Sarah Black's Blog: Book Report, page 6
November 19, 2013
BAD DOGS
Oscar is not allowed on the bed
post pictures of your bad dogs, human and otherwise!
post pictures of your bad dogs, human and otherwise!
November 17, 2013
TOOTSIES!
TOOTSIES! Back in print (sort of) at the Kindle Store. One of my favorite stories--
Blurb: David Miller, a passionate and clueless young poet, flees modern life, intending to spend the winter holed up in a rustic cabin like a mountain man. He runs into a friend from the past. Quanah Parker Running Bear is a difficult man full of inappropriate longings, with much to teach a young poet about life and the lust for warm toes.
The boy’s name was Quanah Parker Running Bear, and he lived with his father in a cabin a half mile down the Salmon River from David’s grandpa. David’s mom was right. Quanah Parker had been the source of his first fascination with Native American history, with Stanley, Idaho, with woodlore, with boys, and David could still remember the combination of delight and terror that came over him in Quanah Parker’s company. He was a year older and several inches taller. Each year when David arrived, he would make his way down the river, and somewhere along the way, Quanah Parker would ambush him, stealing out of the woods in silent moccasins, sending homemade arrows whizzing by his head until David would freeze, captured. Usually Quanah Parker tied him to a tree, then told him the story of a famous Indian massacre. When he was punished enough and Quanah Parker would untie him, David would crouch down next to the older boy, watch him play with his knife or his bow and arrows, help him make a small campfire, and listen to his stories.
His mom was also right about Quanah Parker Running Bear being a strange boy. He went to school in Stanley, in the one-room schoolhouse, and spent most of his time roaming the wilderness with a bow and arrow and pretending it was 1760. The last year before Quanah Parker had been sent off to boarding school in Salt Lake City, David was thirteen and Quanah Parker fourteen.
Quanah Parker had ambushed him near the river and captured him in a hail of arrows as usual. He’d marched David to a lodgepole pine and tied his hands in front of him with a lariat of intricately braided rawhide. He wrapped a piece of woven belt around David’s waist, securing him to the tree. Then Quanah Parker stood in front of him, eyes narrowed, studying his prisoner. He was wearing blue jeans and moccasins, a plaid flannel shirt, and a battered barn coat that looked two sizes too big for him. He was taller this year, and his hair had grown out almost to his waist, a messy tangle of black.
David was bursting with his news. “Quanah Parker, you told me you were Cheyenne and Arapahoe, but I know where you got your name! Your mother was Cynthia Ann Parker, kidnapped by the Comanche from the Pease River in Texas. She lived her whole life with the tribe and was kidnapped back by the Texas Rangers in a terrible raid! You were the last great Comanche war chief and led your people to the reservation in Oklahoma when it was clear defeat was inevitable!”
Quanah Parker Running Bear narrowed his eyes. “Ha. You know nothing. The true story, the secret history of my people, is told warrior to warrior.” He studied David and then shook his head gravely. “I can’t tell you. You are not a warrior.”
David did not say a word, just stared at Quanah Parker. The boy sighed and loosened the blue bandanna from around his neck. “I don’t know. It might kill you. The warrior’s way, it’s not for the weak.”
“I’m not weak, Quanah Parker.”
The boy leaned in close to him, and David could smell wild mountain air and wood smoke coming from his hair. “But are you afraid? You could get hurt.”
“I trust you.”
Quanah Parker took the bandanna, wrapped it around David’s mouth, and tied it behind his head. It smelled like the sweat on the back of his neck, under that wild black hair. “You’ll have to wear a gag. So you won’t scream.”
David felt his eyes grow wide and a tingle of terror snake down his belly. Quanah Parker stuck his hand in the pocket of his jeans, brought out an old black pocketknife. He opened the blade and held it up between them. The knife blade was dull, but he sawed through a long piece of his black hair. Then he cut a brown curl from David’s head.
Quanah Parker held the hair from both their heads together in his fist; then he opened his hand and sliced into his palm with the knife. David watched the blood well up, shocking bright red. Quanah Parker unwrapped the rawhide from his wrists, and David held out his left hand, palm up. The cut Quanah Parker made was tiny, almost delicate. “I can take it,” David said, holding his palm out. “It doesn’t hurt.” But Quanah Parker refused to make it bigger, said all they needed was a drop of blood from each of them.
They clasped hands, staring into each other’s eyes, and David felt the small pieces of hair soaking up the blood from their hands. When Quanah Parker pulled away, he rolled the bloody locks of hair into a ball and put them into the tiny buckskin bag he kept around his neck on a thong. “Now you are my squire,” Quanah Parker said. “I can tell you the secrets of our people.”
They made a campfire and sat together next to the juniper logs. David had not pointed out to Quanah Parker that squires belonged to the knights and not to the Indians. It made perfect sense to him that a warrior as fierce and dangerous as Quanah Parker should have a squire. He combed out the tangled black hair, braided it with thick pieces of buffalo hide, and when the hair was lying neatly over Quanah Parker’s shoulders, he moved around to the front. Quanah Parker had brought his war paint. David knelt in front of him, painted two blood red streaks across each dark cheek, then a black line down his nose. David studied him. “I think you’re ready for combat,” he said.
“We need to steal some horses,” Quanah Parker said. “The Comanche were the Lords of the Plains. The thunder of our hoofbeats across the prairie grass would cause the stoutest and bravest men to rush inside their forts, hiding and praying we would pass. We were not interested in the men. We had come for the horses!”
Quanah Parker led him deeper into the woods, to where his fat old pony was tied to a tree, eating ferns. He pulled himself into the saddle, then reached a hand down for David. “Put your foot on mine.”
David slid his foot into the stirrup, and Quanah Parker pulled him into the saddle The tugging had started the cut on Quanah Parker’s palm bleeding again, and he pressed his hand to David’s cheek, first one side and then the other, leaving smears of blood. “Now you’re starting to look like a warrior,” he said, and David felt a flush of heat and pride in his chest. “Quiet. We don’t want to alert the settlers.”
David wrapped his arms around Quanah Parker’s waist and rested his head against the older boy’s back. He could smell the wood smoke from their campfire, feel the promise of snow in the cold air as the old horse clomped silently on pine needles, making his slow way home. David was nearly lulled asleep when he felt Quanah Parker stiffen. “Soldiers!” he said, his voice a harsh whisper, and he wheeled away, kicked the pony into a slow trot, bent his head low over the saddle horn. “Quick! We have to get back to the camp!”
When they reached the riverbank, Quanah slid from the horse’s back, and David jumped down after him. Quanah Parker tossed him the pocketknife, grabbed his bow, and slid an arrow against the bowstring. David opened the knife blade. “Back to back,” Quanah Parker said, and David pressed against him, stared downriver, ready for the approaching soldiers.
Quanah Parker let out a war whoop and shot off his arrow, David spun around, knife at the ready, and the boys stared into the incredulous faces of James Running Bear, Quanah Parker’s father, and Caleb Miller, David’s grandfather. The two men had looked at each other for a long moment, then turned back to the boys. James Running Bear spoke. “Aren’t you two getting a little old for this?”
Quanah Parker and David had to go to the clinic for tetanus shots. When David woke the next morning, he had Quanah Parker’s buckskin bag around his neck.
TOOTSIES
Blurb: David Miller, a passionate and clueless young poet, flees modern life, intending to spend the winter holed up in a rustic cabin like a mountain man. He runs into a friend from the past. Quanah Parker Running Bear is a difficult man full of inappropriate longings, with much to teach a young poet about life and the lust for warm toes.
The boy’s name was Quanah Parker Running Bear, and he lived with his father in a cabin a half mile down the Salmon River from David’s grandpa. David’s mom was right. Quanah Parker had been the source of his first fascination with Native American history, with Stanley, Idaho, with woodlore, with boys, and David could still remember the combination of delight and terror that came over him in Quanah Parker’s company. He was a year older and several inches taller. Each year when David arrived, he would make his way down the river, and somewhere along the way, Quanah Parker would ambush him, stealing out of the woods in silent moccasins, sending homemade arrows whizzing by his head until David would freeze, captured. Usually Quanah Parker tied him to a tree, then told him the story of a famous Indian massacre. When he was punished enough and Quanah Parker would untie him, David would crouch down next to the older boy, watch him play with his knife or his bow and arrows, help him make a small campfire, and listen to his stories.
His mom was also right about Quanah Parker Running Bear being a strange boy. He went to school in Stanley, in the one-room schoolhouse, and spent most of his time roaming the wilderness with a bow and arrow and pretending it was 1760. The last year before Quanah Parker had been sent off to boarding school in Salt Lake City, David was thirteen and Quanah Parker fourteen.
Quanah Parker had ambushed him near the river and captured him in a hail of arrows as usual. He’d marched David to a lodgepole pine and tied his hands in front of him with a lariat of intricately braided rawhide. He wrapped a piece of woven belt around David’s waist, securing him to the tree. Then Quanah Parker stood in front of him, eyes narrowed, studying his prisoner. He was wearing blue jeans and moccasins, a plaid flannel shirt, and a battered barn coat that looked two sizes too big for him. He was taller this year, and his hair had grown out almost to his waist, a messy tangle of black.
