Howling from My Mountain: Blog

Lavender - ahhhhh, and a sly moon rising

Sat, 05 Jul 2008 14:31:15 GMT

Along the riverfront there were fireworks, and I could hear them from my hotel last ngiht. I saw few spray-sprinkle-sparkes round up over the tops of the buildings. The moon was a fingernail, a sliver, a side-way's slit of a grin. Yesterday, we walked downtown - I bought the most wonderful jam, now if I can remember the type of berry, that would be a wonderful hint. (and no, not Georgia, Gandalfe!)

Lavender must be a local flower - I bought a group of lavenders yesterday, gave some to someone, and some to another, and kept a few sprigs for myself. One sprig I wrapped around the tip I left for the room cleaners.

So, I guess that's all my hints...the waterfront fireworks, the lavender. Later , I'll find the name of the berry jam and use that as a hint.

Namaste.

I am where I am

Fri, 04 Jul 2008 16:02:17 GMT

I am where I am...you may already know where I am - but if you don't GUESS and I'll give you some hints *teehee* -- I arrived last night, called Good Man Rog and said, "how is the mountain?" The Tourists are out in full force, so maybe I'm here at a good time. I could hear our chimes and the birds through the phone wires. This morning, I found out I could partially open the window to my hotel room...Joy! I heard birds singing and the first stirrings of the city. I don't hear "City" noises at home. It was a gentle awakening though.

Here is a hint: There sure are a lot of pine trees here.

(and Walker: yes, it is as if I am always 'on vacation' where I live in the Smokies! Ahhhhh!)

Clementine, Nova ScienceNow, Golden Girls, Travel - oh! what a life!

Tue, 01 Jul 2008 15:29:17 GMT

This morning, the song, "Oh my darlin' Clementine..." ran round and round in my head. I think this is a hint from Clementine that I must get back to work on her. I have two completed novels that I feel good about where they are now, and I'd hoped to work on "The Sad Surreal World of Kathryn" (it's both fiction and nonfiction swirled around and the idea for it came right from something I wrote right onto this Blog!...same as Clementine did). Clementine is impatient, acting as if I don't have a thing to do in this world but listen to her stories - but, then again, I am really curious, anxious, to hear those stories. Perhaps the surreal novel can wait longer? Or perhaps I can work on both of them--Clementine right onto the blog as I've been doing, and the sad surreal world novel as I usually write (alone). I can do it.

I have a trip coming up (and yes, I made fun of the airlines just a tad below - but dang, what would we do if we could not fly? We've become spoiled and used to it - I guess they know this, huh? - but, even though I detest flying and won't do it unless I absolutely have to, I know it has it's place settled firmly in Society's Expectations.). Goodman Roger will be staying in the little log house watching over my mountain. My brother and I will do some rock hunting - yes, Rock Hunting. I am a rock fanatic, and fossils, and this and that and the other. And I'll finally meet my son's girlfriend and his family.

Nova scienceNow with the handsome and intelligent wonderful Neil Degrasse Tyson is back on. I'm salivating! Tyson has this wonder, this amazement, this awe mixed with humor and respect, that appeals to me I think because I feel the way he speaks. I've been waiting for Nova scienceNow since last summer. The History Channel had an "Origins of Life" segment that was great, too, but it repeated much of what was on Nova SN. Who cares, though? I'll watch it again and again. The origins of life, big bang, black holes, dark mass--all of this gets me glued to the television in ways many things will not. Although, I admit to a Golden Girls obsession - gotta love those Golden Girls every afternoon at 4:00.

Since my trip is soon coming, I will be doing fun things -- I guess it will be a vacation? wow! one of those -- but I will have my laptop with me and hope to check in...Hey...I have an idea - maybe I can post things about where I am and see if anyone can guess where I am - wait, hasn't that been done, like Where in the World is Matt Laurererer or something? Ah well - maybe I'll do it anyway, if I can get good wireless access that doesn't cost a fortune.

I had another photograph published, in the summer issue of OCEAN magazine. And as well, a piece accepted there for fall. I adore this publication, and not just because the editor/publisher happens to like my writing and photography (laugh) but because of Diane Bucheri's love of what she does, and love and respect of the Ocean. She's getting ready to do some different things with the publication- something readers can do online...can't wait to see how it all works out. And I'm all a blither for when my story comes in the mail this month from Lunch Hour Stories - wheee!

Later Gators.Life is good when you don' t overthink it. Namaste

It couldn't happen....could it? Huhn. Airline Fees Gone Mad!

Mon, 30 Jun 2008 12:02:58 GMT

Possible Airline Scene:

Airline Person: "Ma'am, that will be $15 for you bag, plus an extra $25.00 because you went over the weight limit on your bag."

Passenger: "Wait just a minute here. I personally weight 95 pounds, but that guy over there weighs at least 250. So, why should I have to pay for my bag? My total weight, bag and all, is less than his total body weight! It's not fair...It should be based on TOTAL weight."

Hmmmmmmm.....Total weight based on bags and body weight....hmmmmmm

Hmmmm.....What if they begin to make the passengers weigh? I mean, I weigh about 121 and let's say the person next to me weighs 150 and the person next to them weighs 200. Oh oh! Two-hundred is over the limit! Anything over 150 pounds is a per pound charge! So, the 200 pound person has to pay a dollar a pound: $50 extra. They have weight machines as you enter. You step up, and the weight is announced just as it used to be in gym class (I wonder if they still do that? Holler out your weight - remember that? erk). So, if you have a bag or bags to check, that's a fee, then if you are over the 150 pound a person limit, there is a per pound fee, then if you want something to drink--fee! and if you...oh oh, I just thought of another! Coin operated bathrooms. Of course, I avoid the bathroom unless I'm going to bust...but, if I'm going to bust, I must first slip in a dollar in coins--unless they conveniently provide a dollar-changer, bless them. Want a window seat? Extra. Want a germ-and-critter-infested pillow or blanket. CHARRRRGGEE!

We may laugh but....think about the stuff we would have laughed about before....haw haw.

PS - which reminds me - the reason I thought of al this when I wrote it is because I will soon be flying somewhere "NorthWest" to visit my son- I hate flying, but it gets me where I need to go quickly. I bought my tickets months back, before things were as bad. I will come back from my trip with flying tales, and trip tales, and photos. That is, when I take the trip, which is in the near future. My brother and I are traveling together - ain't that sweet?

Ghost at City Park New Orleans Photo of a blogger friend

Sun, 29 Jun 2008 12:25:12 GMT

I went by Betty's Blog (The Buzz), since she too was recently in New Orleans, and in her New Orleans photos, No 3--of City Park--there is a huge oak (of course!) and to the right, flying gaily by, as if giggling how it is in the photo, but at the same time jumping out of the way, arms and legs up and out and over, there is a Ghost. Go see it....New Orleans is full of ghosts.

Mathmatical Equations of Perfection in Nature

Sun, 22 Jun 2008 13:00:52 GMT

“Nobody’s Perfect,” I thought as I took my mountain walk this morning. “Is this a feeling of joy?” I wondered as I inhaled clean mountain air. Alongside the road I walked are many wildflowers and wild grown plants and some unique and rare and beautiful. A Daisy caught my eye, then another and another. I wondered, “A perfect circle of yellow?”

