Jeffrey Ricker's Blog, page 62

Day Thirty

One last moment

"I guess I'm not psychic."

"Why not?"

"Because I keep projecting, 'Put on your shirt, put on your shirt, gods, put on your shirt.'"

"You're weird."

"Oh my gods, he put on his shirt! I'm psychic!"

"Right."

"…Well, you're welcome."

We were in London

At the height of summer, I could always smell the Queen Mary Rose Garden before I could actually see it.

I wasn't really a serious runner during the four years my parents lived in London. I had started running in high school: just got up one morning around 5, put on shoes, and started jogging around the neighborhood. (This may have been the contributing factor to my being a morning person.) I kept it up sporadically while I was in college, mainly because I had been a chunky adolescent and I worried about the possibility of sliding back into that place of pudge. This is a battle I feel like I'm fighting in perpetuity.

I didn't run very fast, and I didn't run very far. It was probably so slow that I couldn't even call it a run. Regardless,  as often as I could—usually two or three times a week—I put on my shoes and left my parents' flat on Harley Street, ran up to Marylebone Road, and crossed into Regent's Park. Eventually, I let the smell of traffic behind and started to smell the rose garden.

Roses are my favorite flower. I love the different nuances of smell, from sweet or light to musky or powdery. We have two wonderful rose gardens at the botanical garden where I work, and juts recently we visited the rose garden in Portland, Oregon, which I hadn't known is also known as the Rose City. Having seen how well they grow, I can understand why, though.

I don't remember much about what the Queen Mary Rose Garden looks like—this was over 20 years ago, and I haven't been back since—but I remember that smell, better than any fragrance you'd find at any department store perfume counter. It was a fleeting experience: round the corner, run through, out the other side, further into the park. Whenever I think about going back to London, though, I think about that smell.

I also think about going for a run.

Continue the discussion on redroom.com

Day Twenty-Nine

Your aspirations

At the moment, I aspire to make significant headway in the stack of books on my nightstand waiting to be read. I seem to have this problem where I continue to buy more books even though I already have several dozens (well, actually I've lost count) that have yet to be opened by me. And no, they're not all listed on my Goodreads page or on my evolving reading list. I will, however, list them here (in no particular order):

Open House, edited by Mark Doty (this is my current read)
Alas, Babylon, by Pat Frank
The Love of The Last Tycoon, by F. Scott Fitzgerald
Battle Angel Alita, by Yukito Kishiro
Battle Angel Alita: Tears of an Angel: by Yukito Kishiro
Quarantine, by Jim Crace (borrowed)
Evening, by Susan Minot
Wicked Plants, by Amy Stewart (borrowed)
The Time Traveler's Wife, by Audrey Niffenegger
The Little Friend, by Donna Tartt
Murder in the Rue St. Ann, by Greg Herren
Insignificant Others, by Stephen McCauley
Do Glaciers Listen? by Julie Cruikshank
The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, by Stieg Larsson (borrowed)
Best Gay Romance 2010, edited by Richard Labonté
Rough Trade, edited by Todd Gregory
Yield, by Lee Houck
Vieux Carré Voodoo, by Greg Herren (which I can't read before I get the other four books in the Chanse series)
The Pocket Muse, by Monica Wood
Murder in the Garden District, by Greg Herren
I Like It like That, edited by Labonté and Schimel
While My Guitar Gently Weeps, by Deborah Grabien
Boys Like Us, edited by Patrick Merla
Best Gay Love Stories: Summer Flings, edited by Brad Nichols
The Pride of Baghdad, by Brian K. Vaughan and Niko Henrichon

…and numerous back issues of The New Yorker, Glimmer Train Stories, Canteen, The Missouri Review, Boulevard, Gertrude, American Short Fiction, Zoetrope, Icarus, and probably even more titles buried somewhere at the bottom of the stack in back.

And then there's the stack in the other room….

Day Twenty-Eight

Something you miss

(Although the topic as given was "Something That You Miss," the "that" in that phrase was not really necessary. Do I miss a time when noticing things like that didn't matter? I don't think I ever have had a time where things like that didn't matter.)

What do I miss? I miss friends who live far away. I miss the free time I had a couple years ago (when I was working part time, and I eventually discovered that I also missed having money). I miss Boris and Natasha.

I miss time, period.

What do you miss?

Day Twenty-Seven

Your favorite place

I really should have one of these, shouldn't I? There was probably a time when I would have said London, but that was twenty years ago.

It's no surprise to me that a sense of a favorite place is tough to nail down. When it comes to geography, I've always felt slightly unmoored. I think that carries through in my writing and is why I often find myself writing about the concept of home. Since that's always been a mutable concept for me personally, it's been hard for me to think of it in a permanent sense. Also, home has usually felt like a choice that's been made for me, whether by circumstance (going where the job or the school was) or by other people (hi, Mom and Dad).

On a more general level, you might think I'd say my favorite place is in front of a keyboard or a notebook, ready to write something down. But, no. (Too intimidating, usually.) If I were forced to choose, I'd have to say a comfortable chair, a cat in the lap, and a book in the hand. And probably a mug or glass of something nearby.

That's not too much to ask, is it?

Another "Normal" Review

Amos Lassen at Eureka Pride  doesn't typically go for short stories or for science fiction, but he had some very nice things to say about my story, "New Normal." Check it out here.

Day Twenty-Six

Your fears

Death. That basically sums it up. I could nuance that statement—I fear dying young, in pain, alone—but in the end, the distinctions point to the same result: oblivion. Termination of linear existence. Poof.

It's not a fear of being forgotten; enough time passes and everyone's forgotten. (With a few exceptions, but even in those cases, it's not the man or woman who's remembered but the accomplishment connected to a name. Shakespeare isn't really remembered as a person, is he? Do you know anyone who can say, "Yeah, that William, he was a nice guy"?)

How do we know, in the grand scheme, that our having lived matters? And if in five billion years the sun swells into a red giant and consumes the world, did the existence of anything serve a purpose?

I fear my death, your death, the death of everyone I know—I fear that none of it matters.

This is why I lose sleep. Also, why I write science fiction.

Paws News, and a Normal Review

I'd wondered what might happen with Paws and Reflect (which is the title referred to in the previous post about the first piece of creative writing I sold) given the troubles at Alyson Books. I got word today from the editors that they're making it available themselves as an e-book. You can get it here, and look at the cute doggie on the front:

In other news, the editor at Untreed Reads sent me a link to a nice review of "New Normal" (which you should go buy immediately if you haven't already) by the folks over at Rainbow Reads. Check it out.

Day Twenty-Five

A first

The first first that came to mind when this topic came up was something I wrote about here way back in 2006:

Momentum

It doesn't seem like it was so long ago that I sold my first piece of creative writing, but so much has happened in the four years since.

Day Twenty-Four

Something that makes you cry

Not much makes me cry. I can't remember the last time I cried, actually. This is not necessarily a point of pride, mind you. Obviously, I don't buy into the whole "boys don't cry" line of thinking, though I do have a sheen of New England reserve. (No, really. I do. Except when I drink, in which case I'm brimming either with bile or sweetness. You place your bets, you take your chances.)

Now, the last time I *nearly* cried would have been last week, when Shadow jumped on my lap and meowed at me. You might have thought I was almost crying because he missed the first time he tried to jump up in my lap, and then used his clawhold to climb the rest of the way up. But no, it was not that.

He sounded almost exactly like Natasha. Three years later, I still miss her and Boris as if they were parts of my body and the phantom pain still lingers where the limb used to be.