some other place. Six minutes or an eternity. No difference there. I closed my eyes. Dreams for memories. Memories for dreams. I rearranged a few items in my brain’s closet. A place for everything and everything in its place. Six minutes in Hell. I’d known. In a way, I’d always known. And now I was mad.

“All this time. The nightmares, the therapy, the drugs, my work…How could you? How could you not…

She choked out the words. “We didn’t tell you, because Mom never got over it. Because she killed herself. Because you would have hated yourself for it.”

“How could you know that?”

“Because I hated you for it.” She let out a ragged sigh. “But not now. Not for a long time.”

“Thank you.”

“Sara…”
I hung up the phone.

I was no longer alone in the studio. I knew without understanding how I knew. If you’ve ever been in a car crash you might understand what someone means when they say they read all the bumper stickers as they flew through the windshield. Time becomes meaningless.

And, there she was. Spun copper for hair, eyes green, kind and intelligent. Her dress was dry, her face radiant. She looked warm. She was surrounded by a group of children with bright, happy faces. My mother. And the chess children. It was just after midnight, but they were bathed in sunlight. Their hair blew in a breeze I couldn’t feel. The light grew brighter, blinding. I shut my eyes. When I opened them again, they were gone.

My hand puppet, back in its case, stared placidly at nothing.

The first rays were just appearing over the mountains behind me. I drove with the windows open. The dusty air flapped the papers piled in the back seat. The trunk was packed full of more drawings, as well as notebooks and discs and models, some working, some not. On top of all was a shovel, two cans of lighter fluid and a box of strike-anywhere matches. Tucked into the sun visor was a black and white photo of a little girl smiling at the camera, with a jester puppet on one hand. I fished a bottle of pills out of my purse, popped the cap and emptied them into the wind.
I had some doors to close. Some here and some in a place I knew well enough now to get around in. Neither would be easy, but I’d be okay. One way or another. I punched the CD player and ‘Religion’ cranked it up again. My sunglasses were dusty. As I ticked off Joshua trees and tumbleweeds to the beat of “Better Off Dead” I relented. I’d brought October here, and now I would send her home.

End

If you made it this far, thanks, and Happy Halloween.

G'night

Something October Part 2

The gallery of faces twisted with synchronized grace to stare reproachfully at me. I was newly aware of the drip, drip, drip in the near distance, aware of my vulnerable back, not daring to turn around. The pawn squirmed as I held it between my thumb and forefinger. I put it down quickly. One square forward. Fine. If my opponent takes my knight, he’ll lose his bishop. A sigh of relief escaped me when the tiny faces turned as one back to my opponent.
The drip became more distinct. I looked toward it.

It was my mother. A faint aura of light revealed her sitting in a familiar position before her easel. Her housedress was soaked, as was her auburn hair, looking inky black dripping in the half light. She was working at a drawing. I could hear the scritch of her pencil.

Wake up, Sara. Oh please wake up.

My mother, who’d been healthy and beautiful and thirty-five. Who’d walked down the steps with a basket of laundry to hang in the sunshine on a lovely summer morning. Who’d pinned up the towels and underpants and put the extra pins back in the basket. Who’d put the basket on the stoop of her pristine porch, turned and walked down to the river and stepping in, pulled great lungfuls into herself.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Please let me wake. Her pencil went scritch. The twisted figure in the sketch had a paper mache mask. “Wrong room, Sara,” said the paper mache mouth.

I started violently, spilling coffee on the already ugly chair. It was still warm. I looked around the familiar room like a lost soul. There were my tables, littered with sketches and mechanical drawings of carousels and Ferris wheels, shelves of models, some working, some not.
“I’m working way too hard,” I said, wishing my family wasn’t quite so busy, wishing the house wasn’t quite so empty. I poured out the coffee, got a glass of milk instead.
After an hour of thumbing through magazines and half listening to television, I felt calmer and even sleepy. By eleven-thirty I was enjoying the cool feel of the sheets on my feet and the warm press of the cat against my back. The wind was picking up. I didn’t mind. It was the desert’s answer to rain on the roof and, in its own way, soothing.

There was the smell of sawdust. It was still, as though all the air had been pulled away, and waited to rush back in. I felt warmth on my face and opened my eyes. A hobo fire burned in an old metal barrel, its rusted holes creating a grotesque jack-o-lantern. An old man swept up wadded food wrappers, lost toys and ticket stubs and threw the bits into the flames. Shadows from the fire crawled over his intricately tattooed arms. His dirty undershirt, ripped in several places, revealed deep intaglio on his back and shoulders. A barn owl, white-faced and beautiful, perched on his shoulder. Rivulets of blood flowed from where the bird’s claws held him. More was caked on his shirt. Behind him was a tent, darker than the shadows. The sweeping man gestured to the open flap, then held out his hand. I stared dumbly for a second, then fished around in my pocket and found a crumpled twenty and three ones. I straighten the bills, folded them once and laid them on his outstretched palm. He dropped them into the fire and walked away, sweeping as he went. The owl swiveled its head to stare back at me as they retreated into the darkness.
I was inside the tent, back on the confessional stool, back in the game. I sensed others in the darkness, an occasional rustle, and muted jingles. I smelled the antiseptic, sharp and thick.
My opponent made his move. This time his hands were pale flesh, stretched tightly over large knuckled bones that looked too long. He captured one of my pawns with his bishop. My heart sank. The pieces were children. Now I knew what hopelessness looked like; it was carved into their faces. No, I was mistaken, these were not children, but ghosts of children, beyond hope or fear, which are privileges of the living. Some had been here as long as there have been carnivals. They were once children who’d laughed in the sunshine, fidgeted in church and rushed through their homework. Who’d stolen an extra turn on the Ferris wheel, chosen the wrong door in the funhouse and now they were here, wherever this was. His bony fingers handed my captured pawn to a dwarf standing beside the board, who accepted it with both his small hands cupped together. A tiny faded teddy bear lay in the square where the pawn had stood. Woodenly, I reached for it, but before I touched it, my opponent flicked it into the darkness with a finger. The dwarf pulled a pair of scissors from the impossible folds of his ragged clothing. I gagged. He motioned with his head to a bucket on the dirt floor beside my stool. I smelt his putrid breath and retched, puking into the bucket. I wiped my mouth on my sleeve, dizzy but too terrified to black out.
The dwarf screwed a lid onto a glass canning jar. Formaldehyde; that was the antiseptic smell. He held it up. The tiny body floated inside, minus the head. He waddled over to a wall of wooden shelves behind my opponent and carefully placed the jar between two identical ones. A punk show. There were other things in jars I couldn’t recognize and wanted no closer look at. And one I knew all too well. My mother, in miniature, floated in her own jar, eyes open, her pink housedress billowing around her, a line of tiny bubbles streaming from her mouth and nose. I retched again but there was nothing left.
You’re dreaming Sara. Wake up. A gossamer thread of sanity. Hear the wind?


I heard muffled laughter. There they were. The carnival troupe. Sweet Pete, Jack, Bones, Lady Lamia, characters I’d sculpted in wood or clay. My opponent raised his head. Paper mache mask with painted cheeks and a blood red grin. “Your move,” said the paper mache mouth.
My remaining sanity gathered itself and broke through my will, escaping into the darkness, leaving me with a curious sense of freedom.