I am not a mathematician, and indeed, mathematics puzzles me, frustrates me—always logical, always right, always perfect? When I am illogical and oftentimes (many many oftentimes) flawed. I wondered then, if a mathematician were to measure the golden inside of the Daisy, would it be a perfect circle? It looks to the eye to be. Is it? If a mathematician, or mathematics-type person is out there, now I need to know, the eye gauge is not enough this morning; is the soft sun inside of the Daisy a perfect circle? Who will measure for me and then let me know? (And if it is not, would I enjoy the Daisy any less? Why of course not. I just have a need to know if there is some order to the Daisy that I never noticed before—is the round a perfect circle?) This is not a moral or a lesson or a metaphor—I just have that need to know, simply. If someone does this for me, because they are curious too perhaps?, then put it in the comments section, or email me. Now I must know.

BlogTalk Radio Interview with The Rose & Thorn's Barbara Quinn & Singer Windy Jans Music Video

Fri, 20 Jun 2008 12:09:50 GMT

A great interview with The Rose & Thorn's managing editor Barbara Quinn. It's about an hour or a bit less long. (I even had a mention towards the end (teehee). )

If you are curious about ezines, publishing your work or reading about publishing work, how an ezine works, our wonderful staff behind the scenes at R&T, etc., then this is a well-done informative interview done by Lillian Brummit at Conscious Discussions - a radio program. Enjoy!

INTERVIEW HERE

http://www.blogtalkradio.com/ConsciousDiscussions/2008/06/19/Rose-Thorn-Writers-Group

And from my writer friend Patresa Hartman re: her friend Wendy Jans (who has a beautiful soulful voice; I have her CD):

"My very talented friend, Wendy Jans, has made her first music video.

Click here to watch the video

(or: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TCYaOcPBZNQ )

Click here to visit her website: http://www.wendyjans.com
And here to visit her myspace: http://www.myspace.com/wendyjans

Spread the word of Wendy! -- Patresa"

And for Patresa Hartman's website (a gifted writer you must read) click HERE

As always, let's support our writers, artists, musicians, and those who support them!

Stories in the Lost files of Kathryn...

Thu, 19 Jun 2008 16:40:00 GMT

Sometimes I'll come across a story I felt compelled to write and then just let languish in my files. It's not necessarily a "bad" story, but it's not quite "good" enough or ready to send out for possible publication - sometimes I will take these stories and fix them to send out. Sometimes I don't want to, for various reasons: maybe I just like it as it is, simple and true, maybe I'm busy working on other things and the years pass and the story stays lost in my files until once again I come across them, look at them, love the character, and after I read again, I think, “Poor little character, stuck here in my files, poor story.”

I did that today with Pudgy. Pudgy’s been hanging around for years. He first came to me at a writer’s conference in Houma, Louisiana. I was waiting for a panel discussion and I couldn’t get this kid out of my head. So, I wrote up something and forgot about it. Long time later, I found it and typed it up. Long time later I found it in my lost files and fiddled with it. Long time later, which is today, I found it again – mainly because what I thought was Pudgy kept talking to me while I walked on the mountain this morning—I saw him sitting on some steps waiting alone until it was dark, and he said to me, “let me out! Here I am!” So, I went in to change Pudgy. But something happened. As I read, I realized I could not change Pudgy at all. He had to stay where he was. The other voice must be another character asking to be written.

I decided I’d take my lost stories that languish in my files, those that I may never publish, and publish them on my site. Why not? If someone gets joy or loves the character with me, then that’s better than the story forever hidden.

Pudgy, this gentle little sad story with a gentle little ending, is HERE: PUDGY. Read if you like. Don’t read if you like. Pudgy is what it is. The story is simple. I have nothing more I want to say. Nothing more I want to write. Especially not when so many other voices are begging me to write them. I sometimes just have to let some stories be. So then, once in a while, I will post a long lost story from my long lost files.

For those of you wondering where Clementine has gone—she is in hiding right now. Too much static in the way because of happenings at Pen to Press. Static. Voices. Noises. I can’t get her to come out. She is stubborn. But, more, she knows I have some things to do. She waits. She’ll be tapping at my head again, oh yes. They always do. They always come. Always always. I can’t shut them up. I can’t make them stop. But, I don’t want them to stop, this I know.

A bit about Pen to Press Writer's Retreat

Tue, 17 Jun 2008 17:55:50 GMT

In the post below, I let loose a bit about New Orleans. I’d like to talk about the food, and some other things, but I want to mention the Pen to Press Writer’s Retreat first. I’ve been to a few writers’ conferences, and I will say that I’m about sixty-forty on whether I thought I got my money’s worth, or whether I was glad I attended—with sixty being not so glad and not so much thinking I got my money’s worth, and forty with I suppose I did. Put it this way: I’d said I would from now on be very choosy about what writer’s conferences I attended by researching them and thinking of costs, authors, instructors, my goals, etc., before I went to another one.

However, Pen to Press surprised me. I signed up, wincing at the fee. It’s not cheap. And, New Orleans is not cheap. Neither is either air fare or driving, if you do not live in the city, or near enough to drive, which I do not. I bit the clichéd bullet and signed up, made the hotel and travel arrangements (it helps to have roommates to share the hotel costs), and forgot about it until time for the conference. I had one thing in my favor as a sign this conference would be done “Right” and that one thing is author and friend Deborah Leblanc. I knew if she had her hand on it, it would be top rate. And it was.

Pen to Press will be held every other year, so the opportunity will not come again until 2010. If you are interested in being an author, and you are serious about your work, then start saving and preparing for Pen to Press in 2010. This is a conference you will walk away from knowing you were heard. Knowing you were worked. Knowing the instructors and Deborah really care about you and your writing career. My instructors were authors Alex Sokoloff and Scott Nicholson. I will admit something here: I thoroughly thought it would be a little waste of my time to have two authors yammervate to me about how they were published…big whoop! I’ve heard that how many times now? Only at most of the conferences I’ve attended, where the authors look out at us writers from a panel and tell us never to give up. Okay, I know that. I know never to give up—I say that, and I mean it, they mean it, but I don’t want to pay money to hear it! I was pleasantly surprised to see the level of INSTRUCTION we received in our class (classes were broken down into three, with each class separated by something I’m not aware of, but the conference and instructors did to make the classes work best for the writers).

For me, learning something, anything, new was worth the costs. But, not only did I learn new ways of looking at my work—and this will help my editing work as well—but, the instructors helped me write a kick-arse synopsis. And if it isn’t kick-arse, it surely is 90% better than the laughable swill I had before Pen to Press. They talked to us about pitching to the agents, who came on the last two days of this five-day “retreat.” I will say here that even though we talked about our pitches, and practiced our synopsis, once I was face to face with the four agents (in individual sessions), I winged it. I didn’t want to take in notes, and I didn’t want to try to script it out; I knew that wouldn’t work for me. As a result, I received some kind of interest from all four I pitched to. Will it mean a contract? Who knows? Those things are never a sure thing. But, at the very least, it got me back into the query process, and this time with a new sparkly shiny synopsis that I can send off to other agents. Once I hear back from these four agents, and if the answer is No (and it could very well be) then I am off to the races—never give up, right?