David was bursting with his news. “Quanah Parker, you told me you were Cheyenne and Arapahoe, but I know where you got your name! Your mother was Cynthia Ann Parker, kidnapped by the Comanche from the Pease River in Texas. She lived her whole life with the tribe and was kidnapped back by the Texas Rangers in a terrible raid! You were the last great Comanche war chief and led your people to the reservation in Oklahoma when it was clear defeat was inevitable!”
Quanah Parker Running Bear narrowed his eyes. “Ha. You know nothing. The true story, the secret history of my people, is told warrior to warrior.” He studied David and then shook his head gravely. “I can’t tell you. You are not a warrior.”
David did not say a word, just stared at Quanah Parker. The boy sighed and loosened the blue bandanna from around his neck. “I don’t know. It might kill you. The warrior’s way, it’s not for the weak.”
“I’m not weak, Quanah Parker.”
The boy leaned in close to him, and David could smell wild mountain air and wood smoke coming from his hair. “But are you afraid? You could get hurt.”
“I trust you.”
Quanah Parker took the bandanna, wrapped it around David’s mouth, and tied it behind his head. It smelled like the sweat on the back of his neck, under that wild black hair. “You’ll have to wear a gag. So you won’t scream.”
David felt his eyes grow wide and a tingle of terror snake down his belly. Quanah Parker stuck his hand in the pocket of his jeans, brought out an old black pocketknife. He opened the blade and held it up between them. The knife blade was dull, but he sawed through a long piece of his black hair. Then he cut a brown curl from David’s head.
Quanah Parker held the hair from both their heads together in his fist; then he opened his hand and sliced into his palm with the knife. David watched the blood well up, shocking bright red. Quanah Parker unwrapped the rawhide from his wrists, and David held out his left hand, palm up. The cut Quanah Parker made was tiny, almost delicate. “I can take it,” David said, holding his palm out. “It doesn’t hurt.” But Quanah Parker refused to make it bigger, said all they needed was a drop of blood from each of them.
They clasped hands, staring into each other’s eyes, and David felt the small pieces of hair soaking up the blood from their hands. When Quanah Parker pulled away, he rolled the bloody locks of hair into a ball and put them into the tiny buckskin bag he kept around his neck on a thong. “Now you are my squire,” Quanah Parker said. “I can tell you the secrets of our people.”
They made a campfire and sat together next to the juniper logs. David had not pointed out to Quanah Parker that squires belonged to the knights and not to the Indians. It made perfect sense to him that a warrior as fierce and dangerous as Quanah Parker should have a squire. He combed out the tangled black hair, braided it with thick pieces of buffalo hide, and when the hair was lying neatly over Quanah Parker’s shoulders, he moved around to the front. Quanah Parker had brought his war paint. David knelt in front of him, painted two blood red streaks across each dark cheek, then a black line down his nose. David studied him. “I think you’re ready for combat,” he said.
“We need to steal some horses,” Quanah Parker said. “The Comanche were the Lords of the Plains. The thunder of our hoofbeats across the prairie grass would cause the stoutest and bravest men to rush inside their forts, hiding and praying we would pass. We were not interested in the men. We had come for the horses!”
Quanah Parker led him deeper into the woods, to where his fat old pony was tied to a tree, eating ferns. He pulled himself into the saddle, then reached a hand down for David. “Put your foot on mine.”
David slid his foot into the stirrup, and Quanah Parker pulled him into the saddle The tugging had started the cut on Quanah Parker’s palm bleeding again, and he pressed his hand to David’s cheek, first one side and then the other, leaving smears of blood. “Now you’re starting to look like a warrior,” he said, and David felt a flush of heat and pride in his chest. “Quiet. We don’t want to alert the settlers.”
David wrapped his arms around Quanah Parker’s waist and rested his head against the older boy’s back. He could smell the wood smoke from their campfire, feel the promise of snow in the cold air as the old horse clomped silently on pine needles, making his slow way home. David was nearly lulled asleep when he felt Quanah Parker stiffen. “Soldiers!” he said, his voice a harsh whisper, and he wheeled away, kicked the pony into a slow trot, bent his head low over the saddle horn. “Quick! We have to get back to the camp!”
When they reached the riverbank, Quanah slid from the horse’s back, and David jumped down after him. Quanah Parker tossed him the pocketknife, grabbed his bow, and slid an arrow against the bowstring. David opened the knife blade. “Back to back,” Quanah Parker said, and David pressed against him, stared downriver, ready for the approaching soldiers.
Quanah Parker let out a war whoop and shot off his arrow, David spun around, knife at the ready, and the boys stared into the incredulous faces of James Running Bear, Quanah Parker’s father, and Caleb Miller, David’s grandfather. The two men had looked at each other for a long moment, then turned back to the boys. James Running Bear spoke. “Aren’t you two getting a little old for this?”
Quanah Parker and David had to go to the clinic for tetanus shots. When David woke the next morning, he had Quanah Parker’s buckskin bag around his neck.
TOOTSIES
What Do Readers Want?
I don't mean tropes, like, hot cowboys in kilts. I mean, what do you want from a story? What do you want it to do for you? Feelz? Surprise? Do you want to learn something? Do you want to be a better person? Do you want a story that's like your favorite sweats from college that are worn to a nub but they never let you down, even if they're starting to get holes?
I'm working on an essay--will you tell me what you think?
I'm working on an essay--will you tell me what you think?
November 9, 2013
Why Can’t We Talk About Money? Sarah and John and Gabriel Talk about Money
Is it just me, or does money make people feel awkward and uncomfortable? Not big money, like the budget deficit, trillions of dollars seems as far away as the stars, and I’m not entirely sure I’m clear on what the deficit means, anyway. I’m talking about our money, how much we pay, how much we earn, how much we waste.
I decided to confront this issue when I read an article in YES magazine called The Human Cost of Stuff by Annie Leonard. Okay, simple question: would you enjoy that new Ralph Lauren plaid flannel shirt if you knew it was made by a child in a Bangladesh sweat-shop? Hell, no. I had a sudden picture of myself, looking a little like Sally Field, holding up a sign that said UNION in whatever language they speak in Bangladesh. But of course children working in sweat shops can’t read because they should be in school, and they’re not. They’re making shirts for me in exchange for money for a handful of rice.
So here’s the new plaid flannel shirt, very pretty, by the way, in scarlet and green and ivory. I’m going to trace it back to its origins and calculate the cost. I check the tags, and find one that says, in print so faint I can hardly read it: Supplier number# and Job number# . Hmmm. I’m not the only person searching my clothes for crimes against humanity!
So I will have to guess. Material: cotton. Most cotton in the world comes from China or the US or India. The good flannel comes from Portugal. For what I paid for the shirt, it better be the good flannel. Garment factories—China, India, Bangladesh. Some in Mexico. Cutting, sewing. Packaging and distribution: the shirt must have taken a sea voyage to get to the US, probably in a cargo container. From LA it went by truck to a warehouse where it was folded, boxed up, sent to the store. At Dillard’s a nice lady put it on a hanger, steamed it, matched it with a scarlet tee shirt, then sold it to me and rang up my purchase, which went through a computer banking system. A lot of people were involved in getting this shirt into my greedy American hands. I paid $95.00 for it. I love the shirt. But I suspect I won’t be buying another one anytime soon. I’ll have to make it last.
So the second way I decided to confront the money deal was by tracking my spending, and then telling the truth about it. The tracking didn’t bother me. All my money is earned by my work, and I have not taken a penny from anyone since I was 17 and went to work as a Nurse’s Aide in a nursing home to help pay for college, which I managed through student loans. I never saw a penny from my ex, and have raised my son on my own. What I have I’ve earned through my work, so I get to spend it the way I want. But here’s the rub. I feel a little awkward talking about how much I spend, and it’s clear there are several areas of imbalance that suggest to me areas needed for improvement.
So yesterday was my day off. Since coming back to Boise, I switched from employee to Independent Contractor, and I’m earning significantly less. Also I have much more free time and I am 200% happier. But on a day off, I’m not earning any money. So yesterday I had nothing coming in. What did I have going out? Here’s the calculation:
Car Wash: $6.00
Jiffy Lube to change the oil and rotate tires: $58.33
Fill up the tank: $28.45
Barnes and Noble: $98.75—three books, At Night We Walk in Circles by Daniel Alarcon; Red Sky in Morning by Paul Lynch; Aimless Love by Billy Collins. Plus a magazine, Modern Farmer, and a donated book to the kid’s book drive, and a tiny blank notebook and a box of Godiva truffles. I nearly didn’t write about the truffles but I’m committed to the truth. The truffles were gone by last night. Yum.
Grand China Buffett for lunch: $22.00
Son’s haircut and “product” plus tip: $40.00- this last is my Christmas present. He cuts his hair into a flat-top as a gift to me every year for Christmas.
Dog food and a new ball for Oscar: $28.75 (what?!)
Amazon instant video: $1.99 for new episode of Elementary. Developing serious crush on Mycroft.
I can’t even bear to add this all up. Now, don’t assume I grew up with money, or that I’ve always had enough, just because I’m throwing my money around like a sailor in Tijuana. (Wait a minute, I’ve been a sailor in Tijuana!) I haven’t, and I worry about money as much as the next single mom who is the head of a household and the only person bringing money into the family. I just don’t like to give it any power over me, and when I have money, I like to go to the bookstore.
