Updates

I’m alive. If you care or remember who I even am.

  • last night I realized my manuscript (The Big Novel lesser writers go on and on about for the better part of a decade, of which this one would include the entirety of the Emerson & Adelaide story) has largely been written in the wrong tone and needed a good scrapping. This is the second time I’m starting over, resulting in many, many thousands of useless words being thrown to the wayside. Still, it’s better to do that now than realize this in the second draft. At any rate, that’s where my creative efforts are these days.
  • you guys don’t care
  • I might be an extra in Batman vs. Superman, or not. So, like, whatever.
  • you guys don’t care
  • moving to a slightly less depressing corner of west Michigan for a year while my sister finishes her undergrad. The idea of being here until next summer feels like rocks in my stomach but it’s only a year, it’s only a year, it’s only a year.
  • you guys couldn’t give a tin-penny fuck
  • Doing a lot of good reading lately, if anyone is dying for recommendations or reviews. You might get some, regardless. Currently about to start Office Girl by Joe Meno or Good, Brother by Peter Markus.
  • 'Gag me,' you say
  • Talk to me, feed me titles and starting lines and characters you’d like to see given the short-short treatment on here

There was a notion he’d read in a bit of class reading during his undergrad, a small worm of cosmic speculation that he’d never properly shaken. ‘All life,’ the author had written, ‘here and elsewhere in the universe, is but a by-product of grander stellar designs.’
Accidental automata, all of it. From the barest bacterium to the entirety of human civilization. His mother and father, the dean of the college, the flint-eyed barista in the student center who smiled at him when she thought he wasn’t looking, all of it incidental and accidental. Microbursts of chemicals coming together and interacting in precision in the shadow of nebulae and star clusters. Germs nibbling at the crumbs spilt on God’s drafting table.
It calmed him, his immaterial presence. It calmed his pulse when loan collectors harried his voicemail or someone took his cab before he could reach it. ‘We’re all just bones that shouldn’t be,’ he reminded himself, breathing through the nose, the cosmic hum deep on the balls of his feet.
(Photo:  Maurycy Gomulicki)

There was a notion he’d read in a bit of class reading during his undergrad, a small worm of cosmic speculation that he’d never properly shaken. ‘All life,’ the author had written, ‘here and elsewhere in the universe, is but a by-product of grander stellar designs.’

Accidental automata, all of it. From the barest bacterium to the entirety of human civilization. His mother and father, the dean of the college, the flint-eyed barista in the student center who smiled at him when she thought he wasn’t looking, all of it incidental and accidental. Microbursts of chemicals coming together and interacting in precision in the shadow of nebulae and star clusters. Germs nibbling at the crumbs spilt on God’s drafting table.

It calmed him, his immaterial presence. It calmed his pulse when loan collectors harried his voicemail or someone took his cab before he could reach it. ‘We’re all just bones that shouldn’t be,’ he reminded himself, breathing through the nose, the cosmic hum deep on the balls of his feet.

(Photo:  Maurycy Gomulicki)

misfire

Brother told me that if anyone saw us, we were related to the elderly Bandy, who’d allowed us to hunt on his land, unless it were Bandy himself, then we were merely lost and trying to get back to our own property. And if anyone saw me with the rifle, I was sixteen and had a young face. And if I took down a deer, it was actually Brother who’d shot it, because he was old enough to buy a license. He hawked something yellow into the snow. ‘That about covers it,’ he said, never asking whether I wanted to be out there or not. 

We stuck close to the powerlines until the path deviated onto the Bandy tract, the northeast corner where the creek crossed towards the lake. Brother had me on the left side of the clearing, himself sweeping the right. He likened our movements to armed military columns. When we spooked up crows he mimed shooting them and reported how many Charlie he’d napalmed into carbon dust. I kept my barrel pointed high as I’d been taught, my fingers worrying the safety.

It went hours like this, the snow seeping farther into my boots. I nibbled on Big League Chew until Brother caught me and told me to spit it out. ‘The deer can smell that, ya little shit.’ Slowly I started drifting back.

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I don’t know that I could be sicker of west Michigan if I tried. Living here for another year makes me want to disappear all the more.