Flying Over A Canyon On A Donkey

I'll be honest. I don't even know what character dynamics are. Is it when characters do something dynamic, like jumping off a cliff on a skateboard, or riding a shark to Brazil? Is it when characters interact with each other in a dynamic fashion?

Because my characters almost never ride a shark to Brazil, or interact together in a dynamic fashion. Take the scene I wrote last night, for example. My characters sat on a couch, trying not to watch steamy movies together because it felt kind of like watching a steamy movie with your Gran (the heroine is scared of wanting sex with the hero, cos he's a cat-person), so the heroine puts on a horror movie. Which scares the bejesus out of the hero, because he's hardly watched TV in ten years.

So I guess my hero isn't very dynamic. But I think there's some sort of dynamic going on in all of that. I think. Maybe. Is the dynamic that they really want to have sex, but are afraid of things? I dunno.

Because I think I'm kind of like Lisabet- I don't really plan these things out. My characters just kind of say stuff to me, and then they do things, and then I get worried about whether or not my hero is far too wet, because the movie Aliens scared him so much he had to hide under the heroine's butt.

But then, that's who he is. I can't imagine him being any other way. If he watches a horror movie, he gets scared. And though my heroine doesn't want to, she finds this behaviour very appealing in some way she can't fathom.

Maybe because I can't fathom it either. It just happens, okay? I've no idea why. I'd ask my brain, but it's too busy checking out Evan Lysacek's ass.

What's Left Unsaid BY Kathleen Bradean

From Left Unsaid by Jay Lygon

A man hears that a cop has been shot at the scene of an armed robbery, but he can’t find out if his boyfriend was the one who was hurt. This excerpt starts when the boyfriend comes home.
                                                        ~~~
It’s Steve in the doorway and he looks like he’s a million years old. His shoulders slump, the weight of the world resting on them.

“Where have you been?” It isn’t what I want to say. It isn’t even the words I’m thinking, but that’s what comes out.

Steve looks pissed. “I had a bad day.” He glances at the TV, sees the blaring ads, and makes a face. He’s gaunt under the five o’clock shadow and his eyes, God, he looks like he hasn’t slept in a week.

“Why didn’t you call? I left messages.”

He throws his jacket on the back of the couch and groans as he sits down. “I didn’t check. What a goddamn mess. From what I heard, all they got from the bank was six thousand. Six thousand lousy bucks. For what?” He rubs his face. “Rose and Gutierrez will both live. Thank god they both had on their vests.”

I stare at Steve and try to figure out who Rose and Gutierrez are, and it finally dawns on me that Steve is telling me who got shot. He’s telling me it wasn’t him.

I perch on the couch next to him because I want to make sure he’s real. He smells like shampoo, so he must have showered at the station. I’m pissed off that he would take time to do that when he wouldn’t even call me to let me know he was okay.
But I can’t say that.

His eyes are sad and he looks like he doesn’t want to talk to me, but I want to crawl over him and explore every inch of his body and make sure with my own eyes, my own fingers, my own tongue, that every part of him is okay. He can tell me that he’s whole, but I won’t know it deep down until I find out for myself.

His chest rises and falls with a slow breath and I put my hand in the center of his big pecs and feel his chest hair under his t-shirt. My fingertips feel the faint echo of his heartbeat.

Steve says, “Zach,” real quiet, like I’ve fallen asleep in front of the TV and he wants me to come to bed. I don’t think I’ve ever heard anything so hot in my entire life, so even if he is a ghost I’m going to kiss him.

The inside of his mouth tastes like he’s been sneaking cigarettes and chewing gum to hide it from me but I don’t care about his fucking lungs or mine anymore. I’m on my knees and kind of crouched over him and I like the slick slide of his tongue under mine. He keeps breathing like he’s really alive, but I have to be sure because I don’t think I can survive him dying twice in one day.

He wraps his arm tight around me and holds on like he’s drowning so I push him under and cover his body with mine so he has to bring me with him if he wants to surface. We’re diving together into our hidden world below the thin blue line. We’re sharing oxygen in short gasps.