Is there a point to all of this, other than I need to quit spending money? Secrets are dangerous. Secrets give people and things power. When we don’t talk about money, we invest it with a power it doesn’t have. Money is just a tool. Sometimes it’s the right tool.
I don’t have the resources to grow my own cotton and mill the beautiful plaid flannel, though I could cut out and sew myself a shirt. Money was the tool I needed to buy that shirt. But it has no intrinsic value other than its use as a tool. We can drive a nail into the wall with our shoe, or we can use a hammer. The hammer is the right tool.
So as an example: You have twenty dollars. You need medicine that cost $18.00. You have enough money.
You have a hundred dollars. You need medicine that cost $150.00. Even though the hundred is more, it’s not as much—because it doesn’t do the job you need it to do. Money’s only value is in its use as a tool.
I read that married couples fight about money more than anything else, even the kids. I believe it. But I can’t remember reading a single fight about money in a story. I want to get to know these guys, these characters, really get to know them. So I’m going to let them talk about money. The characters say it better than I can. Here’s the scene from the new book where John and Gabriel talk about money:
“Grey lives down here,” Gabriel said, pointing to some new high-rise condos. “I know those things start at about $450,000. Trust fund baby,” Gabriel said, smiling down at John. “He’s got a very limited experience of the world. He wears blinders made out of American money. I think in his heart he wants to be a fashion designer and wear outfits with fuchsia feathers and kitten heels in the privacy of his own high-dollar condo, but being gay was the only thing he could expect his family to swallow with grace. They embraced his being gay, as long as he still was planning to go to law school. That’s how he saw it, anyway.”
“He never thought about the service?”
Gabriel shook his head. “No one in his family served, as far as he knows. Besides, he says the uniforms are ‘too butch.’ Which is okay to hang with, but not if you have to wear one, too.”
John felt himself grinning, and he reached down, slid his hand over Gabriel’s fine, curvy ass. “Oh, yeah, very butch. Maybe one day we can take Grey to see the Army Rangers. I have a feeling he will reevaluate his definition of ‘butch’.”
“That would be fun. But not quite yet, John.” Gabriel slid an arm over John’s shoulder. “I’m getting a lot of work out of him at the moment. If he realized I’m not the meanest bastard in the jungle, he’d probably defect. As it is, he thinks he’s being very eye spy and is having ladies lunches with my wife.”
“With Martha? Really? What’s that about?”
“I think she’s wondering when we’re going broke, and is pumping him for information about the firm. She doesn’t want to ask me, but she’s worried about money. He likes to gossip and doesn’t realize she’s playing him. He may be a trust-fund baby, but he’s not as bright as Martha.”
“She must have heard me say that information is a critical tool for the warrior-philosopher.”
“She roped him into lunch with a different tool. A Coach tote bag in lemon-yellow leather, with a silk scarf tied to the handles that he actually squealed over. She propped it up on his desk when she came into the office. It was a bit of a fuck-you to me, since I told her we needed to stop buying Coach handbags and pay off the credit cards. She said it was her divorce bag, the last decent bag she would be able to afford for years to come, and then she asked if I was going to stop buying hot air balloons. And, I mean, she had a point. So I dropped it.”
“Women have handbags for different occasions? Not just to match their outfits?”
Gabriel slid him a look, a slow grin. “Yeah. They do.”
“How’s the practice?”
“Running on empty. The lawyers, the bank account, but mostly the clients. Everyone hanging on by their fingernails. I blame the economy.”
“Who doesn’t? That seems to be the refrain of the day. Is this what you want to do, Gabriel?”
“For now. Maybe not forever. I can’t say I enjoy watching every penny so close.”
“You’re worried about money, Martha’s worried about money. Are you and I going to talk about money?”
Gabriel wrapped an arm around John’s shoulder. “John, I’m doing the best I can.”
“I know, Gabriel. We’re sharing a bed, and we’re sharing a bathroom, and I wouldn’t hesitate to share your toothbrush, but neither one of us has mentioned sharing a checking account. Are there still some things we can’t talk about?”
“It’s….” Gabriel hesitated. “I admit that is harder than I anticipated. I don’t know why.”
“We’ll need to address this at some point, I suppose,” John said, “if we want to move forward.”
“Move forward?”
John pulled him around so he could look into Gabriel’s dark eyes. “So we can move from being lovers to being a family. If that’s what you wanted. Maybe you already have a family, and you don’t want another one and you need to keep it simple. I don’t know, Gabriel. I’m feeling my way blind here. But we seem to be dancing around money a little bit.”
“I’m not paying anything for my share of the house. I only pay for groceries when I go to the store. It makes me feel a little uncomfortable,” Gabriel said. “I don’t want to feel like I’m freeloading.”
“I’m thinking we ought to pool our resources so we can take care of our big extended family together, and you’re thinking about giving me half of the electric bill. We’re not quite in the same place in our thinking on this. I hate organizing the money. I was hoping I could turn over the entire thing to you to manage. A little added benefit of having you in my bed in the morning, sex and financial management rolled into one hot pilot.”
“What, you want me to manage your investments and everything?”
“I’m not really into investments. I do have a savings account.”
“John, where’s all your money? Do you… I mean, you have been keeping some back all these years, right? For a rainy day?”
“Well, I assume the federal government is not going to stop pay to retirees anytime soon, and I do have the savings, and some is set aside for Kim.”
Gabriel was studying him, a frown between his eyes. “John….”
“Money was never important to me, Gabriel. I can’t get excited about it. And, if I’m being honest, I assumed I would always be able to work, that I’d be getting a paycheck. How did I end up at fifty-two, unemployed? But a warrior lives a simple life, right? I mean, how much do we need?”
“Yeah, you need me to take over the money. We’ll work it out, boss. I feel like my plate’s overflowing right now.” He pulled John close. “Thanks for giving me some time. And some space.”
I decided to confront this issue when I read an article in YES magazine called The Human Cost of Stuff by Annie Leonard. Okay, simple question: would you enjoy that new Ralph Lauren plaid flannel shirt if you knew it was made by a child in a Bangladesh sweat-shop? Hell, no. I had a sudden picture of myself, looking a little like Sally Field, holding up a sign that said UNION in whatever language they speak in Bangladesh. But of course children working in sweat shops can’t read because they should be in school, and they’re not. They’re making shirts for me in exchange for money for a handful of rice.
So here’s the new plaid flannel shirt, very pretty, by the way, in scarlet and green and ivory. I’m going to trace it back to its origins and calculate the cost. I check the tags, and find one that says, in print so faint I can hardly read it: Supplier number# and Job number# . Hmmm. I’m not the only person searching my clothes for crimes against humanity!
So I will have to guess. Material: cotton. Most cotton in the world comes from China or the US or India. The good flannel comes from Portugal. For what I paid for the shirt, it better be the good flannel. Garment factories—China, India, Bangladesh. Some in Mexico. Cutting, sewing. Packaging and distribution: the shirt must have taken a sea voyage to get to the US, probably in a cargo container. From LA it went by truck to a warehouse where it was folded, boxed up, sent to the store. At Dillard’s a nice lady put it on a hanger, steamed it, matched it with a scarlet tee shirt, then sold it to me and rang up my purchase, which went through a computer banking system. A lot of people were involved in getting this shirt into my greedy American hands. I paid $95.00 for it. I love the shirt. But I suspect I won’t be buying another one anytime soon. I’ll have to make it last.
So the second way I decided to confront the money deal was by tracking my spending, and then telling the truth about it. The tracking didn’t bother me. All my money is earned by my work, and I have not taken a penny from anyone since I was 17 and went to work as a Nurse’s Aide in a nursing home to help pay for college, which I managed through student loans. I never saw a penny from my ex, and have raised my son on my own. What I have I’ve earned through my work, so I get to spend it the way I want. But here’s the rub. I feel a little awkward talking about how much I spend, and it’s clear there are several areas of imbalance that suggest to me areas needed for improvement.
So yesterday was my day off. Since coming back to Boise, I switched from employee to Independent Contractor, and I’m earning significantly less. Also I have much more free time and I am 200% happier. But on a day off, I’m not earning any money. So yesterday I had nothing coming in. What did I have going out? Here’s the calculation:
Car Wash: $6.00
Jiffy Lube to change the oil and rotate tires: $58.33
Fill up the tank: $28.45
Barnes and Noble: $98.75—three books, At Night We Walk in Circles by Daniel Alarcon; Red Sky in Morning by Paul Lynch; Aimless Love by Billy Collins. Plus a magazine, Modern Farmer, and a donated book to the kid’s book drive, and a tiny blank notebook and a box of Godiva truffles. I nearly didn’t write about the truffles but I’m committed to the truth. The truffles were gone by last night. Yum.
Grand China Buffett for lunch: $22.00
Son’s haircut and “product” plus tip: $40.00- this last is my Christmas present. He cuts his hair into a flat-top as a gift to me every year for Christmas.
Dog food and a new ball for Oscar: $28.75 (what?!)
Amazon instant video: $1.99 for new episode of Elementary. Developing serious crush on Mycroft.