“ I’ve been here before,” I heard myself, from a distance.
“Yessss,” said the mask.

Something October Part One

The thing in the studio is drying, tomorrow will be painting and photographing. In the meantime, since this is the last breath of October, I thought to post the story I wrote for the Strange Attraction anthology. It's not a new story, but I'd bet not many of you have read it. I've shortened it just a bit and divided it into parts for posting.

Something October

October doesn’t come here. It starts in Wisconsin, with good intentions, but turns tail somewhere north of Pueblo before its first taste of desert , a long haul from Blythe, California. I missed it. October wasn’t just a month for me; it was a state of mind. Today though, my mind was in the state of here and now, driving home from the foundry with a new bronze on the back seat. It was a jester dangling a tiny dead angel from a noose. I’d given the jester only a vague hint at facial features and star-shaped hollows for eyes.
I’d always loved October. The wind felt like promises. Growing up, I turned each year with the leaves. It was time for new discoveries. Some got filed with fodder, some made me a little wiser, but some would empty my pockets of all I believed, leaving room for things I didn’t want to. I closed the windows quickly against a curtain of blowing sand just ahead. My windshield was finely pitted; signatures of other sandstorms. It was nearly Halloween. As I ticked off Joshua trees to the beat of Stranger than Fiction, I relented. October was a no-show. Still, of all that mattered and all that didn’t, October always brought one particular magic: Carnival.

I was eight when I saw the contortionist. It had been a damp-chilly Carolina day and my dad and I walked about the county fair. There were calliopes and ghost houses, cows and jars of pickles with prize ribbons, Joey’s hawking their crooked games, vinegar fries in greasy cones and the Ferris wheel with its view of the river. A tent at the end of the midway held a wooden stage with a rusty tin skirt. A tattooed man stood by a sandwich board that said ‘Strange Attractions’ would appear. He tore our tickets in half with stained fingers and we stepped solemnly through the flap to stand near the stage. We listened to the vagabond arrangement of some murdered waltz. A spotlight washed over the stage and something burst spider-like from the folds of musty velvet. It was a man, long and wiry, in a black leotard and a paper mache mask. He curled around backwards so that his head and arms came right through his shins. When he skittered to the edge of the stage a yard from where I stood, I slipped my hand into Dad’s, suddenly regretting that last candy apple. Something felt very, very wrong. The contortionist’s eyes surveyed the audience and then a terrible thing happened. The eyes settled on me. The moment stretched and thinned. I looked up at my dad. His head bobbed to the music, his cigarette glowed red.
The mask was suddenly inches from my face. “Hello, Sara.” An eye winked and the contortionist skittered away, disappearing into the blackness. For a moment there was no air, then time snapped back to normal. The music played. Two clowns and an ancient poodle were exiting through the velvet. We walked back through the flap with the other patrons. I put my head down and followed my dad through the carnival’s arched gate.

I hadn’t thought about that in ages. I wasn’t even sure how much of it was real anymore, and which part was dream. Mostly that depended on whether I considered it during the bright light of day, or late, when everything was quiet but the breathing of the walls. I’d had nightmares since I could remember. I’d been in therapy, taken a prescription, tried smoking dope. Nothing helped. Finally, I’d learned to live with them. I sculpted and painted them, building a successful career. Now I was beginning the project of a lifetime, a full sized carnival to be constructed right here in the desert. Rides that employed the latest computer technology, but were built to look like they ran on magic older than the wood I’d carve their facades from.
I’d turned lemons to lemonade. But recently, the dreams had grown more disturbing, more tiring.

When I got home, the house was quiet. I was pouring myself a cup of coffee when I noticed my little hand puppet on the counter. I wondered who would have taken it from the studio, but was too tired to pursue it. I put it back in its case, then plopped down in the ugly but infinitely comfortable chair between my work tables. With the strange clarity that exhaustion sometimes brings, images began filtering back in.
It was cold and very dark. I smelled alcohol, antiseptic. I sat on a confessional stool of carved wood, smoothed by years of use. Oddly, my feet didn’t touch the floor. A single lamp illuminated only the chessboard before me. I played black. The knights had broken rank and several pawns were face-to-face at the front line.
My opponent sat in shadow, only his hands visible. The one resting on the table was veined marble. The other, hovering over our silent battle, was carved of some exotic wood. I waited.
No walls were visible in the darkness, but I became aware of a slow, steady drip somewhere to my right. Its echo told me the room was large and empty. I turned my attention back to the game. I’d seen masterfully carved sets before, but not like this. The kings were as long as my hand. Except for the rooks, the pieces had intricately carved faces round as moons and upturned in grotesque parodies of children. I thought of the sunflowers by the river. My opponent’s hand moved to his queen, touching her crown with one polished finger. I watched in horror as the little faces turned in unison. The hand paused, then chose the bishop instead, whose tiny eyes widened as he was lifted delicately and moved two squares diagonally, next to my knight, whose face now followed the hand as it retreated.
My move.











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October eyes

Last night Pete heard a noise, opened the back door to a pair of eyes looking right back at him. Our guest was accomodating enough to stay put for a photo. I spent the morning working in the studio, the afternoon seeing "Stay" and the evening packing art for the World Fantasy Convention.

Another view

A better look at our visitor. Tomorrow I'll be back in the studio with an entirely different visitor. I'll be sure to take a couple of photos. After "Stay" I'm seeing nothing but grids, but I should be over that by tomorrow.

Luck's Dancer

I'm going to be putting up a page of special pieces for holiday gifts.
The first of these is "Luck's Dancer"

Does he look familiar to you? He should, as he is cast from a mold taken directly from "Luck Be Nimble, Fate Be Quick" SlaughterHouse Studios: Luck Be Nimble

Everyone seemed enamoured of the little dancing jester the frog was trying to snare, so I thought it would be nice to make him available. I painted the original one yellow, in balance with the rest of the sculpture it's a part of. But now the little fellow is on his own, possiblities abound.

I'm really attracted to the idea of painting each one uniquely. This would allow me to be creative and will make the jesters ever so much cooler.

But, I can't show fifty different designs on the website. SO. What I will do is eventually settle on one design, and give collectors the option to say "Surprise me!"

The jesters are 9 1/2 inches from elbow to toe.

Luck's Dancer

Blues and greens. The polka dots were an afterthought. They will be nicely packaged with a card that shows the original sculpture and the story behind it.
Somewhere around the first week of November, I'll put up a page with holiday gifts between $10 and $150. If you just can't stand it and want a Luck's Dancer sooner than later, you can always email the harlikn7@aol.com address. The sale price will be $60. Cool, eh?

Luck's Dancer detail

Closer detail, so you can see some of the paint textures. I'll be doing some experimenting.

Luck's Dancer, back, and that thing in the Studio

Back view. Hope you see what I mean about painting. How could I possibly choose just one?

Now for food and rest, for tomorrow I will rejoin the rather large creature in the studio for some real communicating.
As for RRNN, and others who cannot stand the wait and are prone to name calling his name is below.
For those of you who don't rattle their holiday gift packages or snoop under beds and in closets, don't scroll down, or highlight the text below.
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The title of the sculpture will be: The Children's Hour

TEN

As I twisted and taped newspaper on, snippets of text began to catch my attention, strips of tragedy and superficiality one over the other, one over the other. I finally felt myself falling into the rhythm of the sculpture.
I was hearing the incredible voice of Lisa Gerard, and wrapping long, wet strips of heavy paper around and around the frame and everything about this figure became strikingly clear.