Alex Sokoloff wrote up this “thing” this wonderful “thing” on a board in the class—this Thing that I looked at and suddenly the clouds cleared (or mostly anyway *laugh*) and I saw my manuscript in a different way. I always said it was “character-driven” and “didn’t have a plot” – she said, “every novel has a plot!” and after she showed us her diagram, I sat back and said, “YES!” (Alex is multi-talented, and by gawd knows her stuff). The way she explained it, well, it finally made sense to me. And, uncannily, she knew our work well-enough to ask us pointed questions to RIP out of us what we needed to see not only a way to a good synopsis, but, a way to see our work in units that make up the whole. Cool Stuff.

Scott was quieter, but his advice and lecture was no less pertinent. In fact, from the five-page sample of my novel he read, he saw something that I knew had been bugging me deep inside in this place that says, “hmmmmmm….” But I kept ignoring it since no one else said anything (and I should always trust my instincts)…well, when he asked me about it, a bell rang, a light flashed, and I knew immediately what I needed to do. Out that section came. It solved my dilemma.

All in all, I was very much impressed with Pen to Press. Keep your eyes on this one, folks. I have a feeling it will get bigger and bigger – and since they are choosey about picking writers to attend (you must send in a sample writing, and they must approve you before you can sign up), you are among only the “serious” – and I mean “serious” as in, you are a writer with a mission, with a plan, with a want and a need and a desire.

Now, I still want to talk about the food in New Orleans. But, I wanted to let you all know how impressed I am with Deb Leblanc’s Pen to Press. Everything she touches is a success! I’m telling you – watch out for Deborah Leblanc. I am proud of her, so dang proud to be her friend. One of a kind, nope, you’ll not find another like her anywhere.

Grand Madam: CIty of New Orleans

Tue, 10 Jun 2008 14:41:35 GMT

New Orleans, and the way I pronounce it in my head makes me a true hillbilly now and no longer a South Louisianian, makes me a Tourist now. I am a tourist now. I’m saying it in my head like this: “New Or-Leens.” South Louisianians don’t say it like that; there is no “leens” in New Orleans. I digress (I love saying “I digress”…). I visited New Orleans for the Pen to Press Writer’s Retreat end of May, first of June (and more on that conference later, for it was damn awesome). It was my first time back to the Crescent city, The “Big Easy” (and there I go again…who in So Louisiana calls New Orleans “The Big Easy?”) since 2003—that’s pre-Katrina, of course. When I arrived in the city, I felt a little star-struck at first. It was early afternoon, and my friends and I were sharing a room at the Monteleone hotel, an old stately hotel with a carousel bar that turns round and round. Early afternoon, in the not yet as hot as it’s going to get heat, in the French Quarter. There is a smell and feel and energy to New Orleans that you have to experience, it can’t quite be explained, even by the most brilliant of writers who have tried—writers can only hint of it, tease you on.

When evening came on and my friend and I walked the Quarter, including Bourbon Street, I then experienced the seedy loud drunken debauched side of New Orleans. From living in So Louisiana, and visiting New Orleans often in my adult years, I know there is much more to N.O. than the French Quarter, but that is what most people think of when they hear “New Or-leens” – Mardi Gras, French Quarter, Debauchery. And there it all was, coming at me in a locomotion roar of people, lights, sound, smells. You haven’t lived until you have smelled Bourbon street—an odor that repels and fascinates—parts horse or mule excrement, parts human piss and sweat and vomit, parts old city mold, parts spicy food wafting, parts spilled beer fermenting even more on the heated streets, parts body odor, parts rotting garbage. The noise is In Your Face—drunken calls, men shouting lewd comments, scantily-clad women (or men who look like women) enticing tourists inside their lair, clip-clop of horse-drawn carriages and the carriage masters tales, music that is parts jazz blues rock stripper-sleaze country. The sights—half-dressed women and men, faces slack with drunken stupors and lust and greed for this City’s offerings, neon lights buzzing, restaurant waiters standing in the doorways hoping to lure you in, derelicts wandering with vacant eyes or hungry eyes or desperate eyes, people with no good in their irises who stare with malcontented ill intention, and huge-eyed tourists who can’t snap it all up in one eye-bulging gulp. The Feel—this energy, this feel, this New Orleans, how can I tell you in such a short post that is ever-growing? I can’t! I need more time and space! And some of it will ever remain a mystery, unless you go there yourself.

And know this: if you do go, the New Orleanians will be appreciative. I’ve never seen a peoples so damned happy to have you eat at their restaurants, drink coffee in their cafes, buy trinkets at their shops, stay in their hotels—more than any time I’ve been in the Great Madam City of New Orleans, this I felt on this recent visit: they want us to come back. With any tourist city, and I know this from living in the Smokies, there is a Love-Hate relationship with tourists—we need your money, we hate how you change our towns into something anamorphically weird and monstrous. But, New Orleans had a taste of what it felt like to lose the tourists, the people who make New Orleans bulge like that crawfish sack, and it wasn’t a nice feeling at all, to understate. Right now, the Love-Hate is more like Love—visit visit and spend your money…the appreciation is in their eyes, their smiles, the way they say, “Thank you for coming, thank you,” and you know they mean it.

I want to say more, but I best stop here and maybe say more later if I’m a mind to. Yet, there is a New Orleans in the early morning, which I captured in some of my photos above. The New Orleans before tourists and hawkers and traffic and horse/mule carriages are about. When the street sweepers are sweeping, when the owners of establishments have washed the tourists vomit and pee and spills away, when the morning sun is peeking over the cities history…that is when I loved New Orleans the best (other than the food-oh, the food is a post all on its own). I’ll be back…

Pics coming soon, and about N'awlins, and photos soon

Mon, 09 Jun 2008 13:16:53 GMT

I received an email from Cantara (below) concerning my poems published in Cantaraville three (where Stephen Gyllenhaal's short story is, along with some other fine writers). They have a sampler now (and my poetry is in that sampler)....

I will return with photos and thoughts about New Orleans, but in the meantime, if you like, you can read the sampler - or my poetry? Or whatever-- I am saying this with humble shyness....I am not a poet and rarely do poetry, so I sincerely am interested in what you think about these three poems...

Also, my short story in Lunch Hour Stories will be out next month! If you haven't ever read anny LHS (it's by subscription only) you should try them. Not just because my story will be there *laughing* - I've had a subscription even before then, but because it's a cool concept. One story at a time that can be read on a lunch hour, or whenever...and they have an ecclectic blend that is cool. Okay....Later gators, I'll be back!

Dear Kathryn -

You may or may not be aware, but your piece is one of the ones
included in our Cantaraville sampler, which offers readers, for free,
a chance to take a look at our issues and the high quality of the
writing we publish. ...

I want you to know about our new web-based PDF reader. Not
only does it provide you with a straightforward URL, the reader itself
is a thing of beauty. ...

URL:

CLICK HERE

ABOUT THE NEW ORLEANS PHOTOS ABOVE: Someone asked, "where are all the people?" My friend and I rose very early one morning and took a walk before the tourists were up; and before the city was quite "awake" - this is when I loved New Orleans, this early morning time.

Pen To Press! Back on My Mountain, and so is the shadow man?

Fri, 06 Jun 2008 19:01:49 GMT

Ahhhhhh. What travels! What interesting things I have seen, heard, tasted, smelled. I can’t wait to relay them when I have a moment. For now, a quick hello.