I can’t even bear to add this all up. Now, don’t assume I grew up with money, or that I’ve always had enough, just because I’m throwing my money around like a sailor in Tijuana. (Wait a minute, I’ve been a sailor in Tijuana!) I haven’t, and I worry about money as much as the next single mom who is the head of a household and the only person bringing money into the family. I just don’t like to give it any power over me, and when I have money, I like to go to the bookstore.
Is there a point to all of this, other than I need to quit spending money? Secrets are dangerous. Secrets give people and things power. When we don’t talk about money, we invest it with a power it doesn’t have. Money is just a tool. Sometimes it’s the right tool.
I don’t have the resources to grow my own cotton and mill the beautiful plaid flannel, though I could cut out and sew myself a shirt. Money was the tool I needed to buy that shirt. But it has no intrinsic value other than its use as a tool. We can drive a nail into the wall with our shoe, or we can use a hammer. The hammer is the right tool.
So as an example: You have twenty dollars. You need medicine that cost $18.00. You have enough money.
You have a hundred dollars. You need medicine that cost $150.00. Even though the hundred is more, it’s not as much—because it doesn’t do the job you need it to do. Money’s only value is in its use as a tool.
I read that married couples fight about money more than anything else, even the kids. I believe it. But I can’t remember reading a single fight about money in a story. I want to get to know these guys, these characters, really get to know them. So I’m going to let them talk about money. The characters say it better than I can. Here’s the scene from the new book where John and Gabriel talk about money:
“Grey lives down here,” Gabriel said, pointing to some new high-rise condos. “I know those things start at about $450,000. Trust fund baby,” Gabriel said, smiling down at John. “He’s got a very limited experience of the world. He wears blinders made out of American money. I think in his heart he wants to be a fashion designer and wear outfits with fuchsia feathers and kitten heels in the privacy of his own high-dollar condo, but being gay was the only thing he could expect his family to swallow with grace. They embraced his being gay, as long as he still was planning to go to law school. That’s how he saw it, anyway.”
“He never thought about the service?”
Gabriel shook his head. “No one in his family served, as far as he knows. Besides, he says the uniforms are ‘too butch.’ Which is okay to hang with, but not if you have to wear one, too.”
John felt himself grinning, and he reached down, slid his hand over Gabriel’s fine, curvy ass. “Oh, yeah, very butch. Maybe one day we can take Grey to see the Army Rangers. I have a feeling he will reevaluate his definition of ‘butch’.”
“That would be fun. But not quite yet, John.” Gabriel slid an arm over John’s shoulder. “I’m getting a lot of work out of him at the moment. If he realized I’m not the meanest bastard in the jungle, he’d probably defect. As it is, he thinks he’s being very eye spy and is having ladies lunches with my wife.”
“With Martha? Really? What’s that about?”
“I think she’s wondering when we’re going broke, and is pumping him for information about the firm. She doesn’t want to ask me, but she’s worried about money. He likes to gossip and doesn’t realize she’s playing him. He may be a trust-fund baby, but he’s not as bright as Martha.”
“She must have heard me say that information is a critical tool for the warrior-philosopher.”
“She roped him into lunch with a different tool. A Coach tote bag in lemon-yellow leather, with a silk scarf tied to the handles that he actually squealed over. She propped it up on his desk when she came into the office. It was a bit of a fuck-you to me, since I told her we needed to stop buying Coach handbags and pay off the credit cards. She said it was her divorce bag, the last decent bag she would be able to afford for years to come, and then she asked if I was going to stop buying hot air balloons. And, I mean, she had a point. So I dropped it.”
“Women have handbags for different occasions? Not just to match their outfits?”
Gabriel slid him a look, a slow grin. “Yeah. They do.”
“How’s the practice?”
“Running on empty. The lawyers, the bank account, but mostly the clients. Everyone hanging on by their fingernails. I blame the economy.”
“Who doesn’t? That seems to be the refrain of the day. Is this what you want to do, Gabriel?”
“For now. Maybe not forever. I can’t say I enjoy watching every penny so close.”
“You’re worried about money, Martha’s worried about money. Are you and I going to talk about money?”
Gabriel wrapped an arm around John’s shoulder. “John, I’m doing the best I can.”
“I know, Gabriel. We’re sharing a bed, and we’re sharing a bathroom, and I wouldn’t hesitate to share your toothbrush, but neither one of us has mentioned sharing a checking account. Are there still some things we can’t talk about?”
“It’s….” Gabriel hesitated. “I admit that is harder than I anticipated. I don’t know why.”
“We’ll need to address this at some point, I suppose,” John said, “if we want to move forward.”
“Move forward?”
John pulled him around so he could look into Gabriel’s dark eyes. “So we can move from being lovers to being a family. If that’s what you wanted. Maybe you already have a family, and you don’t want another one and you need to keep it simple. I don’t know, Gabriel. I’m feeling my way blind here. But we seem to be dancing around money a little bit.”
“I’m not paying anything for my share of the house. I only pay for groceries when I go to the store. It makes me feel a little uncomfortable,” Gabriel said. “I don’t want to feel like I’m freeloading.”
“I’m thinking we ought to pool our resources so we can take care of our big extended family together, and you’re thinking about giving me half of the electric bill. We’re not quite in the same place in our thinking on this. I hate organizing the money. I was hoping I could turn over the entire thing to you to manage. A little added benefit of having you in my bed in the morning, sex and financial management rolled into one hot pilot.”
“What, you want me to manage your investments and everything?”
“I’m not really into investments. I do have a savings account.”
“John, where’s all your money? Do you… I mean, you have been keeping some back all these years, right? For a rainy day?”
“Well, I assume the federal government is not going to stop pay to retirees anytime soon, and I do have the savings, and some is set aside for Kim.”
Gabriel was studying him, a frown between his eyes. “John….”
“Money was never important to me, Gabriel. I can’t get excited about it. And, if I’m being honest, I assumed I would always be able to work, that I’d be getting a paycheck. How did I end up at fifty-two, unemployed? But a warrior lives a simple life, right? I mean, how much do we need?”
“Yeah, you need me to take over the money. We’ll work it out, boss. I feel like my plate’s overflowing right now.” He pulled John close. “Thanks for giving me some time. And some space.”
November 7, 2013
I Need a Boa Stress-Pet!
It’s been a weird few months, even for me. I’m so happy to be back in Boise and settled into a good routine. You would think at some point I could coast a bit, right? But strange things have been cropping up and I’ve had to take some drastic steps.
So the first strange thing that happened was I took a bad fall. I was making a house call on an elderly lady, and I tripped on her top step and flew across the porch. I had a laptop and a medical bag in my hands, so I protected them, of course, using my head and post-menopausal joints- I mostly landed on my left knee and elbow, and my head slammed into her front door, announcing my arrival. When she opened the door to find me face down and bleeding, she let me use her walker to lever myself up and then she administered first aid. Eventually I was able to turn her attention from myself to her, but she never lost that alarmed look she had when she first opened the door to find her health care provider collapsed in a bloody, limping heap. This is a true story, by the way, not a complicated metaphor for current events.
I was not just hurt but shaken up, and I quickly ran through the likely culprits- MS, of course, and Parkinson’s- that was more likely, with my family history, or maybe a mini-stroke? Tumor? The shoes, which up until that morning had been my favorites, were put into the closet for time out. Eventually I decided that I needed to increase my Qi-Gong and I needed more exercise.
So then the second weird thing happened. I decided that the best way to get more exercise was to get a dog. I have always been a cat person, until I developed fairly severe allergies a couple of years ago. But I got this bee in my bonnet that the only way I would get my butt out of the chair and outside, where I could once again learn to navigate the dangerous world of steps and curbs, was from the end of a dog leash.
Of course there is a long history of service animal use for people who are blind, who have seizures or diabetes, and lately there have been several groups training psychiatric service dogs for returning vets suffering from PTSD. I am very familiar with how the system for service dogs works and doesn’t work, because in my last clinic, which served the homeless population, I was frequently called upon to provide paperwork certifying an animal as a service animal. In order to take your pet into a homeless shelter in Boise, he or she would have to be a service animal. So I would have to evaluate a patient and document a medical condition that would benefit from a service animal, and then evaluate a service animal and give the owner paperwork to allow owner and dog into the shelter.
Regardless of if I am a big softee, there are some situations that just cannot be condoned in a homeless shelter which has children. Pit bulls who have been rescued from the fighting pits do not belong in a shelter with children, and I frankly questioned the training of these dogs as service animals when their torn ears suggested they were still in the ring. Also, when a man brought in his Boa and told me the snake was his stress-pet, I flatly refused to give him a chit. I also ordered them both out of the clinic when he refused to put the stress-pet back into its cage.
But now I am reconsidering. Not if I should have allowed the Boa into the shelter, because the very loving but tough Christians that ran those shelters also had their limits. But I am reconsidering my previous thoughts about stress and psychiatric service dogs. Because at this point in the story, I met Oscar.
Limping and with scabs the size of Montana on my knees, I went into the local PetsMart to just “look around.” Oh, look at that! There’s the adoption center! I went in to be greeted with about twenty Chihuahuas’ throwing themselves against the wire bars of their cages in a snarling rage, trying to tear out my throat with their tiny teeth. Perhaps the rage was the result of the cute little costumes the staff had dressed them in? Mostly tutu’s, but that did not disguise the fury and blood-rage in their eyes. Do any Zombie stories have dogs? If not, I’m telling you, Chihuahuas are the dogs. Back behind the little demons were a couple of ADD hounds of various kinds, clearly not ready for apartment living, and, at the very back, with his paws over his ears, was Oscar.