This kind of visualization is the pinnacle of the creative process for me. These moments can be very intense. I’ve considered several times creating a sculpture on site as an art exhibit. It occurs to me tonight, as I write about it just after, how personal the experience can be. I have to wonder if I were doing this as a performance piece, if that moment of clarity would be recognizable to those watching-- would it show on my face? or even if I’d be able to get to this level of creativity in that environment. Pete suggests working in an isolated room with a monitor in the art show. Then I could have the impression that I was alone.
Interesting to consider. Another day.

But tonight, in the studio I was alone, then I wasn’t. I recognized exactly who I was conjuring here. I know his texture, his shape, his weight, his posture, his energy, his history and most of all, his name. I can imagine his scent, follow the turn of his head, hear the scraping of his feet and the whisper of his voice.

I’ve known this fellow for a long time, I think.

I’m going to leave this here, for now. Tomorrow I’ll show you something entirely different, while I work uninterrupted. I’ll keep taking photos, and will post them all at once….maybe on Monday.

Oh, and I’ll tell you his name too…

G’night




TEN

TEN in lesser Light

Work in Progress Step 09

Finally, back to it this evening, after a long day of ratty and other business, including making a meatloaf.
The outer layers are mostly dry, so I can use rolled up newspaper to add some bulk to the torso. This is a good way to accomplish bulk without adding weight up here that would make the piece top-heavy. You might be surprised to find out how heavy a paper mache sculpture can be. (Think of a thick pack of printer paper). In thick layers, paper is very heavy. Pete, who ran out to get flour for me last night, has the tornado that is Orion so I can go make some progress.
This is real motivation at work. I'm actually walking right past The Daily Show to go work...

G'night 

Work in Progress 08 c

Up to now, I've used heavy paper used for roofing jobs. Tomorrow I'll switch to a much lighter masking paper to give me the fine testures I'll want. He's holding a lot of water right now, so is pretty heavy. I'll let him dry in front of a fan overnight.

Work in Progress 8 b

The face becomes more detailed, This is the moment he becomes real. I suspend my disbelief here, nearly as when watching a film. It's the moment you can forget the medium and enter into the story. Here is where I see him, and he looks back.

Work in Progress 08 a

Framed up the hood with bailing wire and masking tape. Just the general shape--the wire is flexible so I can make changes.

Art, Interrupted

This is where real life kicks in. Here the artist, no matter how inspired, must switch gears to accomodate last minute schedule changes and pick up Orion, take a dozen packages to the Post Office and stop by the market, same three-year-old dynamo in tow. Didn't I mention something earlier about food?
This stuff happens. It's not glamourous, but who ever said being an artist is? The shows are nice, but the creative hours are peppered with down-to-earth everyday have-tos. Then, if the everyday wasn't there, it's likely the art would be lacking some of its punch.
Food, finishing up the rat orders that came in today, tearing up lots of paper, then a rest and coffee and back to it. It's poised, I think, for a good session, waiting for me to come back and find out who, what he is. I do know this already--he's evil.


--later

Work in Progress 07

I'm going to stop here for a bit. It's a good place. He's starting to shape up and I have a good idea where I'm going but I haven't quite hit the zone yet. It's coming, That's an interesting place and I dare not go there without food.

Work in Progress 06

This is the messy part. It's a good part too. It's the part where it starts to come together in my head. This is a sleeve. I'm liking the sort of organic curve and decide to repeat it.

Work in Progress 04

It's a Boy!! Yes, his gender has been determined. In the tub is a mixture of flour, water and wood glue (about a pint). You don't have to have the wood glue, but it gets rid of the chalky texture and makes it more plastic and, it seems, stronger.

Work in progress 03

Ok. We've moved inside to begin in earnest. The downside of doing a sculpture off the cuff like this, so to speak, is that you run the risk of utter and complete failure. And that you can easily paint yourself into a corner, put the cart before the horse, throw the baby out with the bath water and whatever other cliche you can think up to describe mistakes caused by lack of planning. On the other hand, you can learn a lot, it's fast, and really, it's fun to let the thing make itself. I'll be tearing up lots of paper next, mixing glue, and putting on some music. Funny to think that whatever I choose to listen to will decide in some part what this thing becomes.

Work in progress 02

So I decided to make use of the working light. This helps me choose a position. Nothing has really hit me, so I just picked one. A figure holding a light in one hand, looking and gesturing with the other. What gesture, I haven't decided. Or any other details, but I have to start somewhere. I removed the globe, pulled the cord and socket out a bit. fitted a strip of wood for the shoulders, and attached the socket to the end. Now, a little framing, and more thinking. Music will be good here.

Work in progress 01

One unsightly old lamp, in working condition. Now for more coffee. Ok. So I'm moving a little slowly. Nobody jumps out of bed and vacuums. I'm looking...I'm thinking... I'll be back in an hour or so.

A Good Day for...Bugs

It begins.
I'm sure I'll see this sight a few more times. I'm posting before ACME hour begins. No kid's education is complete without Looney Tunes and Merrie Melodies. To me, a truly rounded person can tell Berlioz from Dvorak and Chuck Jones from Fritz Freleng. Ok, that's a ridiculous standard, but I can dream. While I'm at it, I'm teaching Orion to operate Pez. One day, when he's ready, I'll introduce him to Ready Whip in a can. But then, that's really Dad's job, I think.

A Good Day for...Grace

To Deren, and others who've asked: Please forgive the delay. This is a photo of the sculpture Neil writes about in Smoke and Mirrors. It's called "A Measure of Grace." He's had it for a number of years and says he suspects there is a book in there somewhere. I know there's a painting in there, or perhaps a sculpture in a different medium. I'm not so certain I'm finished with the idea.

A Good Day for...Rats

Eight Rats and a BAT! Wow. A box arrived from Robert and Roland in Atlanta. I couldn't have been more pleased than to find two huge rubber rats unlike any I presently have, a sqeaky white rat, four sweet, squishy ones, a Bone rat creature I especially like for some reason and a very cool bat, Thanks you two! I like rats...

A Good Day for...Chili

Well, not quite, but hopefully soon. This recipe arrived yesterday from way back East courtesy of Ivory, whom I hope will be attending Balticon next year. I imagine this chili is best served in colder temps. Whoever tries it first, let the rest of us know!

Ivory'’s Hot Diggedy Three Bean Chili

-3 pounds ground chuck - 1 6-ounce can tomato paste

-2 cups coarsely chopped onions - 1 teaspoon salt

-2 tablespoons finely chopped garlic - pepper to taste

-1/4 cup oil - 4 beef bouillon cubes

-1 teaspoon oregano - 1 12-ounce bottle beer (lager or stout work best)

-1/4 cup chili powder - 1 15-oz can kidney beans, drained

-1 teaspoon cumin - 1 15-oz can pinto beans, drained

-1 teaspoon red pepper flakes - 1 15-oz can black beans, drained

-1 15-oz can cut okra, drained - water as needed

(DISCLAIMER: This is my recipe that I developed over the course of many years and many batches of chili. It is based on another recipe that I found and experimented with until I perfected it to my tastes. My challenge to you is to do the same. Use this recipe as your blueprint to go and build your own house. Add and subtract ingredients until youÂ’ve made it your own and to your tastes. Good luck and good eating!)