After Houston, I touched base in Baton Rouge where I was for less than an hour, transferred my luggage, said hello to friends’ spouses, petted Darla the beautiful old Boston Terrier, then off Angie and Mary Ann Ledbetter – two gifted writers – and I went to the great and strange city of New Orleans.

In New Orleans- which will be a post all its own once I get caught up here with things I have to do, work, for I have things to talk about concerning New Orleans – we attended the PEN TO PRESS WRITERS’ RETREAT, which should have been (as Angie put it) “Writers’ Boot Camp,” haw. I have to compliment PEN TO PRESS profusely when I have time, because out of all the writers’ conferences I have ever attended, this one had the most bang for my buck, to use a cliché. I will write more on Pen to Press, for when it comes back around the year after next, I would urge anyone who is serious about their writing, and you must be serious for them to consider you (beyond the fact it isn’t cheap and I had to sell many words and do some editing to pay for it!) to check this conference out before word gets around and it becomes too popular to get in. Deb LeBlanc is a genius, yes, but, beyond that she really has a sincere desire to help writers’ careers. More on that and New Orleans later.

For now, I am home and as I said, I have some things to do, for at the conference there were some contacts made (as I wished for and asked y’all to put out to the universe and thank you if you did - *muwah*). Now, I won’t go into detail right now, because I have to get busy, and because I don’t want to jinx it; and frankly, if nothing comes of the contacts, then I have to come here and say, “Oh well…” then again, that is what this blog is always supposed to be about, isn’t it? Well then, I will explain later what happened at Pen to Press. I can say that I was put in the “Literary Writer” category and that is both a blessing and a curse—the curse comes from how difficult it is for “Literary Writers” to get published. I was told some things about my writing that made me blush and smile and shuffle my feet and go “aw gee, shucks” and made me beam with pleasure and made me feel all googly goo and happy. More more more later!

Thank you for all your comments- I love them! And I read them, and the emails you send, even if I get swirly-worlded and can’t visit or respond (although I do try to always respond to emails and if I haven’t, it isn’t because I am ignoring, that I can promise!) The pedicure stories, etc *laughing and smiling* (my feet still look great!) Once I get my work done, caught up, I will come visiting to thank you all for visiting. I hope you understand it’s only the work, the writing, that keeps me from your sites…*smiling at you*

Oh! And I have to tell you – I think my shadow man came to me last night. He/It must have been waiting for me to spend a night on the couch, which I rarely do. I couldn’t sleep last night, and so, for the first time in a long time, I rose from my bed and lay on the couch. The creek lulled me, the wind whispered, and a cool breeze softened my breath – and I fell asleep on the couch. Something woke me…and I opened my eyes to a night so very dark – darker than when I fell asleep, and I tried to focus on what awoke me, but I couldn’t focus…however, I felt sure “something or someone” had been there and had awoken me. Who knows, huh?

Now, I have to get busy. I am outside on my porch with my laptop and the trees are waving in the breeze – it is 80 degrees and we are having a “heat wave” but I am not sweating or hot – the mountain humidity is low. It is as if I am in a tree house, up I am in my little log house.

Namaste. I’ll be back. Don’t forget me.

TexasLand and pretty feet and hot dogs and fireworks and...

Sun, 25 May 2008 14:36:01 GMT

I went to an Astros Game - Astros won by one point! How exciting...I've not been to a baseball game, professional, since I was a kid - and funny thing, that time was in the Houston Astrodome as well -- the last time I was in Houston, huhn. I've eaten at some really delicious restaurants. I've had my very first ever pedicure -that's right, I have never had a pedicure ever ever and never wanted one, but my sis in law talked me into it. My feet have never looked better and the experience was interesting. Of course while the other women were reading magazines or closing their eyes or talking on their cells or whatever, I yappity lips flappity doo dah dayed the young woman fiddling with my feet. How can you ignore someone who is being that "intimate" with your feet? My sis in law and I laughed and carried on with Tammy and Lori, our pedicurists. My toes now sport a jaunty bright reddish-pink.

So, new experiences so far: Walking on a boardwalk in Kamah? K???, which I've never done; going to a professional baseball game in downtown Houston (Reliant Stadium) and having a honking big chili cheese dog without thinking about just what was in that “dog,” and a bag of cotton candy that was so sweet it set my teeth on edge in a wonderful “I’m a kid again” kind of way, and singing "Take Me Out to the BallGame!" and "Deep in the Heart of Texas *clap clap clap clap*,” and then watching wonderful fireworks at the end of the game; and having a pedicure (this biblical thing of having your feet washed by someone is interesting and almost beautiful, however on the flip side, I’ve always been uncomfortable with thinking about someone washing and fooling with my feet – this “subservient” feeling of someone kneeling at my feet and me looking “down” at them – ugh – however, engaging them in my craziness helped relax me *laugh*).

My stay here in Texasland is coming to a close. Soon, I will be leaving and heading somewhere in South Louisiana, where I will briefly be, very briefly be, in one city – only long enough to catch a ride with my friends – where we will then head farther south: more later.

Don’t forget me…

Kat Travels...

Fri, 23 May 2008 14:41:33 GMT

Oh, but I am not on my magical mountain...there, on my magical mountain Good Man Roger is with Fat Dog and Not Quite Fat Dog holding down the Mountain Fort, keeping the birds and squirrels and Coons fed with seed, feeling the wind, hearing the rushing creek-- perhaps he is eating poor piggies - like bacon and sausage -- maybe he is having a bacon and sausage party while I am away - ha! Well, what I do not know does not make me go, "Awwww, poor piggies! *sob*"

And where am I? Well, I took a tiny little airplane from Knoxville TN (Hi You in Knoxville, I said as I waved) to Houston airport, where I was then whisked or is that wisked? away by my sister in law. I am in the flatlands of Texas. Yesterday, we visited Galveston and a boardwalk in a city with a K that suddenly the name escapes me, but minutes from Galveston. We visited Moody Gardens in Galveston and rode the paddle boat..wheeee. We walked the boardwalk in Ka??? and ate at Babins and had a big ice cream cone. Today will be more fun in Texas - where everyone is very proud of their state - I have family in Dallas/Ft Worth area, so this I already knew - but Texans are very proud to be Texans, and it is a beautiful thing here to see, that pride! The lone star of Texas is everywhere. This part of Texas I am now in reminds me of Louisiana, whereas Dallas Ft Worth does not. I will write more about that later.

I have another destination after this, in another State in another city - I will write about that too, and later, provide photos of my visits/experiences.

So, off I go - to visit Texas Proud people and Texas Proud lands...I will be back -- don't forget me.

While I'm busy and retreating....

Sun, 18 May 2008 18:35:33 GMT

A P. S. - While I'm busy, and then at the writer's retreat, there is the Got Yog? blog where I, and three other writers/editors of The Rose & Thorn Ezine, blog about gratitude --and it's not the sweet bubblegum kind of gratitude all the time, sometimes we're cranky, or sad, or mad, or ...well, if you want to visit there, I committed to blog my yog every four days for a year, and I will be doing that: Got YOG?

I hope to have more Clementine soon, but I'm already feeling behind on some things I must have prepared.

don't forget me.....