Oscar is some sort of terrier. He is not immediately an attractive dog, until one gets to know him. He’s covered with wiry tufts of gray and black hair, and he has random curls over his butt that make him look like a miniature satyr. The tag on his cage said that Oscan knew his name, had passed training school, but was an “escape artist.” I went to the visiting room and one of the staff brought Oscar to me. He sat at attention, or maybe parade-rest, to let me know he was a graduate of training school, but one brown eye rolled back to watch me. I asked Oscar if he would like to come home with me and he wagged his tail and said yes. The staff didn’t understand that the deal was done, and they made him demonstrate all sorts of good behaviors before they heard me say, “I’m taking him.” For the third time. He stood next to me wagging his tail while I gathered leash and collar, tags, food, bowls, etc etc etc.
When I got home the kid looked at me and looked at Oscar and waited for an explanation. I told him Oscar was my Christmas present. In the three weeks he’s been home with me, I have gotten more exercise. Also my brown sheepskin rugs are developing holes and he has eaten two tennis balls completely. I have dealt with the escape artist via concrete blocks around the bottom of the back porch fence, and he has settled into our family so well my kid mentioned that it felt like Oscar had been with us forever. I agree. And whatever is causing me to fall on my face unexpectedly, exercise and a fuzzy excitable dog who adores me will only make it better. And now I need to get off the computer and get the leash because it’s time for his walk.
So the first strange thing that happened was I took a bad fall. I was making a house call on an elderly lady, and I tripped on her top step and flew across the porch. I had a laptop and a medical bag in my hands, so I protected them, of course, using my head and post-menopausal joints- I mostly landed on my left knee and elbow, and my head slammed into her front door, announcing my arrival. When she opened the door to find me face down and bleeding, she let me use her walker to lever myself up and then she administered first aid. Eventually I was able to turn her attention from myself to her, but she never lost that alarmed look she had when she first opened the door to find her health care provider collapsed in a bloody, limping heap. This is a true story, by the way, not a complicated metaphor for current events.
I was not just hurt but shaken up, and I quickly ran through the likely culprits- MS, of course, and Parkinson’s- that was more likely, with my family history, or maybe a mini-stroke? Tumor? The shoes, which up until that morning had been my favorites, were put into the closet for time out. Eventually I decided that I needed to increase my Qi-Gong and I needed more exercise.
So then the second weird thing happened. I decided that the best way to get more exercise was to get a dog. I have always been a cat person, until I developed fairly severe allergies a couple of years ago. But I got this bee in my bonnet that the only way I would get my butt out of the chair and outside, where I could once again learn to navigate the dangerous world of steps and curbs, was from the end of a dog leash.
Of course there is a long history of service animal use for people who are blind, who have seizures or diabetes, and lately there have been several groups training psychiatric service dogs for returning vets suffering from PTSD. I am very familiar with how the system for service dogs works and doesn’t work, because in my last clinic, which served the homeless population, I was frequently called upon to provide paperwork certifying an animal as a service animal. In order to take your pet into a homeless shelter in Boise, he or she would have to be a service animal. So I would have to evaluate a patient and document a medical condition that would benefit from a service animal, and then evaluate a service animal and give the owner paperwork to allow owner and dog into the shelter.
Regardless of if I am a big softee, there are some situations that just cannot be condoned in a homeless shelter which has children. Pit bulls who have been rescued from the fighting pits do not belong in a shelter with children, and I frankly questioned the training of these dogs as service animals when their torn ears suggested they were still in the ring. Also, when a man brought in his Boa and told me the snake was his stress-pet, I flatly refused to give him a chit. I also ordered them both out of the clinic when he refused to put the stress-pet back into its cage.
But now I am reconsidering. Not if I should have allowed the Boa into the shelter, because the very loving but tough Christians that ran those shelters also had their limits. But I am reconsidering my previous thoughts about stress and psychiatric service dogs. Because at this point in the story, I met Oscar.
Limping and with scabs the size of Montana on my knees, I went into the local PetsMart to just “look around.” Oh, look at that! There’s the adoption center! I went in to be greeted with about twenty Chihuahuas’ throwing themselves against the wire bars of their cages in a snarling rage, trying to tear out my throat with their tiny teeth. Perhaps the rage was the result of the cute little costumes the staff had dressed them in? Mostly tutu’s, but that did not disguise the fury and blood-rage in their eyes. Do any Zombie stories have dogs? If not, I’m telling you, Chihuahuas are the dogs. Back behind the little demons were a couple of ADD hounds of various kinds, clearly not ready for apartment living, and, at the very back, with his paws over his ears, was Oscar.
Oscar is some sort of terrier. He is not immediately an attractive dog, until one gets to know him. He’s covered with wiry tufts of gray and black hair, and he has random curls over his butt that make him look like a miniature satyr. The tag on his cage said that Oscan knew his name, had passed training school, but was an “escape artist.” I went to the visiting room and one of the staff brought Oscar to me. He sat at attention, or maybe parade-rest, to let me know he was a graduate of training school, but one brown eye rolled back to watch me. I asked Oscar if he would like to come home with me and he wagged his tail and said yes. The staff didn’t understand that the deal was done, and they made him demonstrate all sorts of good behaviors before they heard me say, “I’m taking him.” For the third time. He stood next to me wagging his tail while I gathered leash and collar, tags, food, bowls, etc etc etc.
When I got home the kid looked at me and looked at Oscar and waited for an explanation. I told him Oscar was my Christmas present. In the three weeks he’s been home with me, I have gotten more exercise. Also my brown sheepskin rugs are developing holes and he has eaten two tennis balls completely. I have dealt with the escape artist via concrete blocks around the bottom of the back porch fence, and he has settled into our family so well my kid mentioned that it felt like Oscar had been with us forever. I agree. And whatever is causing me to fall on my face unexpectedly, exercise and a fuzzy excitable dog who adores me will only make it better. And now I need to get off the computer and get the leash because it’s time for his walk.
November 5, 2013
November 4, 2013
An excerpt from The General and the Elephant Clock
John sat in the lobby when he arrived in Gabriel’s office downtown. There were offices for three lawyers and a circular desk for reception and admin in the middle of the floor. One law clerk was manning the desk. He was young, with a complicated hairstyle that John knew Kim would love, and a monochromatic outfit: gray tweed slacks, a charcoal gray cashmere V-neck sweater over a white shirt and a charcoal gray tie. When he came around the desk to bring some papers to one of the offices, John noticed he was wearing tennis shoes, also in tweedy charcoal gray.
Gabriel came out of his office escorting an elderly Mexican woman. She had a flowered scarf over her head and a shopping bag full of papers. She had a long-suffering look on her face, something ancient and unmovable. John had the feeling she had brought every page out of the shopping bag for Gabriel to examine during their meeting. He shook hands with her and handed the woman over to the young guy at the desk. Gabriel held up two fingers, and John nodded, went back to his tablet. When he looked back up, the boy behind the desk was studying Gabriel’s long legs and curvy butt as he stood next to his desk. John stared at him until the boy looked up suddenly, flushing, and his face reminded John of a puppy caught making a small mess on the rug. Well, well, well. Gabriel brought a file out to the desk, handed it over with a smile. No wonder the kid was half in love already. Gabriel didn’t smile at everyone like that. John kept his eyes on the boy until he found an excuse to leave the desk and disappear into an office. John thought he would probably hide out until they were out of the building.
“Uh, oh. What’s up? The general looks like he’s doing some calculations.”
This was Gabriel’s code to tell him he looked pissed off, his eyes changing from calm grey to stainless steel. “Nothing. I was just watching your young pup in there stare at your ass. What is he, twenty? Nineteen?”
“I think twenty-six,” Gabriel said, looking down at him with a grin. “He’s a decent clerk, fairly organized, can be charming, and he speaks Spanish.”
“He’s got a serious crush on you.”
“Yes, well, and who can blame him?” Gabriel was laughing now as he took John’s hand and ran it over his flat belly. “But I think you scared him off for good. He probably won’t even take my messages now, for fear General Mitchel will be watching him.”
“What’s his name?”
“Grey. Greyson Pennington something or other. The seventh, I think. Very old school.”
“Give me a break,” John said, and Gabriel laughed. John put his arm around Gabriel’s waist, pulled him close. “I saw you on TV when I was in the barber shop.”
“Oh, shit.” Gabriel stopped on the street, and they stood together for a moment. “Was it bad?”
John shook his head. “I don’t know. The sound was turned down. But I don’t think Bud wants our kind in his barber shop.”
“That fuckhead. He does a half-assed job, anyway. Want me to go kick his scrawny ass?”
“That won’t be the worst of it. Lots of people that we thought… liked us will turn out to not like us so much anymore. Just par for the course. I’m more concerned about Juan.”
“I had to give the tutor an apology and the rest of his contract, to the tune of six hundred bucks, and listen to his semi-hysterical assurances that he was not, in fact, a faggot.”
“What’s Juan going to do if the kids at school get hold of the magazine?”
Gabriel’s chin was sticking out about a mile. “He’s gonna have to stand up and take it like a man. This is absolutely not an excuse I will tolerate for his unacceptable behavior. And if he doesn’t know that already, he’s about to find it out.”