Brown ground chuck in large skillet, stirring until crumbly; drainSauteutÂ’e onions and Garlic in oil in skillet for 5-10 minutes. Add oregano, chili powder, cumin, red pepper, Tomato paste, salt and pepper; mix well. Fill a glass with boiling water and dissolve 4 bouillon cubes in it. Stir in bouillon water and bottle of beer (the type of beer you use will affect tflavorour of the chili a lot. Experiment with different types and styles.

I prefer the taste that dark beers give to the mixture such as Stouts and Lagers.
Guinness, Beamish, and Samuel Adams are all good choices.)

Add ground chuck; Mix well.

Add just enough water to make the mixture lightly soupy and easy to Stir.

Simmer, covered, for 1 1/2 hours (I find a good sized slow cooker is best for This). Add beans and okra, simmer for an hour more. For best flavour I'd advise Chilling overnight and then reheating. Top with cheese and serve with plenty of Bread and beer.

Thanks, Ivory!!

Tomorrow, rain or shine, ready or not, I will make some sort of something of the unsightly old lamp. I will keep you posted as it comes along, or doesn't.

The voice of the late Mr. Blanc calls...

G'night

Quiet Sunday 1

Quiet Sunday. Alison came and we made soup, but not tea. Coffee. The photo is of her and her boyfriend, Richard, who is in his final steps of training to be a firefighter. She is working. They have plans to go to San Francisco where she’ll be learning to be a chef. Hmmm. I remember her cooking experiments when she lived at home. This firefighting thing might come in handy.

Quiet Sunday 2

Alison and I talked about possible sculptures for me to make from the lamp. We talked about how bottom heavy the lamp is. She pointed out that this is good from a not-falling-over standpoint as well as a not-getting stolen standpoint. This reminded me of the birdbath we had back at the Big Blue House in Georgia. (and Aubrey, running around it).
I awoke one morning to discover it missing. Someone had actually stolen the birdbath right out of our front yard. Go figure. Bastards! So I bought another birdbath. A big one. A solid one that required three grunting, sweating men to move it from the back of a truck to the spot in the middle of the flowers. A couple of months went by, then one morning, we awoke to find the top of the birdbath about a yard from the bed, and the bottom at the end of a rut, the result of dragging it several yards across the lawn. It had been abandoned there, and scrawled on it in black marker, the word “BICH.” I have to wonder, if this dude had stayed in school and learned to spell, if he’d be trying to steal someone’s “fuking burdbath?”

Quiet Sunday 3

That got us started in on the Big Blue House. It was once a school. It was echo-y and cold in winter. At night we could hear it ‘breathing’. But it was big. Soooo big. Sort of empty really, because we didn’t have enough furniture to fill it. But lots of books and lots of space to play. The carnival was born there. In some ways, all my work was.

Quiet Sunday fin

I’ve been in the desert for nearly eight years now but still, sometimes I’m overtaken by a painful nostalgia, especially when I remember winter days when we walked around with blankets and drank cocoa and watched motorists ignore the signs and try unsuccessfully to climb the icy hill. So much of who I am and what I write and paint and sculpt is drawn from that palette of gray skies and evergreens. It calls me, pulls at me and I have to busy myself with other concerns so part of me doesn’t just fly away home.


Don't forget to speak up sooner than later if you want a Grim Ratter to arrive before Halloween.

And, if you were thinking of sliding a Tiny Story in just under the skin of the grace period, now's you chance. Again, sooner than later.

As always, thanks for checking in,

G'night

Patchwork

This was one of those days made up of many seemingly unrelated segments, with no connecting thread and no plan really. Well, there was a plan. Nearly all my days start with a sort of plan, usually made the previous night and often jotted down somewhere and left where I'll be sure to find it, i.e. by the coffee. But sometimes plans need to be put aside. I like what Ray Bradbury said once to a group of young writers. He said you have to just keep writing and sending work out. You have to stop worrying about whether what you want to happen will or won't happen and just wait to see what does happen.
So I spent the early morning packing rats that on Monday, will head out in all directions to people who will be happy to see them.
At the park while Orion played on the slides, I struck up a conversation with a woman who sat down on the grass with me. We started talking about kids, then genetics (she's a student) and finally, depression. An hour later, she was marveling at how she'd been able to tell me, a stranger, so many things she hadn't been able to say to anyone. I imagine all she'd really needed was someone willing to sit and listen and not be embarrassed when she cried.
We stopped to get Orion something to eat. I took a chance and let him have his applesauce cup in the car. He's pretty good with it at home. I counted on him spilling a spoonful or two. He immediately spilled the entire cup in his lap. We were on our way home anyway. I reassured him, saying "It's okay. We'll clean it up." and "It's not your fault." To which he replied,"I know, Mommy. It's your fault," and began spooning it off his pants and into his mouth.

I've resumed work on a book project that has lain dormant for far too long. (Also my fault) It's a collection of stories written for images of various pieces of art, some pieces Neil wrote previously and some new ones by David Niall Wilson. It's to be more or less an art book. Cemetary Dance will be putting it all together. I'm sure they'll do a lovely job. It's me that got stuck. The Gaiman pieces are very short and the David Wilson pieces much longer and several of them are so removed from my concept of what I imagined the art was about that I've had a difficult time reconciling the mix into any sort of whole. But the stories are good and I think I'm very close to a way to pull it together.
I must. Because I said I would and because I'll need to move on soon to Tiny Stories. I'm very much looking forward to that one. We've received stories from all around the world.

I've chosen my armature for the house piece. I've settled upon an unsightly old floor lamp that I didn't throw out because I thought that one day I might make something out of it. It has a very heavy base, which is an asset for armature. The other asset is that I won't have to weld anything or screw anything together, which will sort of make up for the time I lost during my hospital adventure. Tomorrow my daughter Alison is coming to spend the day. She says she's had a cold and needs some babying and some of mom's homemade soup. She says she's bringing her pillow. So tomorrow I'll get up and put some soup on and make tea and she and I will toss ideas around.

G'night

Grim Ratter in 2D

Fun with Grim Ratter... I'm making a special gift tag for this rat, complete with a very cool poem by Really Rather Not Nice.
I'm going to make something for outside next week after most of the Grim Rats are shipped to their new pets.
I've narrowed it down to two choices and have decided to wait until the day of to decide. I'll let my sense of the day guide me.

October 18

The Grim Ratter

*****


October 18 is the day my father died. October 18 is the day my nephew was born. I love them both. Really, October 18 is just a date.