(If you could see what I see: mountains bolding, rain falling, a butterfly just out of its cocoon and ironically drying its wings in the rain, a cardinal and a goldfinch feeding, the wind moving the trees....and hear: replinished creek rushing, birds singing, chimes singing in the wind...ahhhh....hard to work without stopping to appreciate....)

I am scrambling, running, writing, editing...but I am happy

Fri, 16 May 2008 17:03:00 GMT

I am breaking in a moment from the draft I’m writing to the blog – who knows what I’ll do with Clementine? In fact, as the characters take over, become stronger and more “real” I have very little to do with what they will do, say, where they will go. Already, as some of you have commented, Clementine is becoming three-dimensional; complex…I wonder myself what will happen to and with her – both in the present day and in her past. I have so much to write about and it spills, spills, spills.

Life has suddenly become even busier than it usually is. I will scramble to be prepared. That means I will neglect my Blog...so don’t forget me! I will stop in and write Clemmie/Clementine when I need to relax.

But! I’m also working on “The Affliction of Sweetie” novel again! Some of you may remember Sweetie when I first began her and would write about her here. Well, she began talking to me after I thought I was "done." I swear, folks, I swear she was a real girl who lived in these mountains and is talking to me. She’s one of the few characters I have ever “Seen” as clearly as I see her. Anyway, I’d put her aside, and then whispers came. Something became clear to me—I woke up and thought, “wait!” and it clicked and ever since it clicked, my fingers are flying to fix things in Sweetie to make her better.

I also need to get my sweet beautiful Virginia Kate (novel) prepared for a writer’s retreat. I’m “finished” with her, but I need to complete some things for the retreat—the first conference I have attended in a while—more on that later.

So, as boring as all this is, it is to let you know that I am busting my chops, or is that busting my rump, hump..um, I forget....Whatever it is, I am working really hard to make things happen.

I appreciate every one of you who stops to visit. I visit when I can to return the favor.

Wish me luck on this retreat—that I make a good contact there.

Draft to Blog. Clementine. "Chapter 8"

Fri, 09 May 2008 18:14:27 GMT

Clemmie ran through the woods to the creek. Spider webs wrapped across her face, stickers tore at her ankles. But worst of all, thick nasty blood oozed down her legs. Her grandma told her it would come. She’d said, “Clemmie, you will one day be a woman and that day begins with the blood.”

Clemmie had asked, “What blood?”

“The blood what comes from your private parts, deep inside you. It’s been there waiting since you was borned, and when a girl’s body is ready, it comes pouring out. Then you are on the way to being a woman.”

“But I done want to be a woman. I like who I am.”

Grandma put her finger under Clemmie’s chin, tipped up her face, said, “I were the same way, but I couldn’t stop it and you won’t stop it. No girl can stop from being a woman.” She let go Clemmie’s chin. “I can see in your eyes that it’s about time for you.”

And Grandma was right. Just two weeks later, Clemmie woke up feeling fluffy headed, and her insides hurt, and she was crabby and ornery feeling. She’d stomped about her chores, and hardly eaten any of her breakfast. Then, when she was brushing down Beauty, she felt a strange feeling in her insides. An ache and a pull and then a release. Something ran down her leg. She’d run behind the bushes, pulled down her pants and drawers, and there it was. Bright red and nasty. Her woman blood come. She wanted to scream, but was afraid her daddy would come to see about her and know. Her momma was sewing, up for the first time in weeks, and Clemmie didn’t want to make her momma’s headache come back. Clemmie had pressed her fist to her mouth and bit down to keep from hollering, then she’d taken off for the woods and the water.

She wanted the creek to wash it all off. She wanted to let the cold clear water take it all away from her. She didn’t want it didn’t want it didn’t want it.

At the creek, Clemmie threw off her clothes and walked into the water. She sat on her favorite rock and watched as red mixed in with the brown of the boulder. Easing herself into the water, she cupped her hands and let the water wash away her shame on the rock. Then she laid back, her upper body resting against the rock, and let the water rush over her lower body. It gave her shivers, much like the shivers she got while watching Aaron’s muscles stretch and release. The water entered her and then went out, entered and went out. It made her feel better. She thought of Aaron again and something welled up inside her until she thought she’d go insane.

Clemmie closed her eyes, felt the sun touch her face and warm it. Her head, shoulders, and breasts were warm, and her lower body was at turns chilled and hot. She waited there until she felt clean again, but the tension wouldn’t release. Clemmie felt coiled up for something, so tight she couldn’t stand it. It was as if there was something she needed to do, but what it was she couldn’t figure out. She opened her eyes and stared up at the sky peeping through the branches of the trees. A fat white cloud passed over, slow and lazy. It eased Clemmie to look at the cloud, at the leaves waving, at the sounds of the birds. She eased and eased her mind until the pressure felt better. But Clemmie knew there was something there waiting, and she aimed to find out what it was.

When she stood, she felt the same hurt then release and the blood came again. It made her so mad she picked up a rock and threw it as hard as she could. Clemmie washed herself again and then hurried back to the grass to get dressed. She wadded up one of her mother’s handkerchief’s she used to wipe her sweat with and pressed it between her legs, then put her drawers and dungarees back on, then her shirt. She sat upon the grass, her wet hair dripping, and stared into the woods leading down to Aaron’s house.

Just yesterday, she’d made plans to go see him. His daddy had come up the week before and Clemmie listened while they talked about the tornado. Aaron’s daddy said it didn’t touch them, not one speck of dirt was moved over another speck of dirt. She waited, hidden behind the rhododendrons, until she was bored. Aaron’s daddy didn’t once mention Aaron. She’d taken her bath that night and scrubbed extra hard, especially at her blackened feet. Her momma fussed when she didn’t wear shoes, but she couldn’t stand them, they made her feet feel hot and sweaty. She’d washed her hair with soap, and then poured rosewater she’d made herself from root to tip, twice. All for nothing, for she couldn’t go round Aaron with her woman blood spurting all over the place.

Clemmie got up and searched through the woods for roots, something, anything that would make it go away, even though Grandma said it wouldn’t do a bit of good and she best be just accepting of it. Clemmie didn’t have to accept nothing she didn’t want to accept. She’d will it away, that’s what she’d do. The more she walked, the more she felt the ooze, and it was getting high on her nerves. She gave up searching and stomped back home.

Grandma was waiting for her, rocking on the porch, a bowl of beans she was snapping sitting on her lap. Clemmie went to her and stood in front of her. Clemmie said, “I don’t want to be no woman.”

Grandma said, “It ain’t so bad. I reckon you’ll get used to it.”

“What else I got to look forward to, being a woman and all, ‘sides this nasty?”

Grandma laughed, then said, “You’ll see.” She snapped a few beans. “They’s things for you under your piller. Things for tween you legs and things for the achy hurt. And I made some special tea.”

Clemmie shrugged, but she headed inside to go to her bedroom.

“Clemmie?”

She turned to her Grandma. Her Grandma snapped a bean, said, “They’s things we got to talk about now, oncest you feel better. Things that you got to be mindful of and all.”

“Like what?” Clemmie remembered the pressure and her face flamed. She couldn’t ask her Grandma. Not about that.

“Like what I will tell you when you ain’t feeling so poor. Now, go take care of yourself and stop pestering me. I got beans to snap and taters to peel. You go do what you got to do, lay yourself down for a spell. I’ll check on you directly.”