John gave him a little squeeze around the waist, rubbed his hand up and down Gabriel’s back. They had been soothing each other quite a bit lately. “You up for Paul’s?”
“You driving? Maybe I’ll have a martini.”
Paul’s Monterey Inn was an Albuquerque legend among the crowd that liked a decent steak. John slid into the half-round booth and looked around him with a sigh of contentment. “Now look at this place. Why can’t I explain decorating to Kim?”
Paul’s was paneled in knotty pine and had semi-circular high-backed banquettes upholstered in dark avocado green or brown vinyl with bronze studs. The light fixtures were small and tended toward amber glass and black wrought iron. It was dark and quiet and private. Paul’s had been redecorated last around 1976. It was John and Gabriel’s favorite restaurant.
“The couch is okay. I mean, it is sort of white-looking, but it’s comfortable.”
Gabriel called the waitress over to the table. “Can you get me a martini?”
“What kind?” The waitress also looked like she’d been at Paul’s since 1976.
Gabriel stared at her. “The usual.”
She gave him a sigh and a hard look, but turned toward the bar. John heard her say, “one martini, two straws.” She had the gravel of 40 years of Marlboros in her voice.
Gabriel looked at John. “What did I just order? What’s the usual?”
“The James Bond classic, I suppose. Olives, vodka, and vermouth. Maybe gin, I’m not sure. I’ve also seen martinis with small pickled onions.”
“We’ll see when it gets here.”
“What made you decide to drink a martini?”
Gabriel put his arm around John, pulled him close in the booth. “Part of my self-improvement plan. I’m going to try one new thing every day. I have an assignment for you.”
“Really? What’s that?” John asked.
“I want you to sit on the new couch.”
“I hate that fucking couch. I can’t believe Kim…. My Navy Federal Visa has a balance of over eight thousand dollars.”
“He knows you’re upset. We all know you’re upset.”
John shook his head. “I gave him the card. I mean, it’s not like I don’t know exactly who he is. I’ll get over it.”
“Why don’t you try it out? Sit on it. I actually thought it was pretty comfortable.”
“We’ll see.”
Gabriel grinned at him, but he dropped it, waited for his martini.
The drink arrived with a small plastic sword propped along the edge, holding two stuffed olives. Gabriel took a sip, passed it to John. John handed the little sword to Gabriel. The martini was brisk, cold and bright. He set down the glass. “It’s gin, not vodka.”
Gabriel ate one of the little olives and took another sip. “It’s not bad.”
John ate the second olive, took another mouthful. “It’s good,” he agreed. “Not like tequila, though.”
“I bet this thing gives you a wicked headache, you overindulge.” He waved the waitress back over. “Two New York strips, medium rare, two baked potatoes with butter, two salads.”
“Thousand Island, right?”
Gabriel nodded. John wasn’t sure Paul’s had another dressing. The salad was a wedge of iceberg lettuce with Thousand Island on the side.
Gabriel drained the drink, then turned to John. “So, the magazine hit the stands today? Did you look at it?”
John shook his head. “I left it on your desk at home. How did they find you so quickly?”
“Grey came back from lunch with a copy, but it wouldn’t have taken much to find me. I suspect it was somebody in the office. The cameras were outside just as I stepped out of the door to go to court. Nobody else knew my schedule. But that’s not what we should be worried about.”
John studied his face. “What, you don’t think there’ll be reporters at the house, do you? I mean, this is just a flash in the pan. It must be a slow news night.”
“I gave Kim a heads-up when you called me, just so he wouldn’t leave Billy there alone.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re upset,” Gabriel said. “Why? About Bud? The guy’s a dickhead.”
“Not about Bud, not exactly. It’s just he gave me this look, then he hesitated just a moment before he started, like he really didn’t want to touch me. There was so little there, nothing I could grab on to, but I felt it, like he’d screamed some nasty word at me across a playground. I don’t get why I’m upset. I mean, we’re not living in Uganda, for crying out loud. So how come I let this little mosquito bite annoy me?”
“Everyone, even you, looks in a mirror occasionally and wonders what other people see. And the little insults do matter. Just because they’re subtle and quiet doesn’t mean they aren’t real. They’re one end of a long line, and it only takes a few little steps to move on down that line. You’re sensitive to it, and you notice, because that’s what you do. That’s why you’re so good at your work. You are the master of the subtle tell.”
“I need to figure out how to put that skill to use in the real world.”
“You aren’t happy writing?”
“I am. Just a little bored, to tell you the truth. Not that I’m wishing for war, understand, but doesn’t anyone need some conflict resolution?” John leaned his head back, closed his eyes. Gabriel reached for his thigh under the table, and John felt himself smiling. “This is what I’m going to remember on the day I die,” he said. “Right before I close my eyes, I’m going to remember this, the way your hand feels, the heat of your leg against mine, the smell of the skin on the back of your neck, like burnt sugar.” Gabriel looked surprised, and John smiled at him. “I’ve been trying to think of a way to describe it, the way your skin smells just there.” He ran his fingers around the back of Gabriel’s neck, just under the hairline. “If I can remember this, right before the end, I’ll die happy. Isn’t that the best we can hope for?”
He heard Gabriel catch his breath, then he leaned over and kissed John on the side of his mouth, a gentle touch, warm and sweet. “Let’s make that a long, long time from now, okay?”
John opened his eyes, reached up for Gabriel’s face, ran his fingers along the angle of his jaw. “Okay.”
Two iceberg salads slid across the table. Their waitress was back. “Want another martini?”
Gabriel shook his head. “No, one was fine, thanks. It was good.”
“You two look like reposado boys to me. A nice aged tequila, some lime juice, cane sugar….”
Gabriel looked at John. “We could get a cab home. It’s been a rough day.”
John nodded at the woman. “Thank you. No ice, okay?”
“Do I look like the sort of person who would put ice in decent tequila?”
John had to admit that she did not.
Fresh out of the closet, General John Mitchel and Gabriel Sanchez are settling into their new life together when an old army colleague taps them for a rescue mission to Tunisia. Eli and Daniel, two former Rangers working security, have been arrested in Carthage, charged with blasphemy and thrown into prison.
With rampant unrest in the ancient city and an old enemy targeting them, John gathers a team to liberate the two captive men. When he discovers Eli’s boyhood obsession with Al-Jazari’s Elephant Clock, the rescue becomes complicated and strangely beautiful, and John and Gabriel have to risk what they love the most to bring their team home.
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/stor...
Gabriel came out of his office escorting an elderly Mexican woman. She had a flowered scarf over her head and a shopping bag full of papers. She had a long-suffering look on her face, something ancient and unmovable. John had the feeling she had brought every page out of the shopping bag for Gabriel to examine during their meeting. He shook hands with her and handed the woman over to the young guy at the desk. Gabriel held up two fingers, and John nodded, went back to his tablet. When he looked back up, the boy behind the desk was studying Gabriel’s long legs and curvy butt as he stood next to his desk. John stared at him until the boy looked up suddenly, flushing, and his face reminded John of a puppy caught making a small mess on the rug. Well, well, well. Gabriel brought a file out to the desk, handed it over with a smile. No wonder the kid was half in love already. Gabriel didn’t smile at everyone like that. John kept his eyes on the boy until he found an excuse to leave the desk and disappear into an office. John thought he would probably hide out until they were out of the building.
“Uh, oh. What’s up? The general looks like he’s doing some calculations.”
This was Gabriel’s code to tell him he looked pissed off, his eyes changing from calm grey to stainless steel. “Nothing. I was just watching your young pup in there stare at your ass. What is he, twenty? Nineteen?”
“I think twenty-six,” Gabriel said, looking down at him with a grin. “He’s a decent clerk, fairly organized, can be charming, and he speaks Spanish.”
“He’s got a serious crush on you.”
“Yes, well, and who can blame him?” Gabriel was laughing now as he took John’s hand and ran it over his flat belly. “But I think you scared him off for good. He probably won’t even take my messages now, for fear General Mitchel will be watching him.”
“What’s his name?”
“Grey. Greyson Pennington something or other. The seventh, I think. Very old school.”
“Give me a break,” John said, and Gabriel laughed. John put his arm around Gabriel’s waist, pulled him close. “I saw you on TV when I was in the barber shop.”
“Oh, shit.” Gabriel stopped on the street, and they stood together for a moment. “Was it bad?”
John shook his head. “I don’t know. The sound was turned down. But I don’t think Bud wants our kind in his barber shop.”
“That fuckhead. He does a half-assed job, anyway. Want me to go kick his scrawny ass?”
“That won’t be the worst of it. Lots of people that we thought… liked us will turn out to not like us so much anymore. Just par for the course. I’m more concerned about Juan.”
“I had to give the tutor an apology and the rest of his contract, to the tune of six hundred bucks, and listen to his semi-hysterical assurances that he was not, in fact, a faggot.”
“What’s Juan going to do if the kids at school get hold of the magazine?”
Gabriel’s chin was sticking out about a mile. “He’s gonna have to stand up and take it like a man. This is absolutely not an excuse I will tolerate for his unacceptable behavior. And if he doesn’t know that already, he’s about to find it out.”