*****


Darkness and Light

The thunderstorms raged on through the night. Once again, Orion snuggled against me. He’d fallen asleep as we counted between flashes and roars. We were awakened just after midnight by a booming louder than those we dreamt through, then the shaking started. It was the second earthquake of the night, only a 4.6, but nearby. Earthquakes in the middle of thunderstorms were a bit over the top, even for a weather witch like me.
But today, the desert is like a jewel. Every wet surface is a bright piece of sky. We’re driving home from school, after a stop at McDonalds. Orion munches on fries and I’ve just worked a little piece of burger from between my teeth, wondering if it’s actually digestible. Beak likely. Snout. I’d wanted a salad, but they refused to give me one without chicken in it, unless I bought a burger too…
No matter. I’m driving over Gene Autry toward the mountains. Zero 7 reminds me once again how I once loved jazz. It’s sixty eight degrees. All the windows are open and my hair blows all about. The air smells like cool water…
I’m taken back to another time, driving in my MGB with the top down, listening to Charlie Mingus and oh so high. Back then I was sure the only time I was sane was when I was high. Back then it was probably true. But not now. My lab coat would be folded in the seat beside me, held down by a couple of heavy text books. There’d been a small body in the morgue this morning. Dr. Bill had warned me. But I was young with the taste of Fearless in my mouth. Death was for strangers on metal tables in green tiled rooms. Even my grandmother was still tooling about. Then here she was. Slight shoulders, delicate seven-year-old hands. A fall, the file said. We’d see. Bluish double slashes like elongated vampire bites fell randomly across the arms and shoulders, one set marred a pale cheek.
“I think, electrical cord,” said Dr. Bill.
“I think I quit.” I said.

Some things never go away. We live with those things, or live in them.

The desert is like a jewel. Zero 7 didn’t exist when I spent hours in green tiled rooms. That was another life. Almost somebody else. I’m driving toward home. It’s sixty eight degrees. All the windows are open and my hair blows all about. The air smells like cool water. I breathe it in, soak it up.
I feel well and lovely in a light that bathes everything in beauty. This is nice, but I’ll be glad to be home. It’ll be dark soon.

GRIM RATTER IS HERE (Tell your friends)



Summer has left us in the usual way.

Yesterday morning we sat outside in the near dark with our cereal bowls, watching jagged horizontal lightning crisscross the sky over the mountains and hearing the distant booming, getting louder, coming closer.
Last night we lay in bed listening, Orion too. No matter how we position ourselves, he tends to orient himself in a most inconvenient perpendicular manner. Summer was leaving. It began to sound as though he were pulling up the mountains to take with him. Or simply pounding them into the ground. It was glorious, just at the edge of frightfully loud, with the flashing and the booming and the rain splashing into the pool like stones. For me, thunderstorms are very like homemade vanilla ice cream. I wouldn't eat it every day, but when I do, it's my undisputed favorite.
So long summer.

So today the desert is wet and dripping and shiny with clouds of many shades moving fast overhead. Tomorrow will feel just a little more like a world where Halloween could happen.

I'm still recovering, feeling better, but not moving at my usual light speed. More like the speed of paint drying. But moving, nevertheless. Large rodents may still appear, after all.

Today is the deadline for entries TINY STORIES. However, as I just had a brush with our friend Grim and Podrasky just had a son, we might be convinced to accept last minute entries.
I'll talk with Bob in a few days and let you know what's up, er, as soon as I know.

I just heard a bit of thunder, not too close. Promises, promises. Puddles everywhere for little boys to splash in and dangerous old cats to avoid.

G'night

Back from the Edge, Grim in tow...

Lisa is Better
Lisa is Back
And
The Madness Continues…


I’d like to introduce you to my new friend, Grim Ratter. He’s smart and witty with a winning personality!
Okay, he’s smart and feels terribly misunderstood. But he does have a dry sense of humor. After all, it’s a tough gig he’s got there. He enjoys discussions with the Neil Gaiman Rat and sneaking up behind the Easter Bunny Rats, tapping them ever so lightly with his tiny skeletal paws…


He’d like to come hang out with your rats too. Or on your desk or bookshelf. His classic robes never go out of style actually, so he looks great anywhere, anytime.

I want to thank you all for the tremendous response to the September Rat Madness, so will extend the sale to include Grim Ratter too.

$15 and $5 for shipping RATBAG
(Now, thanks to Ravyn, with New Improved Paypal buttons!)

But only until Halloween. If you want to have him with you by Halloween, you should place an order before Oct 25.

Or, as always, you may mail to the SlaughterHouse address:
4741 E. Palm Canyon Drive PMB C-115
Palm Springs CA 92264

Thanks and Happy Ratting.

Ahhh… It’s good to be back.

It's the little things...

Back in that "other life" I mention occasionally one of the projects I worked on involved looking for pyrogens in sterile surgical kits. A pyrogen is defined as any substance that causes a rise in body temperature. In our project, we searched for pieces of viruses. Right. Fragments. We found some too. It's awfully hard to kill something that is, or is not , technically alive in the first place. Harder still when the something does what it does even when broken into tiny shards of itself... Such a little thing, even beneath the eye of an electron microscope.

I had these flashbacks to the laboratory as I lay on the floor of our shower stall on Monday evening. I also remembered Orion feeling sick on Friday. The poor tot woke so miserable he couldn't sit still. He toddled blindly about until he threw up. Then the fever came, but the next day he was better. Just a little droopy. Was that Tuesday?? I was feeling pretty confused and someone kept calling me, interrupting. "No" I kept answering.

It was Pete, trying to get me up. I was lying half in and half out of the shower and still in my clothes. I couldn't quite remember getting there. But I remembered several hours of being very ill. Now I'd lost the use of my arms and legs. Friday. Three day incubation period. Oh boy. A mighty(comparatively) human engine, practically shut down by a little thing only micron-sized.
I'll spare you the details, but will say it was Pete's lifeguard training that recognized I was in shock. Moments later I was hearing a paramedic say "pupils are fixed and dilated."
Wow. Just like TV. Are they talking about me? I think so, cause this really, really hurts.

Yesterday was all sleep, all day. I heard people moving around. Orion sat on the bed with me for a bit, fascinated by the hospital band still on my arm, spelling out Spiderman, Orion, and Cookie, on my laptop. I half watched all four episodes of "Surface". Meh . More FireFly, please.

And today, I'm sore all over and fuzzy and it all seems like a very bad dream. No doubt the bill will snap things into reality.

I'm still too fuzzy to put it all into perspective, but it occurred to me as I lay on the hospital bed with my morphine drip, that going to a modern hospital for help is a very high privilege. Many people go through this exact agony with no comfort and no relief but death. Many of those are children. Many are suffering through similar experiences as I sit and type this, more as you sit and read it.

We've got to change our evil ways, baby....

If everybody would help just a little.

Bank of America is introducing a new savings plan whereas people can opt to "round up" purchases with their check cards. The extra bit goes straight into a savings account. I don't know the details yet, but it sounds like a good idea at first glance.

Isn't it possible that something similar could be done for other purposes? Like helping provide clean water? Or food? Or education? Are people too lazy and self indulgent to lift a finger and select the "round up for ____ relief" button? I don't think so. I hope not.

Such a little thing. Spare change. Baaaaaahh. Americans as a whole, are lazy. Too lazy even to save money for their own futures. The secret, as with Bank of America's new savings program, is to make it effortless. My problem with this approach is the same I have with bribing children. Everything shouldn't be so easy. But in this case, does the end justify the means?

I'm wondering how to approach retailers with this? Some of you must have better heads for business than I. What do you think? It might be a good opportunity for someone in marketing to redeem themselves from the special hell reserved for people in marketing.

I know, I'm a dreamer...a somewhat angry one. But then, I used to dream about being an artist.
Now I'm an artist and I dream about using the art to do something meaningful.

