This February I'm not empty, but I might be an aquarium with just water left in it. A painter friend had a show last week. She said she occupies the same hollow. She's alone all day, too, painting tiny jeweled bricks and hair nests and feathers. All her conversation is used up talking to herself.
A different friend was over, and I opened my mouth. I wasn't sure what I was going to say. I thought I must say something. Now I don't remember if I said anything. During the day I listen to music but don't sing along. I whistle. A whistle isn't words. Where are my words. That's not a question. I'll find them. I'm finding them. I found some of them today.
The music I listen to could best be described as "men with broken banjos." The men have gaps in their front teeth. The men are slim as blades of grass. The wind whistles sharp against the flatness of these men. Sometimes the men are women. The heads of their banjos are busted, and the faces of cats peer out. Don't ask me for names.
I know I'm almost finished writing what I'm writing. (A small book.) Short as it is, it took long enough. I'll hand it over when I'm certain. I keyboard the limp parts. They harden.
I thought I saw a ghost today. I've seen ghosts, and I've pretended to see ghosts. Today I didn't see a ghost. I thought I did. A thunderstorm stretched black outside. I wore the mood like a thin condom. Someone slammed a car door, and I convinced myself I felt the slam in my balls. I hung up the laundry. From the corner of my eye something quick and white and large enough to touch the floor and the ceiling all at once stepped out the closest window. A passing vehicle reflection, maybe. My glasses are cheap and susceptible to glare. I remove them when posing for photographs. The (no) ghost stirred my nerves. Good for that ghost. I knitted some rows on a scarf. I wrote and rewrote and unwrote. To unknit a piece of knitting is called "frogging." Like the yarn after frogging, the words I had on hand were kinked. The texture from their reuse was good to read.
Great. Wow. The luxury of this kind of work. No one depends on it, and yet I know some people who might tell me otherwise, so I continue. One of them asked me for a story. That story is at Squalorly. What a good name. You could give a baby that name, but only when it's crying.
Wednesday, February 19, 2014
Monday, January 6, 2014
The Sugar People
Each morning we went out for a juice breakfast with Josh's sister. The first morning we hiked to a place called The Green Fork. Actress Jennifer Coolidge stood in line behind us. We waited for our juice. Jennifer Coolidge sampled a muffin. Josh suggested she try the vegan blondie. Jennifer Coolidge tried the vegan blondie. "Oh my God," she said.
The walk back to the French Quarter had us passing a day-drunk man preparing to pee on the courthouse. He told us not to worry because he was wearing triple-thick pants. Two stone eagles flanked the man. We were witness to a freedom we'd all exercised before but never with a daylight audience. We kept walking.
But we didn't walk everywhere. Some group trips we took a taxi. One of our drivers was a doctor. He gave us his business card. He signed the A in his name with a cartoon penis. A woman in our group asked the doctor for details on his doctorate. The doctor had never been asked specifics. "Communications," he said. "Well, journalism, really." We all agreed there was no money in that. As if we had to vocalize it. The doctor drove us to the nicest restaurant in town.
Another driver asked if we'd heard of the Sugar People. Silence. "Sure you have," he said. "You've heard of gay people. They're the Sugar People." It's true that once every year in New Orleans there's a festival for the Sugar People, and they come dressed to kill. The same driver warned us of swamp dangers. He made sure we were clear on alligators. Like how an alligator drags its prey to the river bottom and waits for the flesh to soften enough for consumption. Death is all over that town. I saw bones on the sidewalk. The cemeteries are above ground. Even the donuts, the beignets, are little pillows on which heart attacks slumber. Yes, it felt like home.
A friend asked if I might want to move to New Orleans one day, and I said I felt like I'd already lived there before. There are places that fit you. Kansas City fits me. Kansas City fits other writers, too. My friend and poet crush, Jordan Stempleman, was asked to guest-edit an issue of NOÖ Weekly by Mike Young. Jordan chose writers with a stake in Kansas City. I'm one, and then there's Anne Boyer, Dan Magers, Ryan MacDonald, Lesley Ann Wheeler, Bridget Lowe, Teal Wilson, and James Tate. That James Tate. My story is dark and cold. It's in a fitting place. We all suffer January.
Thursday, December 19, 2013
Crush Thousand and Thirteen
The year is running dry, but I still have crushes. Let me guide you through the sweetest drops I know.
1. "Pizza Boyfriend." He works at the pizza place down the street. He holds a cigarette like it's a strand of hair. He passes the house four times a day. I don't know his name. Scratch that. "Pizza Boyfriend" is his name.