John gave him a little squeeze around the waist, rubbed his hand up and down Gabriel’s back. They had been soothing each other quite a bit lately. “You up for Paul’s?”
“You driving? Maybe I’ll have a martini.”
Paul’s Monterey Inn was an Albuquerque legend among the crowd that liked a decent steak. John slid into the half-round booth and looked around him with a sigh of contentment. “Now look at this place. Why can’t I explain decorating to Kim?”
Paul’s was paneled in knotty pine and had semi-circular high-backed banquettes upholstered in dark avocado green or brown vinyl with bronze studs. The light fixtures were small and tended toward amber glass and black wrought iron. It was dark and quiet and private. Paul’s had been redecorated last around 1976. It was John and Gabriel’s favorite restaurant.
“The couch is okay. I mean, it is sort of white-looking, but it’s comfortable.”
Gabriel called the waitress over to the table. “Can you get me a martini?”
“What kind?” The waitress also looked like she’d been at Paul’s since 1976.
Gabriel stared at her. “The usual.”
She gave him a sigh and a hard look, but turned toward the bar. John heard her say, “one martini, two straws.” She had the gravel of 40 years of Marlboros in her voice.
Gabriel looked at John. “What did I just order? What’s the usual?”
“The James Bond classic, I suppose. Olives, vodka, and vermouth. Maybe gin, I’m not sure. I’ve also seen martinis with small pickled onions.”
“We’ll see when it gets here.”
“What made you decide to drink a martini?”
Gabriel put his arm around John, pulled him close in the booth. “Part of my self-improvement plan. I’m going to try one new thing every day. I have an assignment for you.”
“Really? What’s that?” John asked.
“I want you to sit on the new couch.”
“I hate that fucking couch. I can’t believe Kim…. My Navy Federal Visa has a balance of over eight thousand dollars.”
“He knows you’re upset. We all know you’re upset.”
John shook his head. “I gave him the card. I mean, it’s not like I don’t know exactly who he is. I’ll get over it.”
“Why don’t you try it out? Sit on it. I actually thought it was pretty comfortable.”
“We’ll see.”
Gabriel grinned at him, but he dropped it, waited for his martini.
The drink arrived with a small plastic sword propped along the edge, holding two stuffed olives. Gabriel took a sip, passed it to John. John handed the little sword to Gabriel. The martini was brisk, cold and bright. He set down the glass. “It’s gin, not vodka.”
Gabriel ate one of the little olives and took another sip. “It’s not bad.”
John ate the second olive, took another mouthful. “It’s good,” he agreed. “Not like tequila, though.”
“I bet this thing gives you a wicked headache, you overindulge.” He waved the waitress back over. “Two New York strips, medium rare, two baked potatoes with butter, two salads.”
“Thousand Island, right?”
Gabriel nodded. John wasn’t sure Paul’s had another dressing. The salad was a wedge of iceberg lettuce with Thousand Island on the side.
Gabriel drained the drink, then turned to John. “So, the magazine hit the stands today? Did you look at it?”
John shook his head. “I left it on your desk at home. How did they find you so quickly?”
“Grey came back from lunch with a copy, but it wouldn’t have taken much to find me. I suspect it was somebody in the office. The cameras were outside just as I stepped out of the door to go to court. Nobody else knew my schedule. But that’s not what we should be worried about.”
John studied his face. “What, you don’t think there’ll be reporters at the house, do you? I mean, this is just a flash in the pan. It must be a slow news night.”
“I gave Kim a heads-up when you called me, just so he wouldn’t leave Billy there alone.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re upset,” Gabriel said. “Why? About Bud? The guy’s a dickhead.”
“Not about Bud, not exactly. It’s just he gave me this look, then he hesitated just a moment before he started, like he really didn’t want to touch me. There was so little there, nothing I could grab on to, but I felt it, like he’d screamed some nasty word at me across a playground. I don’t get why I’m upset. I mean, we’re not living in Uganda, for crying out loud. So how come I let this little mosquito bite annoy me?”
“Everyone, even you, looks in a mirror occasionally and wonders what other people see. And the little insults do matter. Just because they’re subtle and quiet doesn’t mean they aren’t real. They’re one end of a long line, and it only takes a few little steps to move on down that line. You’re sensitive to it, and you notice, because that’s what you do. That’s why you’re so good at your work. You are the master of the subtle tell.”
“I need to figure out how to put that skill to use in the real world.”
“You aren’t happy writing?”
“I am. Just a little bored, to tell you the truth. Not that I’m wishing for war, understand, but doesn’t anyone need some conflict resolution?” John leaned his head back, closed his eyes. Gabriel reached for his thigh under the table, and John felt himself smiling. “This is what I’m going to remember on the day I die,” he said. “Right before I close my eyes, I’m going to remember this, the way your hand feels, the heat of your leg against mine, the smell of the skin on the back of your neck, like burnt sugar.” Gabriel looked surprised, and John smiled at him. “I’ve been trying to think of a way to describe it, the way your skin smells just there.” He ran his fingers around the back of Gabriel’s neck, just under the hairline. “If I can remember this, right before the end, I’ll die happy. Isn’t that the best we can hope for?”
He heard Gabriel catch his breath, then he leaned over and kissed John on the side of his mouth, a gentle touch, warm and sweet. “Let’s make that a long, long time from now, okay?”
John opened his eyes, reached up for Gabriel’s face, ran his fingers along the angle of his jaw. “Okay.”
Two iceberg salads slid across the table. Their waitress was back. “Want another martini?”
Gabriel shook his head. “No, one was fine, thanks. It was good.”
“You two look like reposado boys to me. A nice aged tequila, some lime juice, cane sugar….”
Gabriel looked at John. “We could get a cab home. It’s been a rough day.”
John nodded at the woman. “Thank you. No ice, okay?”
“Do I look like the sort of person who would put ice in decent tequila?”
John had to admit that she did not.
Fresh out of the closet, General John Mitchel and Gabriel Sanchez are settling into their new life together when an old army colleague taps them for a rescue mission to Tunisia. Eli and Daniel, two former Rangers working security, have been arrested in Carthage, charged with blasphemy and thrown into prison.
With rampant unrest in the ancient city and an old enemy targeting them, John gathers a team to liberate the two captive men. When he discovers Eli’s boyhood obsession with Al-Jazari’s Elephant Clock, the rescue becomes complicated and strangely beautiful, and John and Gabriel have to risk what they love the most to bring their team home.
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/stor...
November 3, 2013
Poem of the Day: Oscar's Walk
excitable paws on the end of a leash
scrabbling through a pile of
wet, red leaves
that smell suspiciously like squirrel.
scrabbling through a pile of
wet, red leaves
that smell suspiciously like squirrel.
November 2, 2013
Everything Old is New Again: Storytelling Structures and the Book Arts
All the stories have been told. There is nothing new under the sun. There are only seven plots in all of fiction.
I hear varieties of these aphorisms all the time, and I agree and disagree. Like everything that seems on the surface very simple, these ideas are really very complex.
Is Romeo and Juliet a story that has already been told? Do the multitudes of movies telling this story but set in different times tell a different story? Or are they just speaking to a different audience? Or does the story change as it percolates through new minds?
I suspect that stories are organic and they change as they are filtered through the collective human unconscious. Some stories resonate so powerfully with our experience that we want to tell them over and over. Hamlet-on-Wheels, for example, also known as Sons of Anarchy. Beautifully done modern tale of a California motorcycle club engaged in gun running and porn and general ass kicking and mayhem. But underneath the story is pure Hamlet. I think it resonates so strongly because the show is well acted and well done, but the classic story at its heart is one that sets up echoes of memory in our collective unconscious.
Books are dead, killed by computer games and e-readers. More e-books were sold last month than paper and board books. Aphorisms? More truths that are somehow not as simple as they sound.
When books started to be bound in the codex form, did scrolls disappear? Or did they just change? Did movable type put the monks out of business? What is the point today of a book you can hold in your hand, made out of paper and board, or leather or vellum or clay, if their primary purpose is to transmit information? Those books are resource-rich, and we are becoming resource-poor. Are they worth what they’re made of?
What is the role of a physical book today, and does it change the way we tell stories, does it affect narrative?
I’ve been exploring these ideas by making my own books by hand. This is something that every writer ought to try—amazing the way the form of a book, or a page, shapes narrative. I re-wrote a short story I had been very happy with so the paragraphs could sit on their pages with a bit more symmetry, and I used the structure of a very short paragraph for emphasis. Sitting alone on the page, a tiny paragraph has the power of a shout.
Bookmaking, just like writing, is about the process, but it’s a very different process. I was playing around with tiny books make out of purchased paper from the craft story, and the original idea I had was gradually transformed as I worked. I was playing, really, letting the materials say something, and my only input was asking, what does this mean? Why did I make this choice? What am I trying to say? And gradually the idea changed and the form took shape.
Books are about narrative. They say something about time, move a reader through time, and they tell a story. The structure and form of a book can emphasize the narrative. A story about chaos, for instance, might be well told by being written on a deck of cards, and read by the cards being thrown into the air and picked up in random fashion. A story about getting old might be told by nothing more than a series of images, the same place photographed through the changing seasons. There are many ways to tell a story, and the physical form of a book, the book arts, can help us craft a powerful and meaningful narrative.