We are not safe. We live in a false security. My experience on Friday would have been quite different had it been shared by hundreds, or thousands. We'd better wake up, we little puppets. We'd better raise our heads, we little sheep. We may not be able to make sweeping changes alone, but little things matter. Little things we do can change things. For better or worse.

And, if we're not careful, it's those little things that'll get us whist we sleep.

G'night

Darkness, and Light

I was, as everyone, stunned and dismayed at the news of the earthquake in Southeast Asia. and I’m sure, like others, cried as I read the stories. I always have an awareness of suffering, stupidity and injustice. Those never go away. I counter that frustration by giving as much as I can to causes I believe in, by speaking out when I can, and by teaching my children to be responsible people. It’s these big disasters that can trip us up though, leave us feeling helpless, pointless, and scared. After all, we think, I’m powerless to do anything, what I do means little at a time like this and if it happened there, it could happen here, to me and the people I love.
We cannot afford to think like this. Thinking like this is what puppets do. We are not puppets. On the other hand, we can’t ignore what happens around us.. Ignoring is what sheep do. We are not sheep. So, what then?
I don’t know, honestly. But I don’t enjoy feeling helpless, or miserable, or pointless. I’m pretty sure that feeling that way doesn’t do anything to help. So, I’m thinking I’ll not live in fear, but will be as prepared as I can be and for everything else, I’ll appreciate what I’ve got and do what I can for others.

Which reminds me, speaking of appreciation, if I haven’t thanked you lately for stopping in and adding your thoughts, thanks. You guys are very cool indeed.


The rats have left the building. Thank, you, thank you very much. All the little rats are on their ways to wherever they were supposed to go.

Ben handled the sale just fine, after all. He went to Hawaii.

Now I turn a bit of attention to the yard rat. Thanks for your comments! Okay then. We shall have a rat building day. I’ll let you know exactly when. I was originally going to build something temporary for this Halloween thing. You know, a Grim Reaper made of black trash bags or something like that. But…I have this dream.
I’ve had this dream for a long time, but now (sheesh) it’s time to promote it to Plan. I want to createthe kind of place that will sort of embarrass my children but will enchant theirs. We’re already headed in that direction, but I’m thinking big , as I usually do… a place that looks ordinary enough outside but where inside, kids just walk around with their mouths open saying ‘wow”. And “can I live here?” Okay, adults too. Maybe it’s a silly dream, but it’s mine and I’m sticking to it.
So I’ll make a creature that will last. It’s a start.

We had our niece, who is five, over this weekend. She’s moving miles away very soon, and we will miss her terribly. I’m always so grateful when they let her come on Saturdays. I’m always thinking when she’s picked up, that she might not get to come back. I’m sure that if I’m ever lucky enough to have grandkids, I’ll be even ‘worse’ with them, if that’s possible. Pete’s family is nice. They are tolerant of me and what I do, and appreciate the hard work I put into it, but are (whispered) not like us. Honestly I’ll never understand how Pete came to be, well, Pete. When Orion visits them, he comes home just as he was before the visit. When kids visit here, they tend to go home a bit dirty, full of all sorts of stories and ideas and likely as not, dressed as Batman.

So, yes, it’s a silly dream. But it’s mine and, in a hard world, it’s what I can do.

Orion_spidey 

Wisdom of a Spidey-Tot

This is the first time I’ve been in town for Halloween in some years, and the first ever for decorating here.
The real problem, you see, with creating something Halloween in my front yard, is the yard.
It’s similar to the obstacle I must overcome each time I make a sculpture, i.e., I must create an entity that can hold its own in surroundings I can’t control.
When I create a painting, I can fill the negative spaces with whatever I want. If it’s going to be a scary image, the corners and farther regions can be shadowy spaces. I need go no further; the viewers will equip those shadows with horrors that live in their own minds. Or, I can surround my figure with solid black, taking it completely out of this reality and placing it in a void where anything is possible---including the figure.

So, back to my front yard. That difficult canvas. There’s not a gnarled old tree, bare
branches reaching like blackened fingers into the darkening…..
No, nothing like that. Hell, there’s not even a tree with leaves, except the orange tree. And, sheesh, how much more cheerful can you get than an orange tree??
It’s damned depressing.
There are eleven palm trees. I use the term “trees” loosely here, you understand, as a palm tree is merely an overgrown type of grass. Ours don’t even produce coconuts or dates, only date beetles, which look suspiciously like big flying cockroaches to me. And, once a year, flesh colored little worms that get in and seem to materialize on the ceiling.
So, there are eleven palm trees, an orange tree, a ring of small olive trees, a cedar fence on one side, a wall on the other, bright blue skies, mountains and happy, happy just mocking my black October soul.

The answer to the problem is, I believe, to go with the surreal.

It’s the only way, I think, to work with what’s there. Right now, in my head, I see a pack of giant rats. Right. Short trip after all the rat, rat, ratty, rat work I’ve done for the past few weeks. But really, a pack of rats, one exploring the mailbox, one on the roof, one digging in the trashcan and another climbing the fence… Looks good---ain’t happening. Not this year. Not that much time.
But I can get it started. I could make one big monster, probably the one for the mailbox. Our carrier is such a grouch. He’ll just love that.
Hmmm. So much other work to be done. Do I dare take a couple of days off to make a yard rat?
Orion is enjoying a Halloween costume on a not-Halloween day. There seems to be some connection here….but what?


Oh yeah…he’s wearing the Spiderman getup for the fun of it.

What was I thinking? I somehow forgot about doing things for the fun of it.

There you go. Problem solved. Just like that. Cup of coffee, started writing and figured it out. Hmm, I think this is how I meant this journal to work in the first place. Thanks, guys! I’ll keep you posted along the way. Would you be interested in watching wire and paper become a giant rat?

G’night

People tend to send me rubber rats. I generally like that. Ravyn sent me this one, which is more plastic than rubber, but that she painted herself with designs that look like the work she does with henna. I think it's likely the most elegant rubber rat I've ever received.

I'm deciding what to make for the front yard this Halloween. I was actually thinking to make a very large Grim Reaper, but actually may make a ridiculously large rodent-ish ....thing.

I finished up more boxes of Rats today. Yesterday rats went to the UK, to France, to Canada and to Chile. Cool.

Little Death, Part II conclusion

Here is part II of "Little Death". Please forgive typos. I don't dare proof an old story. That would only lead to a bout of editing...

Thanks for the poem RRNN! And Carl V---hope 24 hours wasn't too long.

Again, Happy October. Hope you enjoy the rest of "Little Death" We're going for a walk now, looking for bats....and such.

Little Death, Part II

The boy stared, expressionless, past the old man, not seeing him.

Halloween is for the dead. Heart thumping, Jacob backed out of the doorway and stepped quickly past sepia portraits of long-dead relatives. Happy Halloween. He hurried, panting and wild-eyed down the stairs. Jacob Rabold had unintentionally stepped out of his spectator’s box and re-entered the game.
“Have to …get…some air,” he said, wheezing. He grabbed a sweater from the rack and jerked the front door open to the blinding gold light of late afternoon. He staggered to the rocking chair on the porch and plopped down, breathing raggedly. After a while, he quieted, gazing down the darkening street. A bit later, he began to rock, the chair creaking rhythmically.

If you call Death, Death will answer.