2. Actresses. Josh and I saw a production of The Glass Menagerie in Boston back in March (since moved to Broadway). One scene has Amanda and Laura setting a table in silence. No actual silverware. Just the way those women move their hands in unison as if dinner is a spell they cast together every night.
3. Photography. Josh took a class. I took a class through Josh. Taking a picture is like anything else. Pretend you can do it until you really can do it.
4. Eve Englezos. Long-time friend and neighbor. Ceramicist and jelly witch. She rescued a bird from a parking lot five years ago. That bird is now a human boy.
5. Reading aloud. Josh and I took turns reading a novel to each other in bed. Stages don't scare me anymore. I read a story to a crowded auditorium in October. The audience was mine. I caught those fish, but in the end I let them all go.
6. Jordan Stempleman. The man-teacher-poet responsible for A Common Sense Reading Series. His tattoos have muscles. He taught my book in a summer class at KCAI and had me come in to read his students to sleep. We went out for beer after. Jordan offered to share one of his cigarettes with me. I declined. What was I thinking?
7. James Piechura. One of my most recent friends. He moved back to the desert a couple of weeks ago to take care of his sick mother. The last thing I said to him was, "I guess that's it," and that was it. I have cried about it twice. Our final topic of conversation was scorpions. It comes back to that most days. What animals and where? Not much I've seen in Kansas City compares to the thoroughbred I saw running down the street in Kentucky when I was a kid. In my current neighborhood I've seen a stray cat with a Hitler mustache, and once near Joplin my headlights bounced off a miniature horse I mistook for a lioness. But James is a real lion, an astrological Leo, and I miss his feline restlessness.
8. Champurrado. A Mexican chocolate drink. I prepare it every Tuesday evening. I've never seen Josh so happy as when he's drinking it. We've offered it to other friends. The rapture isn't shared. Champurrado is thickened with masa. Corn and chocolate. Our friends just aren't ready, and that's fine.
9. Houseplants. Our friend, Mac, gifted us with three houseplants. They're all impossible-to-kill varieties native to jungle floors. I have nearly killed each of them. When Mac is over, he asks when the plants were last watered. The answer is the same every time. I don't know. And that's how it is with crushes. Don't give them too much attention.
10. "Thor." A man with long, golden hair worn in a ponytail who eats alone at the Indian restaurant down the street one Sunday each month. His only company is a book. Maybe he isn't the real Thor, but I can't say for sure. I haven't seen his hammer.
11. Gay literature. The novel Nebraska by George Whitmore. Edmund White's A Boy's Own Story. Tennessee Williams' Memoirs. Anything by Dennis Cooper. SHY by Kevin Killian. Start anywhere.
12. xTx. The hand on the other side of the glass. She got a new job this year. Most of our communication since has been quiet staring across the country. Simple. Elegant. She sent me a gold journal. Inside, she'd written all she needed to write. I'll make her a pie one day. She'll hate it.
13. Josh. Duh. The crush who crushes back.
1. "Pizza Boyfriend." He works at the pizza place down the street. He holds a cigarette like it's a strand of hair. He passes the house four times a day. I don't know his name. Scratch that. "Pizza Boyfriend" is his name.
2. Actresses. Josh and I saw a production of The Glass Menagerie in Boston back in March (since moved to Broadway). One scene has Amanda and Laura setting a table in silence. No actual silverware. Just the way those women move their hands in unison as if dinner is a spell they cast together every night.
3. Photography. Josh took a class. I took a class through Josh. Taking a picture is like anything else. Pretend you can do it until you really can do it.
4. Eve Englezos. Long-time friend and neighbor. Ceramicist and jelly witch. She rescued a bird from a parking lot five years ago. That bird is now a human boy.
5. Reading aloud. Josh and I took turns reading a novel to each other in bed. Stages don't scare me anymore. I read a story to a crowded auditorium in October. The audience was mine. I caught those fish, but in the end I let them all go.
6. Jordan Stempleman. The man-teacher-poet responsible for A Common Sense Reading Series. His tattoos have muscles. He taught my book in a summer class at KCAI and had me come in to read his students to sleep. We went out for beer after. Jordan offered to share one of his cigarettes with me. I declined. What was I thinking?
7. James Piechura. One of my most recent friends. He moved back to the desert a couple of weeks ago to take care of his sick mother. The last thing I said to him was, "I guess that's it," and that was it. I have cried about it twice. Our final topic of conversation was scorpions. It comes back to that most days. What animals and where? Not much I've seen in Kansas City compares to the thoroughbred I saw running down the street in Kentucky when I was a kid. In my current neighborhood I've seen a stray cat with a Hitler mustache, and once near Joplin my headlights bounced off a miniature horse I mistook for a lioness. But James is a real lion, an astrological Leo, and I miss his feline restlessness.