This is, I think, what the physical book still offers us--the use of structure and image to add power and meaning to the narrative. And for writers, making our own books, playing with the book arts may change the way you think about telling your story.
My favorite book artists: Margaret Couch Cogswell and Daniel Essig. There are many more, but these two really make me happy.
http://margaretcouchcogswell.com/Site... I love her story crowns, but especially her playful way of approaching storytelling. She makes it very easy to go through the door into the world of stories. Playful doesn’t mean unsophisticated, though, or serious—she just has some fun with it. I want to make myself a story crown and wear it around the house. And I don’t care who sees me!
http://danielessig.com/ Daniel Essig makes really powerful mixed-media books that reference historical book structures from many cultures. He often attaches his books with tiny chains, or hides them inside boxes. Books used to be rare and precious, and we humans always lock up what is most precious to us. I love his use of tiny artifacts and fossils.
I hear varieties of these aphorisms all the time, and I agree and disagree. Like everything that seems on the surface very simple, these ideas are really very complex.
Is Romeo and Juliet a story that has already been told? Do the multitudes of movies telling this story but set in different times tell a different story? Or are they just speaking to a different audience? Or does the story change as it percolates through new minds?
I suspect that stories are organic and they change as they are filtered through the collective human unconscious. Some stories resonate so powerfully with our experience that we want to tell them over and over. Hamlet-on-Wheels, for example, also known as Sons of Anarchy. Beautifully done modern tale of a California motorcycle club engaged in gun running and porn and general ass kicking and mayhem. But underneath the story is pure Hamlet. I think it resonates so strongly because the show is well acted and well done, but the classic story at its heart is one that sets up echoes of memory in our collective unconscious.
Books are dead, killed by computer games and e-readers. More e-books were sold last month than paper and board books. Aphorisms? More truths that are somehow not as simple as they sound.
When books started to be bound in the codex form, did scrolls disappear? Or did they just change? Did movable type put the monks out of business? What is the point today of a book you can hold in your hand, made out of paper and board, or leather or vellum or clay, if their primary purpose is to transmit information? Those books are resource-rich, and we are becoming resource-poor. Are they worth what they’re made of?
What is the role of a physical book today, and does it change the way we tell stories, does it affect narrative?
I’ve been exploring these ideas by making my own books by hand. This is something that every writer ought to try—amazing the way the form of a book, or a page, shapes narrative. I re-wrote a short story I had been very happy with so the paragraphs could sit on their pages with a bit more symmetry, and I used the structure of a very short paragraph for emphasis. Sitting alone on the page, a tiny paragraph has the power of a shout.
Bookmaking, just like writing, is about the process, but it’s a very different process. I was playing around with tiny books make out of purchased paper from the craft story, and the original idea I had was gradually transformed as I worked. I was playing, really, letting the materials say something, and my only input was asking, what does this mean? Why did I make this choice? What am I trying to say? And gradually the idea changed and the form took shape.
Books are about narrative. They say something about time, move a reader through time, and they tell a story. The structure and form of a book can emphasize the narrative. A story about chaos, for instance, might be well told by being written on a deck of cards, and read by the cards being thrown into the air and picked up in random fashion. A story about getting old might be told by nothing more than a series of images, the same place photographed through the changing seasons. There are many ways to tell a story, and the physical form of a book, the book arts, can help us craft a powerful and meaningful narrative.
This is, I think, what the physical book still offers us--the use of structure and image to add power and meaning to the narrative. And for writers, making our own books, playing with the book arts may change the way you think about telling your story.
My favorite book artists: Margaret Couch Cogswell and Daniel Essig. There are many more, but these two really make me happy.
http://margaretcouchcogswell.com/Site... I love her story crowns, but especially her playful way of approaching storytelling. She makes it very easy to go through the door into the world of stories. Playful doesn’t mean unsophisticated, though, or serious—she just has some fun with it. I want to make myself a story crown and wear it around the house. And I don’t care who sees me!
http://danielessig.com/ Daniel Essig makes really powerful mixed-media books that reference historical book structures from many cultures. He often attaches his books with tiny chains, or hides them inside boxes. Books used to be rare and precious, and we humans always lock up what is most precious to us. I love his use of tiny artifacts and fossils.
October 31, 2013
Wild Onions for Idaho
Thanks very much to everyone who helped me raise money for the Idaho Foodbank by buying a copy of my book Wild Onions. An especial thank you to Melanie M and Lauraadriana who helped get the word out. We’ve sold 153 books!
My son was volunteering in the warehouse this morning and reported that the cooler was getting down to the bones- all that was left were Key limes, tomatillos, and pearl onions. But supplies were on the way!
I was making a house call to an older man a couple of weeks ago, and he came in from loading big sacks of potatoes and onions from the fields into his trailer. He told me he was taking them down to the Foodbank as soon as I was “done with him.” When he retired from working as a farmer, that’s what he started to do—grow potatoes and onions for the Foodbank. I see that sort of thing a lot around Idaho. I think that’s why I feel so comfortable here.
The Foodbank has a couple of ways you can donate- actual goods or money, and if you donate money, you can choose where it goes, which program. I’ve been thinking about this, because when I’ve been helping sort food boxes, I notice there is very little meat. Lots of pasta . I thought I would use the money to buy cans of chicken and tuna for the food boxes. But they tell me they can buy in bulk, with discounts not available to the public.
I am actually worried about the Backpack Program—this is where kids get backpacks of food for the weekend. With foodstamps being cut this month and the holidays coming,( with fewer school lunches,) I want to help make sure the kids go home with as much as possible. I’m not sure how the federal govt shutdown impacted these sorts of programs, where they do some small amount of assistance. I would guess they were low on the priority list! So that’s where the money will go.
Thanks, you guys. You all have the biggest hearts. Just look what this amount of collective action could do!
What little I know about development and people living in poverty, though, is that these programs which provide emergency food assistance are a wad of chewing gum over the crack in the pipe. They don’t help people start to find ways out of the situation. Giving hungry people food will not fix food insecurity. There are lots of experts in the field, and I am not one! But I think crowdsourcing and microeconomics are very interesting ways for people like me and you to help.
Anyone have their favorite to share? For Christmas, we usually go to Kiva (http://www.kiva.org/) and everyone in the family gets $25.00 to lend. This is a microeconomics lending platform—tiny loans to businesses, farmers, etc, and when they are paid off, your $25.00 is freed up for another loan. My first $25.00 has been loaned out and repaid five times since I started. Mostly to women in the Philippines who are small farmers—a thank you to all the people of that beautiful land I got to know during my time in the Navy.
I also love Kickstarter, (http://www.kickstarter.com/hello?ref=nav) crowdsource funding for the arts. And the future. Reshaping the world. Maybe in the post-conflict world, we’ll get together to create art, not fight wars. One can only hope! Hope and work toward the future. Thanks, everyone.
My son was volunteering in the warehouse this morning and reported that the cooler was getting down to the bones- all that was left were Key limes, tomatillos, and pearl onions. But supplies were on the way!
I was making a house call to an older man a couple of weeks ago, and he came in from loading big sacks of potatoes and onions from the fields into his trailer. He told me he was taking them down to the Foodbank as soon as I was “done with him.” When he retired from working as a farmer, that’s what he started to do—grow potatoes and onions for the Foodbank. I see that sort of thing a lot around Idaho. I think that’s why I feel so comfortable here.
The Foodbank has a couple of ways you can donate- actual goods or money, and if you donate money, you can choose where it goes, which program. I’ve been thinking about this, because when I’ve been helping sort food boxes, I notice there is very little meat. Lots of pasta . I thought I would use the money to buy cans of chicken and tuna for the food boxes. But they tell me they can buy in bulk, with discounts not available to the public.
I am actually worried about the Backpack Program—this is where kids get backpacks of food for the weekend. With foodstamps being cut this month and the holidays coming,( with fewer school lunches,) I want to help make sure the kids go home with as much as possible. I’m not sure how the federal govt shutdown impacted these sorts of programs, where they do some small amount of assistance. I would guess they were low on the priority list! So that’s where the money will go.
Thanks, you guys. You all have the biggest hearts. Just look what this amount of collective action could do!
What little I know about development and people living in poverty, though, is that these programs which provide emergency food assistance are a wad of chewing gum over the crack in the pipe. They don’t help people start to find ways out of the situation. Giving hungry people food will not fix food insecurity. There are lots of experts in the field, and I am not one! But I think crowdsourcing and microeconomics are very interesting ways for people like me and you to help.
Anyone have their favorite to share? For Christmas, we usually go to Kiva (http://www.kiva.org/) and everyone in the family gets $25.00 to lend. This is a microeconomics lending platform—tiny loans to businesses, farmers, etc, and when they are paid off, your $25.00 is freed up for another loan. My first $25.00 has been loaned out and repaid five times since I started. Mostly to women in the Philippines who are small farmers—a thank you to all the people of that beautiful land I got to know during my time in the Navy.
I also love Kickstarter, (http://www.kickstarter.com/hello?ref=nav) crowdsource funding for the arts. And the future. Reshaping the world. Maybe in the post-conflict world, we’ll get together to create art, not fight wars. One can only hope! Hope and work toward the future. Thanks, everyone.
Book Report
In my goodreads blog, I'll talk about what I'm reading, and also mention my new releases
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