“I done need to lay down. I’ll he’p peel them taters.”

“Suit yourself.”

Clemmie went to her bedroom. There on her table by the bed was a cup with dark liquid in it. Clemmie drank it down, making a face at the bitter taste. She picked up her pillow. There under the pillow were pieces of soft cotton toweling that Grandma had cut into rectangular squares and sewn together into thick pads. With the pads was a rolled piece of cotton. Clemmie unrolled it and inside were herbs and shaved roots to make more tea with. Clemmie sighed. Wasn’t nothing to do but what she had to do. She touched the pad, sighed again, and then went to the outhouse to fix herself up.

After, she buried the handkerchief, deep in the dirt, curling her lip at the nasty of it. With the pad pinned to her drawers, she felt as if she were riding a miniature saddle. It made her feel restless. But the tea helped. She began to feel a soft hazy feeling, as if that earlier cloud passed through her head. After she washed up, she joined Grandma on the porch, picked up the knife and a tater, and set to work.

Grandma asked, “Better now?”

Clemmie nodded.

“Good. We’ll talk in a few day, I ‘spect.”

Clemmie nodded again. Grandma nodded. They bent their heads to their work.

Stephen Gyllenhaal's momma

Tue, 06 May 2008 12:30:42 GMT

I am interrupting Clementine to tell you all I received an email from Cantara Christopher that Stephen Gyllenhaal's mother has passed away. I have never personally met Stephen face to face, but I interviewed him for Rose and Thorn and he is a lovely gracious man - beautifully talented, yes, but more than that. I do not know what it is is like to lose one's momma, for I still have both of mine- my biological and my adoptive mothers. Keep him in your thoughts, if you will? It doesn't matter how well-known you are, or never known by many at all - losing one's momma has to be a lost in the woods feeling, the world becoming a bit bigger and smaller all at once...is one then half an orphan? What void does a momma-less world leave?

Here is a poem Stephen wrote about his mother - it's in his beautiful book of poetry:

MADONNA

again
I catch you here
my rat
looking in the mirror
with me,
your ivory hand
with rings for Him
reflecting small my infant fact
that I've betrayed
all I could've hugged
to be like you:

beautiful beyond pianos
beyond the sheen of moons,
queen of my prison cells until

the faux end
when this vain glory burns
all that I view
to ash
so you,
my cream mother love
are heated full
to sandalwood deep
inside my clues
living maggot free
forever and ever,

bless us all,
amen.

taken from: Claptrap: Notes from Hollywood (Cantarabooks, 2006)

Draft written to blog. Clementine, "chapter 7"

Mon, 05 May 2008 18:21:37 GMT

Clementine took the chicken from the hot water so she could pluck the feathers. The pinfeathers were the hardest and she hated to pick out those, hated it since she was a girl. Thinking about storms and her momma had made her feel a bit pixilated, so cooking would help. She wasn’t one for staring back into the past to figure things out. The past was what it was and staring back into it only made a body feel lonesome, or tired, or mad, or vengeful. Seems lately the past kept creeping up on her and stood there stomping its feel to get her attention.

She sat on her porch in the old wooden chair her daddy made her when she was twenty-two. He said a woman at twenty-two needed a special chair. He never explained why, and she never asked. That old chair had lasted many a years, with just a few twiddlings to shore it up as time went by. Clementine plucked away. She always felt a little sad to kill her chickens, but she also knew chickens were stupid, and they were mean, and they liked to peck at they own shit. They’d just as well peck out an eye if a body were to stare at them cross-a-ways. And chickens were for eating, she reckoned. What else could a chicken do? She never figured it out. Some animals she wouldn’t eat, like pigs. Pigs were smart and when they were babies, they were the cutest things.

She asked the chicken, “What should I do with you? Fry? Fricassee? Or bake you up with some lemon and salt?”

Clementine stared out in the distance, to her potion garden where she grew lady fern she made tea from to help her pee, or dried the roots and made a paste when she had a cut or scrape; there was goat’s rue for the new momma’s to make more baby milk, or for the diabeticals in the town, and for fevers; mayapple was good for the fevers, too, or if she couldn’t go potty properly she’d make a potion out of it for her bowels, and she even gave it to new momma’s if they kids had the worms, or for old Mrs. Mendel’s warts, poor thing; the bloodroot sometimes was used for a love potion, all the want-to-be-loved had to do was rub the juice from the bloodroot’s root on they hand and touch the hand of the one they wanted to love, but that wasn’t always a good thing to do, she warned them, and as young hot bloods did, they didn’t always listen and they’s skin looked mighty bad afterwards, the bloodroot was mostly for the ringwormy kids, and for other skin problems the townsfolk had. Clementine had all manner of plants growing for her potions. Her grandma had taught her everything.

On the other side of the potion garden were her flowers, and back behind, her vegetable garden. Clementine spent many hours of her days tending to those gardens, and she didn’t mind one speck. It had done her well—the townsfolk paid her for her potions and sometimes for her flowers and her vegetables, too. She enjoyed the offerings from the gardens when she needed them, too.

Clementine was surprised to see the chicken was near about all plucked. She said aloud, “Funny a thing how the mind can wander off willy go nilly whilst the hands keep on working, right?”

No one answered, since no one was there, and Clementine felt a sudden loneliness. She put the bird in the pan for washing and sat a moment, thinking about that empty feeling she sometimes had. She knew it was silly. She knew she had her critters to talk to, and she had the townspeople come up to see her when they needed her. But, there was a missing spot, that hard ache in her belly that never went away, even when she pretended. Most times, Clementine liked being alone. It was quiet and nobody asked her to do anything she didn’t have a mind to do. She said, "No call to be thinking on that," stood, reached for the pan with the plucked chicken, and headed inside to wash it up so she could cook it for her supper.

As she scrubbed the chicken, she had a thought. She let it roll around a little bit. Then she said to the chicken, “I could invite him up here, you know. I could just ask him to come eat some supper with me. What do you think that man will say? Huh? What do you think he’ll say? Been a while since I asked any man up here to my table. Might be more trouble than it’s worth, I tell you.”

She put the scrubbed chicken on a clean kitchen towel and patted it dry. From her little pantry she took salt, pepper, red pepper, and garlic. The garlic she minced. From the counter she grabbed a big fresh-smelling lemon, cut it, and squeezed the juice in a bowl. She added the salt, peppers, and cut up garlic to the lemon juice, made a paste, and rubbed it all over the chicken. Inside the cavity, she put the lemon rinds, a whole pod of garlic, some wild ginger from her garden, and a whole onion. The chicken went into her old magnalite cooker and into the oven. With the chicken, Clementine thought some fried taters would be good, okra and maters, and cornbread. For dessert, blackberry pie. She checked her freezer to make sure the blackberries were still there, and they were.

She smiled to herself. Maybe she could have a bit of company for supper. Maybe she could. All she had to do was ride Beauty a few miles down the mountain and…she put her finger to her lips, rubbed them, wondered if her lips were too wrinkly to kiss. Wondered if her old body was nothing to look at anymore, look at like a man likes to look. She knew it didn’t matter if the man’s body was old and busted up, it was all a time the woman’s burden to keep herself young—weren’t fair and it made her mad, but that’s how things were. But maybe he was different. Maybe he would see her from the inside out instead of the outside in. That’s all she asked, that she be looked at for what her insides where—her strong beating heart, her heavy bones, her blood that still ran hot and fast through her veins, her pink lungs. She bet if she was turned inside out she’d be smooth and pink and red and beautifully made. She bet she’d show him what she was really made of, not this old old woman that showed up on the outside.