8. Champurrado. A Mexican chocolate drink. I prepare it every Tuesday evening. I've never seen Josh so happy as when he's drinking it. We've offered it to other friends. The rapture isn't shared. Champurrado is thickened with masa. Corn and chocolate. Our friends just aren't ready, and that's fine.
9. Houseplants. Our friend, Mac, gifted us with three houseplants. They're all impossible-to-kill varieties native to jungle floors. I have nearly killed each of them. When Mac is over, he asks when the plants were last watered. The answer is the same every time. I don't know. And that's how it is with crushes. Don't give them too much attention.
10. "Thor." A man with long, golden hair worn in a ponytail who eats alone at the Indian restaurant down the street one Sunday each month. His only company is a book. Maybe he isn't the real Thor, but I can't say for sure. I haven't seen his hammer.
11. Gay literature. The novel Nebraska by George Whitmore. Edmund White's A Boy's Own Story. Tennessee Williams' Memoirs. Anything by Dennis Cooper. SHY by Kevin Killian. Start anywhere.
12. xTx. The hand on the other side of the glass. She got a new job this year. Most of our communication since has been quiet staring across the country. Simple. Elegant. She sent me a gold journal. Inside, she'd written all she needed to write. I'll make her a pie one day. She'll hate it.
13. Josh. Duh. The crush who crushes back.
Thursday, November 21, 2013
One Sword Fight Away from Total Annihilation
What's the news? The news is I'm not nearly as good a garment knitter as I thought. The news is I've never been better at pies. The news is I've had three orgasms this year that escalated into laughter and broke into crying. The news is I continue to get the occasional beard hair that is really ten beard hairs fused into one. The news is I'm afraid of the stories I'm writing, but I'm still writing.
For a long time I had pain in me. I'm a picker, so I picked the pain out but couldn't throw it away. Josh doesn't like to waste food, and I don't like to waste a word. I found a place to put my pain. Small stories. Well, those stories are in the world. Mother Ghost was the book I needed to write, but now I can write about anything. Three soldiers in love? A weird war? Yes, fine. That's the current story. I don't know these men I'm writing and yet they came from me. I don't know anything about battle. I do know gay people can serve freely now, and I do know I'd never fight another person if I couldn't use a sword. Too bad. This is no world for fighting with swords. The only person I know who owns a sword keeps it in an umbrella stand by the door.
If I were still a kid I might like drones, if only for aesthetic reasons. Drones are penile and menacing, like a blind bird missing all its feathers. Scrawny dragons. I bet there is a Transformer toy that is a drone. But I have a heart, it seems. A human heart. The only machine I've fallen in love with is an old medium format camera. The shutter fires loud as a gun. There is chrome involved. To wear the thing around my neck is to make a statement about my spine. It is intact.
I've been taking a lot of pictures. Mostly of myself. Some people call them "selfies." The term I knew for so long was "self-portraits." Whatever. For the first time in my life, I want pictures of myself. My hair alone is going places.
And my pies. I have started a small business of sorts. It's called Pie King. You may call me Pie King if you'd like, but I won't answer to it. There was a time I worked in a museum, and when I first started there I asked my coworkers to call me by my first name, Charles. That didn't last. I never heard it. My name has always been Casey. It's my middle name. I live in Kansas City, or KC, which is the only place I've lived where people ask if I spell Casey with a K and a C. I do not.
I do wish I could see you. It's been so long. My house is how I like it. Please visit.
Thursday, October 31, 2013
Demons I Catch and Release
One time it occurred to me I might be in a horror movie was when I watched my brother's foot get caught in a department store escalator. A tall stranger pulled my brother's foot from his shoe. My brother lost a toenail. The stranger wouldn't be thanked. He left in a hurry. I was screaming. The store manager had to calm me down. He said, "This isn't helping."
My brother did the same for me when I was 18. He found me on the floor having a seizure. He opened the front door and screamed. We have been each other's voices. We have also been each other's tormentors.
My brother has always had leg problems, starting with the time I told him he could fly. I left the room and went downstairs to watch my mother boil spaghetti. My brother jumped off the top bunk and broke his leg. I remember this like I remember the dream I had last night where I was floating. Someone floated up behind me, and I kicked them in the face. Today, I confess. Many of my dreams end in violence.
A dream I have once a year has me battling wild dogs. They jump for my throat, and I pull their jaws apart to kill them. I used to fear dogs. My mother once took me to the library to show me a picture book that was supposed to mollify children who feared dogs. It worked. Josh and I took a walk the other night, and a dog in a yard did the shifting dance of a deer. Ears up. Eyes wet. Alert. I have been told both dogs and bees can smell fear. I try to give them nothing to smell.