At six o’clock the streetlights flickered on. By seven, Jacob knew that something was coming.

“Okay, Dad, Jimmy is all ready. Don’t let him eat too much candy,” Leslie said, pulling on gloves to match her cat costume, complete with tiny ears and painted whiskers, “The emergency numbers are on the fridge. Treats are in the basket outside the front door.”

Steve wore a long black cape, red vest and plastic fangs. Leslie had colored in a fake widow’s peak. It emphasized Steve’s receding hairline in a way that gave Jacob a touch of satisfaction despite his trepidation. Jimmy looked exactly as he had this morning, but was different somehow, distant in the vague way only children can be. Jacob studied his grandson as though he’d materialized from nowhere. This was the boy who’d drawn Death in crayon.

“Happy Halloween,” Jacob said hollowly. His daughter stopped plucking at her hair and looked at him, puzzled.

The doorbell chimed.

“Well, who could that be?”, she asked, her eyes lingering on her father’s face as she opened the door.

There stood Death, in miniature, framed by the porch columns.

Leslie’s jaw dropped, but she recovered quickly. “Of course! You must be Markie from next door! What a terribly clever costume. I’ve got to get your picture!” She laughed, digging for the disposable camera in her purse. Much later, a very changed Leslie would wake, wandering the dark house in search of that camera, rummaging blindly through drawers and cabinets until Steve, water glass and medication in hand, would find her and lead her back to bed.

For now though, her mind’s defenses were in place. They could still shape the inexplicable into the acceptable. She ignored her gut feeling that something is wrong, and bent to the little hooded figure, “Going Trick or Treat with Jimmy and Grampa?”

It nodded once and held up a plastic pail just like Jimmy’s. In its other hand was a plastic scythe.

Jacob saw the caller quite differently. This wasn’t the little boy from next door.

“I’ll…I’ll be right back,” he said, “I uh, it’s colder than I’d thought.” No one noticed, in the glare of the porch light, the waxy sheen of his face, or his trembling hands. For the third time today, his heart was racing and his gut felt full of worms. For the third time in decades, Jacob was afraid.

“R-right back,” he repeated, not blinking until he reached the stairs. He climbed them fast, grasping the handrail. He was unsettled but resigned and, oddly, excited. He felt …alive, with Death so near.

He reached his room and unlocked his desk drawer to reveal a familiar envelope. The notarized will he’d prepared for this moment. Only, the moment wasn’t like anything he might have expected. Was he truly ready?

He laughed aloud, then started at the unfamiliar sound.

“Death comes as a child,” marveled the old man who had no time for children. He laid the will neatly on his bed. It left everything, his savings and stock portfolio, his books, journals and mementos, to Jimmy. There was nothing left to do.

Laughter and happy conversation drifted up to him. He supposed the others weren’t meant to recognize Death, at least, not tonight. Jacob brushed a finger over his wife’s photo.

“Well, old girl, here I come!” He pulled his favorite jacket on in front of the mirror and offered himself a trembling half-smile.

“You’ve never been a coward, Jacob Rabold,” he said to the mirror, “don’t start now. He closed the door behind him.

“Where’d you disappear to, Dad?” Leslie asked.

“Went to get my jacket,” said Jacob, his eyes scanning the room.

“The boys are ready to go.”

“Well, so am I,” said Jacob, giving his daughter, to her astonishment, a peck on the cheek. He put his hands on her shoulders and said, “You’re a pretty thing, still.”
Leslie raised her eyebrows and giggled nervously, her eyes searching her father’s face.

“Must be the full moon,” She said, hugging him. “We’re all a little weird tonight. Happy Halloween!”

Jacob stepped out into the night. He saw Death and the Ewok under the streetlight swinging their pails and laughing. He fought off a momentary instinct to flee.

There’s no tomorrow.

There’s no tomorrow!

A sudden gust of cold wind washed over Jacob’s face. It left a sense of freedom so clear and bright he was drunk with it.

“Let’s go!” he said.

The trio set out down the street, marched over the rise and disappeared around the corner. Two hours later they plunked down, breathless and laughing, onto the front porch steps. Their feet were cold and their pails filled with all sorts of candies. Jacob’s throat was raw from laughing and hooting in wonderfully cold air that smelled of chimney smoke and pine. His newfound sense of wonder had conquered his fears. He was intoxicated and energized.

“This was the best day EVER, Gram-puh!” cried Jimmy, throwing his arms around the old man’s neck.

Indeed, it had been wonderful. Jacob had been Scrooge, on Christmas morning, greeting everyone they met, surprising the neighborhood with his cheer. He had skipped, danced, swung his grandson about, told corny jokes, marveled at the stars, gobbled sweets…

Like there was no tomorrow, Jacob thought. Because, there wasn’t.

It was all done. Jacob’s life played out before him. It had been a visitor that stayed too long and wore out its welcome. But now, oh now, in parting, Jacob admired its finer traits, loved its ironies, forgave its regrets. Hindsight sharpened his vision. Awe and humility softened his soul. Life had mostly been good, hadn’t it? He envisioned Emma, waiting for him in a pool of light. Emma.

“Time?” he mouthed silently at the small, dark figure, suddenly still.

“Yes, it is, “ said Death, in its child’s voice, “ready?”

“Yes,” said Jacob and Jimmy.

Jacob looked at his grandson, thinking only that he must tell Jimmy how much he loves him before he goes. He froze because, at that moment, Death reached up and pulled its hood back. Jacob stared into an angelic face with eyes of a shade that never existed, that could only be described as silent. A gentle voice said, “Good-bye, Jacob, for now.”

“Wha…?” Jacob gasped. The wind had picked up again. It howled through the trees. “But…I thought..WAIT!”

“Jacob, I have not come for you,” said Death, robes swirling about the voice. Jimmy pulled off his mask and smiled at Jacob. Bits of sugar clung to the corners of his mouth. The mask fell to the steps and the boy dropped lifeless into his grandfather’s arms.

Jacob looked up, his face slack with shock.

“…but, I will,” said a whisper on the wind.

The branches rustled above the empty street. The stars twinkled. And under the autumn moon, in the gentle fall of the last leaves, Jacob Rabold cradled the small, still body of his grandson. He pressed his lips to the boy’s forehead, and began to sob.


End

Happy October and Little Death, Part I

October is here, though the desert is cloudless today. We can tell it's autumn though, because instead of swimming, Orion and I sit with our feet in the pool and wait for the bats to come out every evening. It's no subsitute for crunchy leaves and crisp breezes, but it's what we have.

I'm still ratting it up for a few more days. Thanks so much for all the orders!

I thought I'd bring in October by sharing with you a story I wrote for a Desert Post Weekly project couple of years ago. It's a good way to slip into the season, as the desert does, with just a hint of a breeze. By the end of the month, things will be very different.

Here's the first half of "Little Death":

Jacob opened his eyes. The stain on his bedroom ceiling swam into focus, familiar as his own reflection. He identified sounds from downstairs; a television, the vacuum cleaner, Leslie calling that hateful cat, “Miss – seee ---spiz-spiz-spiz-spiz,” like air leaking from a wet hose. Damned irritating.
What was that smell? He wondered. Cake? No, cookies, baking in the oven. Jacob sighed, remembering. Oh, damn it t’hell. It’s f’ing Halloween. Leslie would be in a festive fever. His daughter attacked every occasion with a veritable arsenal of phoof and garnish. There would be racket all day; pumpkins carved, pies baked, Steve teetering like Wile-E-Coyote on that rickety ladder hanging bed-sheet ghosts and paper spiders. Then, after dark, stupid parties and Trick or Treat.