Clementine went to her bedroom, stared at herself in the mirror. She pinched her cheeks, took her hair from its pins. She next went to her chifferobe and stared at her clothes, at the pretty little dress Mrs. Patters made her in payment for the rheumatism potion. Could she do it? Could she ask a man come have some supper with her? . . .

Interrupting the Clementine blog, ...Shadow Men...synaptic overdrive and override?

Thu, 01 May 2008 15:13:10 GMT

I’m interrupting Clementine for just a post here.

What I came to tell you is the strange happenings. Any of you who have been here for a long time may remember the Shadow Man who visited me. I was asleep on the couch and I awoke and there “he” was – darker than the night, a complete dark shadow man. He was watching me – though I saw no features, I “knew” he was watching me as I slept. One hand was draped casually on the back of the couch. I stared at him. I thought, “Who is this? What is this?” but I was so sleepy, I feel asleep again. I wasn’t afraid. I remembered a couple of nights before that where I awoke as if something had startled me, but nothing was there—until that night. A went back to the couch several times to see if he’d return, but he did not….I told him, “Go home, okay?” Maybe he did. One night I did smell something sweetish. This was maybe two years ago or so.

A shadow man had come before, when my brother died, briefly he was at the side of the chase lounge I’d fallen asleep on, but I was afraid and he left very quickly—perhaps it was my brother and he sensed my fear and left me. I sensed him later on, walking with us. I know I did. Imagination? Wish?

So, a couple of nights ago, I closed my eyes and I do not know if I was awake or asleep or in between, but I saw this incredible light, inside my head not in the room, the light glowed like no other light, and a “doorway” appeared, and in that “doorway” I saw a shadow man. This shadow man was taller and thinner than the one at the couch. He stood in the “doorway” – and behind him was that light, and I felt this incredible peace, this sense of well-being. I hate to say it, but I felt what people describe when they have a near-death experience, except I was not dead. I then opened my eyes and I felt that calm, peace, well-being, and I thought, “Something good is coming. Something good is going to happen.” The feeling quickly went away.

Then, a few nights later, I saw the light again, but this time it was very brief and much more like lightening, brighter and more intense, but flashed and flashed and then was gone. My synapses run amok? Who knows. But it peaks my curiosity. Is my brain in over-drive? It ofttimes is, but in different ways.

Last night, I went outside to let the dogs out in the back and while I waited for them, I looked out at the night sky, at the stars, at the trees, at the mountain ridges, and then I heard a Hum…an obvious Hum. I couldn’t tell where it came from as it seemed all around me. So, when I went back inside, I checked downstairs—maybe it was the dehumidifier in the garage; maybe it was…I have no idea. I wondered at this Hum. I wondered if the mountain was busy with something. If there was a trembling beneath, a shifting, a rearranging…something coming. Or, if my imagination was on high. Sound travels strangeling in the mountains.

I soon after went to bed, but I felt so restless! I could not feel “still.” It took me a long time to relax. But, this restless feeling had come before I went outside, so were they connected? Is all of this connected? Am I losing my mind? *laughing* I think a writer’s imagination is a wondrous thing, and I like to think I stay in the reality of knowing some things are imagination, and some things are simply explainable things from a very quiet mountain cove, and some things unexplainable simply because I make them more than they are, or simply because they cannot be explained away. But, what of the light and shadow man? A dream? What of the shadow man watching me as I slept on the couch? Another dream? Who are these shadow men? What do they want? Or if I have conjured them, why have I? What is the purpose of it?

I assure you, I am perfectly sane (hahahahha –my friends and family beg to differ..haw!) but when I write all this, I know how crazy it all sounds. Maybe having a “creative mind” brings things both conjured and not conjured. Maybe the brain is too active on the creative/non-logical side and flips and blips and snaps. Last night, I watched a show on National Geographic about savants (I am not a savant, I am not saying or implying that) whose brains were affected at birth or by a trauma and the “creative side” was more alive and active than the “logical side” – the logical side was almost “dead.” These savants were Mega Ultra Creative – some no longer leading “normal” lives. I wonder, then, and it seems plausible, if some creative minds are somewhere in between, caught in some kind of synaptic wonderland that causes blips in the brain, and thus…well, these kinds of occurrences that seem “odd” or like dreams or imaginations. *shrug* beats me! *laughing*

Oh, and P.S.: I am wondering about the MSN “Friends” thing. I get requests for friends as everyone does, and used to be I’d visit those blogs and then click “accept.” However, as I became busier and busier, I let them pile up and would go in and just click “accept” on all of them. I am not sure this is how it is done. I think, “what if I click accept on something that is a blog I would not want to visit?....what if the “friend” isn’t a friend, but someone who eats live rabbits and takes candy from babies or someone who kicks their dog and then brags about it on their blog or something …worse! Eek!” So, I wonder – what do all of you do? Do you just accept them without visiting? Do you visit every one and decide? If you hit “deny” does the recipient know it and get their feelings hurt, or would it matter if they were a dog-kicker? Geez. I don’t know these things. And, when I used to have time to visit more, I never came across a blog that I considered “bad.” *shrug* What do you all do?

(and after reading my post above, I may have people who will be afraid to BE my friend…haw haw!)

Now, I leave you, and Clementine will soon return.

Draft written on blog. "Chapter 6" Clementine's momma...

Sat, 26 Apr 2008 14:09:01 GMT

She pulled her hair, pulled it pulled it pulled it pulled it pulled it pulled it. She could pull it out by the roots, and sometimes did, sometimes the hair came out with a plicking sound, and she’d stare at it, long pale strands with roots and tips. Her scalp would tingle and smart, and she didn’t care. Any pain was better than the inside her head pain.

Mae-lynn stopped pulling. Waited. There. It was okay. The haunting had stopped. She knew she was being punished. She knew the baby was still inside of her. It hadn’t all come out. It hadn’t all come out. It hadn’t all come out. It was still inside of her, pieces of it, an arm, a leg, a finger, some hair, a toe—pieces of baby lodged in her body. And when she slept, it crept up, sneaky sneaky, crept up to her brain and poked at the soft tissue there. Pushed until her brain throbbed. She’d wake up and she couldn’t stand it. The pain, yes, the pain she could take, mostly. But, the pieces of the child she could not. It was inside her and it was mad at what she’d done to it.

She stretched out her legs, pointed her toes and then raised her arms to the ceiling. Let her arms float there in freedom. Mae-lynn thought back to when she was a child, how her mother and father taught her how to read early, how they taught her manners, how they told her she was destined for good things and a good husband. They wanted her to marry a goodly man, and wanted her become a school teacher first, like her mother was until she married her father. Her father was a professor and taught history at a stately college. Her mother taught first grade, until she became a wife. Her mother smelled like gardenias and marmalade, and sweat. Her father came home with a satchel filled with work, secret work that he didn’t let Mae-lynn or her mother see. He would lock himself in his study and stay there for hours. Sometimes Mae-lynn pressed her face to the door and listened. She’d hear him mutter and sometimes even moan. The moaning made her head hurt.