But yes, I have felt true dread. A few years ago I heard someone open the kitchen door of my apartment and turn on a power drill. It was my former landlord. I came into the kitchen holding scissors over my head. My former landlord was changing the locks. He hadn't called to warn me. I was prepared to defend myself. Then there was the time a woman yelled from her car about killing us "faggots." I do not believe in possession, but I do believe each person can transform into something terrifying. If there is a Hell, we carry it with us.
I'm letting my mohawk grow into a floppy mane. I've kept it short the last six months for whatever aerodynamic and penile reason. There's more white hair now. That's just great. I want to be older than I am. In the meantime, I'm mastering a few things. Pie, of course. Knitting and crochet. Control of words. Lately, photography. I'm learning all I can, using all the cameras I can hold. Give me a few years, and maybe I'll take a good picture.
There is an EVENT soon where you can come and taste my pies, order my pies, buy my pies. I will have free samples. I will take orders for future pies. I will have a few pies ready for purchase. There will be other vendors, too. One does silver. One does soap. One does mosaics. One does jam and ceramics. Assembled, we are a crafty Voltron.
I'm baking a pie right now. It's going to work with Josh tomorrow. I will not get to taste it. That's all right. I know how this works. It takes a village to eat a pie.
(Happy Halloween!)
My brother did the same for me when I was 18. He found me on the floor having a seizure. He opened the front door and screamed. We have been each other's voices. We have also been each other's tormentors.
My brother has always had leg problems, starting with the time I told him he could fly. I left the room and went downstairs to watch my mother boil spaghetti. My brother jumped off the top bunk and broke his leg. I remember this like I remember the dream I had last night where I was floating. Someone floated up behind me, and I kicked them in the face. Today, I confess. Many of my dreams end in violence.
A dream I have once a year has me battling wild dogs. They jump for my throat, and I pull their jaws apart to kill them. I used to fear dogs. My mother once took me to the library to show me a picture book that was supposed to mollify children who feared dogs. It worked. Josh and I took a walk the other night, and a dog in a yard did the shifting dance of a deer. Ears up. Eyes wet. Alert. I have been told both dogs and bees can smell fear. I try to give them nothing to smell.
But yes, I have felt true dread. A few years ago I heard someone open the kitchen door of my apartment and turn on a power drill. It was my former landlord. I came into the kitchen holding scissors over my head. My former landlord was changing the locks. He hadn't called to warn me. I was prepared to defend myself. Then there was the time a woman yelled from her car about killing us "faggots." I do not believe in possession, but I do believe each person can transform into something terrifying. If there is a Hell, we carry it with us.
I'm letting my mohawk grow into a floppy mane. I've kept it short the last six months for whatever aerodynamic and penile reason. There's more white hair now. That's just great. I want to be older than I am. In the meantime, I'm mastering a few things. Pie, of course. Knitting and crochet. Control of words. Lately, photography. I'm learning all I can, using all the cameras I can hold. Give me a few years, and maybe I'll take a good picture.
There is an EVENT soon where you can come and taste my pies, order my pies, buy my pies. I will have free samples. I will take orders for future pies. I will have a few pies ready for purchase. There will be other vendors, too. One does silver. One does soap. One does mosaics. One does jam and ceramics. Assembled, we are a crafty Voltron.
I'm baking a pie right now. It's going to work with Josh tomorrow. I will not get to taste it. That's all right. I know how this works. It takes a village to eat a pie.
(Happy Halloween!)
Monday, September 23, 2013
This Is How We Do It
We ate at the Indian restaurant last night. It was a reward for just having the idea. There's a look Josh and I give each other. We put on our shoes. We close the blinds. We go out on the porch. Josh holds the screen door while I lock the front door. We ready ourselves for joy.
Josh felt guilty about it last night, so he asked if I was sure. He couched it in terms of addiction. He asked me to provide a quick list of pros and cons. "We have to eat," I said. "But do we have to eat Indian food?" he said. "We could be good and eat cereal and bananas."
There is only so much time we have on this earth to eat Indian food.
While we ate we talked about the man at the art fair who saw a photographic triptych and said, "I heard you can do that on your phone now." Josh cuffed my forearm and squeezed. He could have had a baby ready to come out. Did I hear that guy? I heard that guy.
An artist who guarded art with me one summer was at the restaurant. He is an art prince. He came over to our table and complimented my book. I had the taste of buttered lentils on my tongue. His name is Matt Jacobs. Get a clue, you guys. Look him up and love him. Someone in a position of authority once admitted to me that she lusted after Matt's swimmer legs.