Halloween is for the dead. Another sigh escaped, chased by a wide yawn. Jacob stretched his bony arms up over his head and dropped them onto the bed, then turned to address the photo of his late wife on the bedside table. “Emma, why the Sam Hill am I still here and not you? You loved this Halloween crap.” He sat up, eased his feet into his slippers, then planted his hands on his knees and unfolded like a rusty jackknife.

“Trick or Treat,” he grumbled, shuffling into his bathroom.

He twisted the hot tap and watched the hand in the mirror rub still icy water over the grizzled face staring back at him.

In his mind’s ear he could hear Tom saying, “You’re a bitter old coot, Jacob Rabold.” Tom had been Jacob’s neighbor for thirty years and had called him a bitter old coot for at least twenty of them.

“Screw you, Tom, “ said Jacob in his gruff morning voice. He spat in the sink and splashed more water over his face.

“Dried up old fools, all of us,” muttered the face in the mirror.

Jacob swished his razor in the now hot water filling the basin. Bingo, he thought, bake sales, time-killers for the dead-in-waiting. And now, that damned old Nora in a crossing guard uniform!

“Ha!” he said aloud, lathering his scant beard, “…looks like a wrinkled shirt on a bent old hanger, she does.”

All of them. All of us. Skeletons waiting to be let out of our skins. We old farts are nothing but spectators. Just ghosts, watching the living.

“That’s right, Tom, old boy. I’m bitter,” he said, rubbing a towel over his face, “I’ve had enough!”

If he had the guts, Jacob would end it today. Right now. It wouldn’t be so hard. Not for the first time, he reached out and pulled at the edge of the mirror. With a soft click, it swung open to reveal neatly sorted pharmaceuticals---sufficient for a variety of tidy deaths.

But…Emma. He clicked the door shut. Damn that woman—she’d made him give his word. She’d known that he would hate growing old—would hate it so much he’d rather be dead. So she’d made him make that promise. Emma had believed in fate. Emma had believed in souls.

But, I could do it, he thought, buttoning his shirt.

I could, he thought, buckling his belt.

“I could,” he said quietly. He reached toward the medicine cabinet once again, then froze. A cold thrill of dread buzzed in his gut. Hairs rose on the back of his neck…Sometimes, Death taps us on the shoulder… The room seemed too bright. Jacob gripped the sink.

“Emma?”, he whispered softly into the still air.

“GRAM-PUH!!”

Reality fell like a curtain. Jimmy, small even for a boy of seven, was peering intently at his grandfather. He wore his Halloween costume over his pajamas.

“What are you supposed to be?” Jacob said hoarsely, still shaken, “A bear?”

“I’m an Ewok!” Jimmy proclaimed, suddenly kinetic, jumping and twirling about. “Ewok, Ewok!!” He giggled. “Mommy says come down to breakfast.”

Jimmy reached up and grasped his grandfather’s cool, brittle fingers. Jacob looked about nervously. Guilt, he reasoned, playing tricks on me. He wondered why he might feel especially guilty about his suicidal musings today. He shrugged it off and followed his teddy-bear grandson downstairs, but not without a glance back over his shoulder. A fire burned in the den’s fireplace. Outside, the wind plucked at a few stubborn leaves. The rest carpeted the lawn. Dead, dry, brittle. Across the street, old Tom Greeson raked contentedly. Fool, Jacob thought. With a grimace, he lowered himself into his worn club chair and clicked to CNN.

Leslie breezed in, smelling of cinnamon. “Breakfast, Dad,” she kissed the top of his head.

“I’ll take mine in here,” he said.

“Come and eat with us, Dad,” Leslie tried again.

“I’ll take my tray, thank you,” he said to the television. He sensed she was no longer behind his chair, but added anyway, “and plenty of salt.”

“Trick or Treat!” Jimmy was suddenly there, crouched at Jacob’s knee.

“Now, what?” Jacob grumbled.

“Mommy says we’ll need sweaters,” Jimmy said.

Jacob groaned inwardly, thinking of the coming evening. He’d spend an hour or more trudging up and down the neighborhood streets, standing in the cold air with his aching knuckles shoved deep in his pockets, watching Jimmy scamper to each door. The neighbors would gush over the boy, with courteous nods to the old man who used to be Jacob Rabold. Jimmy would yelp in delight each time some tidbit plunked into his pail, or the moon poked through the clouds, or the wind swirled the leaves. Jimmy was overjoyed by every detail of his world. Wait a few years, boy, ‘till you see what a tawdry sham it all is…

“Jimmy, come have breakfast,” Leslie called from the kitchen.

Steve walked in, wiping his hands. “Morning, Dad.”

“Humph,” Jacob grunted without a glance at his son-in-law.

With a single graceful movement, Jimmy stood and put his small hand on Jacob’s knee. He looked solemnly into his grandfather’s eyes for a long moment, then scampered toward the kitchen.

Jacob was unnerved. Why would the boy look at him that way? The medicine cabinet loomed. He swiped his handkerchief over his face as if to erase the memory.
Jacob had never paid much attention to his grandson. Back when he had a career, before his health failed him, he never had time for children. Now he lacked the patience. These days kids (and most adults) were warned off by his bitter demeanor. But not Jimmy. No matter how gruff his grandfather looked or sounded, Jimmy sought out his company.
Jacob stared at the television. Youth is wasted on the young. First we don’t know our butts from holes in the ground, then we’re dragged around by our loins like idiots. Just biology, telling us to make more stinking humans. By the time we figure out a thing or two we’re falling apart. No wonder old people are pissed off.

The fire crackled and the TV voices blended with the sounds from the kitchen. But Jacob wasn’t lulled. Something was stirred up inside him.

Halloween is for the dead.

His unease grew. He flipped channels and paced at the window, glancing over his shoulder now and then. He wandered about the house until he came to Jimmy’s room. The boy sat cross-legged on the floor, his back to the door, speaking earnestly to an assembly of plastic dinosaurs. An aquarium bubbled in the corner. The room was a startling explosion of stuff. As Jacob’s austere room reflected his own dry outlook, this room was a mirror of the boy. It overflowed with souvenirs of his adventures.
Planes, planets and a pterodactyl hung on wires from the ceiling. Movie posters papered the walls. The desk was buried under a globe, a glowing computer monitor, an ant farm and stacks of books. Roller skates, award ribbons, and a baseball glove hung from a rack. Rocks and shells lined the windowsills and more books crammed the shelves. Jacob blinked. There, among the papers pinned to Jimmy’s cork board was a drawing that grabbed and held Jacob’s eye. Two simple figures held hands. The taller figure had a straight slash for a mouth and dots for eyes, outlined in red rectangles—Jacob’s glasses. The little figure’s face was deliberately obscured by black crayon strokes. It held something in its other hand. A flag? Jacob leaned closer. No, a scythe. Again, the prickling chill, the vertigo. He tore his eyes away to look at his grandson who, no longer busy at his dinosaurs, sat very, very still.

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