Head hurt. Hurt head. Mae-lynn said the words ten times and then ten more. She pulled herself up to sitting. And when she did, she saw the Clemmie child staring at her.

“Momma?”

“What do you want, child?” Mae-lynn stared at the girl. Sometimes she didn’t think this really could be her daughter. Where was the refinement? Where were the beautiful words spilling from her throat like a cool spring—that’s what her lover had said about Mae-lynn. That’s what the lover had said while he touched her all over, touched her and touched her until she felt as if she’d burst into flames. That’s what he had said before he left her. And she’d come up this mountain and she’d lied lied and lied. And the Clemmie child was the result of her lies. Sweet child that she was, she was not refined. She was not as Mae-lynn would have her. She was just like Mae-lynn’s husband. Just like her husband’s mother.

“Momma?”

Mae-lynn wanted to answer her, she did. So, she opened her mouth and said, “The snows of Kilimanjaro are deep and secret and wild.”

“What you say, Momma?”

The child Clemmie was stepping to her. Mae-lynn waited. The child Clemmie stood at her bedside. Mae-lynn said, “Hemingway could not stand his life. He could not stand the way the sand never left his shoes. The way his hair pulled at his scalp. The way his beard scratched his chin while he slept. The way his words kept spilling onto a page that was unforgiving in its emptiness…how the page swallowed every word he wrote and demanded more more more and the people demanded of him more more more. He couldn’t stand how his favorite glass had a chip in it that cut his lip if he forgot it was there. He couldn’t stand his neighbor’s cat meowing at his door. He couldn’t stand the way the sun pierced his eyelids when he wanted darkness to last just a little longer and then he couldn’t stand when the darkness didn’t leave and the sun stayed away. He couldn’t stand—“

“—Momma!” The Clemmie child stared at her with her mouth opened. The Clemmie child was trying not to cry. Mae-lynn knew the girl didn’t like to cry. The Clemmie child said, “Momma, please stop.” The Clemmie child smoothed the bed sheets, smoothed Mae-lynn’s hair. “Momma, here’s you medicine. Grandma put extree cider in it for you.”

Mae-lynn thought, how twangy the child’s voice was! Was she the only one who could speak properly? Didn’t this child listen to Mae-lynn when she spoke so beautifully?

“I done all my chores, Momma. I could read to you.”

Mae-lynn reached out, took the medicine, drank it down. She looked at the child who was her daughter and was struck by pity. Pity for herself, pity for the girl. She lay back on her pillow and waited for the medicine to soften her brain. Waited. One. Two. Three. Four. Five…Twenty…Thirty. Maybe one day there’d be a medicine to burn away the rest of the child’s parts inside of her.

“That’s right. You rest up now, Momma. I done want to make you tired.” The Clemmie child stroked Mae-lynn’s head.

Mae-lynn felt as if her brain whirled round and round and then came to a stop. Forty, forty-one, forty-two…one-hundred two. She opened her eyes and there was Clemmie. Mae-lynn said, “It’s tired, sweet girl. Tired, not ‘tared.’ You must work on your diction, Clemmie.”

“Yes’m.”

Mae-lynn touched her daughter. Smiled. She said, “Now read to me. You can pick the book.” She watched her daughter get up and leave the room. She’d be back with a book, and Mae-lynn would listen to her twang twang. Her daughter. Yes. That was who the Clemmie child was. She knew that. Why did the dead child insist on its jealousy? Why did the dead child make her forget what was her’s?

Clemmie's Grandma Speaks. Draft on Blog, continued "Chapter 5"

Wed, 23 Apr 2008 15:09:12 GMT

Clemmie’s grandma thought how her daughter in law sure was weak. Always had been. She’d tried and tried to get her son to leave that girl alone. She saw how Mae-lynn was. Those doe eyes blinking wide, wet half the time with tears over some silly thing or the other. Luke went sweet on her hard though. He mooned about the farm like his feet weren’t even hitting the dirt half the time. She'd had to knock her son upside the head more times than not, trying to get sense back in that thick skull of his. Then that silly thing come cater-wauling to her with her belly filled with child. She knew it when she saw that girl walk slow up the path. Mae-lynn had that look to go along with the crying. That child weren’t but a few week old. Poor thing. That child would have been Clemmie's brother or sister, but it never had a chance to breathe the air.

That was the potion Clemmie’s grandma hated the worst. Not like the healing ones, the healing ones were a joy for Grandma to mix and pour down the throat of the sick or the sad. But when the girls wanted the babies gone out their bodies, Grandma could hardly stand it. Gave her heebers jeebers and some the time she had to take to her bed and ask Jesus to forgive her and not send her off to hell. But, then she would think, why she got that way about her if it weren’t given to her by Him himself? She thought how there had to be a reason for it and that’s just how thing turn up and out in the old world. World been around longer than she had, longer than her momma and daddy and longer than their momma and daddy and then longer still. Them potions been thought up for a reason, too. Not up to Clemmie’s grandma to put judgment on what she was taught by all the ones before her.

So, Clemmie’s grandma took care of that one for Mae-lynn, before she came to be her daughter in law. Grandma knew it had to be done. She mixed up the herbs and the root and the bark and cooked it until it was thick, then she added a bit of sugar to sweet it, and some apple juice to thin it. Clemmie’s grandma knew Mae-lynn would be bleating like a lamb cause of its thick bitter taste. Well, she thought, them things supposed to taste bitter! Who says life is all the time sweet? That Mae-lynn expected her whole life to be like a fluffy cloud drifting on down the sky without a care in the world. Mae-lynn’s own daddy spoiled her rotten since her momma gone to heaven with the cancer. Grandma felt sorry for her about that, and she didn’t have a mean bone in her whole body, but that Mae-lynn wasn’t any easier to swallow when she come round flipping them eyelashes and twisting them hips ever so slightly, making Luke lose his mind over her.

Mae-lynn drank that potion down fast, she did. She knew what it was all about and she drank it down and she made a face like it was nasty, but she didn’t stop drinking it down til it was all gone, ever last drop. After, Clemmie’s grandma knew she’d have a hard time with the hurting and when the babe would expel out of her. She figured Mae-lynn would set up to bawling, so she let her stay in her room until it was over. But Mae-lynn surprised Clemmie’s grandma. When the blood came and what was there of the babe came, Mae-lynn just rolled over and sighed. That was it. Just rolled over and sighed.

More and more Grandma thought how Clemmie’s momma don’t seem right in the head a’tall no more. All them headaches poking her head, pulling at her brains. Clemmie’s grandma felt bad for her. She tried potion after potion, and none helped her for long. Poor thing. Ever since Mae-lynn had birthed Clemmie, she was worse with them headaches and her strange ways. It vexed Grandma to no end. Grandma raised up Clemmie most herself, but she was glad of it.

Grandma went out to the garden. It was time to pick some maters for supper. She had to wring the chicken’s neck, too, since Mae-lynn wouldn't do it. Clemmie would, Grandma knew she would. Soon as Grandma let her Clemmie would do it cause she’s tough, just like her grandma. But Grandma didn’t want to put that on her too soon. Those kinds of things came soon enough to a young girl. All things came soon enough for a girl. Yup, soon enough.