If I ever work the register at a liquor store, I'll put out a tray that says, "TAKE A SECRET, LEAVE A SECRET."
It doesn't get old. These attractive men who've read my book and say so. They look as if they've just stepped out of the shower to tell me to keep up the good work. Three times and as many men at that very restaurant. If you wanted to do sympathetic magic on me you could do it in the restroom there. If there are such a thing as ley lines, that's where they lay. Write your desire on toilet paper and flush it. I suggest you give it a while, though. A friend is already doing some witchcraft to lure me to Seattle. She is such a powerful witch that she once convinced an entire town in Montana to hate her.
I'm sorry my snake is not a cat. But look how uncanny she is as a noose. And it's not even Halloween.
Here's a story I wrote because a cute boy asked me to write it: RIGHT THERE IN KANSAS CITY.
Josh felt guilty about it last night, so he asked if I was sure. He couched it in terms of addiction. He asked me to provide a quick list of pros and cons. "We have to eat," I said. "But do we have to eat Indian food?" he said. "We could be good and eat cereal and bananas."
There is only so much time we have on this earth to eat Indian food.
While we ate we talked about the man at the art fair who saw a photographic triptych and said, "I heard you can do that on your phone now." Josh cuffed my forearm and squeezed. He could have had a baby ready to come out. Did I hear that guy? I heard that guy.
An artist who guarded art with me one summer was at the restaurant. He is an art prince. He came over to our table and complimented my book. I had the taste of buttered lentils on my tongue. His name is Matt Jacobs. Get a clue, you guys. Look him up and love him. Someone in a position of authority once admitted to me that she lusted after Matt's swimmer legs.
If I ever work the register at a liquor store, I'll put out a tray that says, "TAKE A SECRET, LEAVE A SECRET."
It doesn't get old. These attractive men who've read my book and say so. They look as if they've just stepped out of the shower to tell me to keep up the good work. Three times and as many men at that very restaurant. If you wanted to do sympathetic magic on me you could do it in the restroom there. If there are such a thing as ley lines, that's where they lay. Write your desire on toilet paper and flush it. I suggest you give it a while, though. A friend is already doing some witchcraft to lure me to Seattle. She is such a powerful witch that she once convinced an entire town in Montana to hate her.
I'm sorry my snake is not a cat. But look how uncanny she is as a noose. And it's not even Halloween.
Here's a story I wrote because a cute boy asked me to write it: RIGHT THERE IN KANSAS CITY.
Saturday, August 24, 2013
Natural Light
My narcissism is leaking. All these poses. You've seen what I'm doing if you follow me anywhere else online. Me, me, me. Josh is taking a class in traditional photography, and the left hand has to know what the right hand is doing. We have 35mm cameras. I'm learning about all the basics from Josh's notes, from Josh's explanations, from Internet hand holding. I shot a roll of black and white film last week, but I still haven't developed it. I have this other camera I've been using. It's a digital point and shoot. People often say they're playing with something. I'm playing with this. I'm my own subject because I'm always there when I need me.
My local hardware store has a display of regional sodas, including the ginger ale from my hometown in Kentucky. It's been a long minute since I had one. Mostly I don't drink soda. There was a recent time I mixed root beer and cheap whiskey, and the evening turned cartwheels for me. "Too much sugar," says the man who drank four cups of masala chai today at the Indian restaurant.
I'm writing. I don't stop writing. People ask, but the answer is always the same. The projects are as follows: some longer stories, a novel, various and sundry. That's in order of importance.
A gorgeous professor offered me a mentholated cigarette outside a bar the other day, and if this were even a year ago I would've accepted it. I'd just been to his summer class to read from my book and answer questions. One of the questions was about my frequent use of animals. I gave some deep-fried answer about being from the South and how animals are tools for learning about life and death while maintaining a safe psychological distance from one's own mortality. Blah, blah, blah. The student who asked the question said he was reminded of spirit animals, and hey, that's as good a theory as any.
I spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about ghosts. But where are the ghosts of animals? I came across a photo online of a hundred deer clogging tree trunks in a midnight forest. All the deer were facing the camera, and I thought I'd finally seen it. Not spirit animals but animal spirits. When a cat is chasing nothing, maybe it's chasing another cat. A dead cat.
I saw a cricket on its back today. Its antennae were whipping. Its legs were still. I imagined it wasn't long for this world, but what do I know about crickets? I know I used to buy them to feed a lizard. I know en masse they smell like a bag of bad potatoes. I know even in their "escape-proof" container they sometimes form a standing chain and set each other free.
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