My arm cradles his head. Pressed between my biceps and the couch, he can’t move. The heat of his body clings to his sweat pants and t-shirt. I soak it into my skin.

The only way I can keep him safe is if they can’t find him. If they can’t make him put on the uniform again, no one will shoot at him and I won’t have to practice mourning anymore. Even though he’d love me for wanting him safe he’d despise me more for not trusting him to be smart. He doesn’t understand that I do trust him. It’s bullets I don’t trust. Bullets and body armor and guns and people who shoot at other people and people who don’t care about life. So all I can do is shield his body with mine, and only for now, and hope that will be enough.

We fit together in all the perfect places. My lips to his, my chest to his, my dick dowsing for his. He doesn’t talk. I’m afraid he’ll push me away as I grind against him. Then he’s pulling off my shirt and squeezing me so hard it hurts. I’m thrusting into his thigh and hoping it hurts him too, just a little, just a lot.

Steve tries to shift under me. Muscle against muscle, he usually wins, but I’ve got desperation on my side. The more he fights it, the rougher my hold. He sweats. I smell him and that’s how I’m sure he’s not a ghost. I shove up his shirt so that my slick skin a can crush to his hairy chest. He tries to lift me, but I won’t let him get away, not yet, so I pin him to the couch with my dick, and again, and harder, until my cockhead is bruised inside my jeans. Then I realize he’s bucking only with his hips, not with his shoulders.

My hand snakes between us. I grasp him through his sweats. It isn’t enough. I yank the waistband past his balls and let it snap. He yelps, but quietly, because he’s a tough guy.

Steve tries to look me in the eyes but I’m not having any of that. We’re having angry sex, despair sex, and make-up sex all rolled into one, only he doesn’t know we’re fighting. Every grind against him is a punch, but I want to hit him harder, so I lift back and fuck at him like spitting harsh words from between clenched teeth.

It feels so good to make him suffer. My fingernails leave red arcs as I hold his forearms down. He’s puzzled, but turned on. Now I lock my gaze with his. I’m grunting and he’s breathing hard.

I want him to howl into my mouth. Our lips seal. My balls are tightening. Brutal, I ram him. He’s squirming now. He gets his hands free. I’m biting down on his tongue.

He’s moaning and grabbing my ass. His hard-on is trapped between us. My dick is pinched and chaffed. I’m body slamming him. Every muscle is wound tight. The fear inside me releases. Come rises, unstoppable. I shoot hard.

He unzips my fly; milks my dick. I keep humping him. He coats his hand with my come and grasps his cock. The wet slam of fist and cock and come is all I hear.

His shoulders lift off the couch. His chin tucks down. Steve is gasping. I yank back his head and shove my tongue in his mouth. He shivers. Then he goes stiff. I feel the hot ooze of his come on my stomach.

We don’t move for a while. I cradle his head again and press my lips to his neck and taste his sweat. My voice can’t be trusted, so I don’t say anything, not yet.

He’s sliding his hands over my back. He hugs me, lets go, hugs me again. I nuzzle closer so that he can’t see what’s written on my face. He groans and tries to move. At first he laughs a little, but I’m still holding him down, and he wants to get up, but I want to stay where we are for the rest of forever because he’s only safe if we don’t break the spell.

He can’t lift my entire weight. I go limp. I’ll stay like that as long as I have to. I’ll take every little second of the rest of our lives I can get at this point. He tries again. I can’t let him go yet. It hasn’t been long enough.

I’m listening to his heartbeat. I’m feeling him breathing. What I want to say is please don’t leave this room, please don’t put your uniform back on, please don’t die.

He holds my face between his hands. He’s frowning a little and a question is there, waiting to be asked. I go to the kitchen because my eyes have never been convincing liars.

What I want to say is that I’ll do anything if you just turn in your badge right now. I’ll live on the streets, I’ll go hungry, I’ll sell my soul to the devil. Anything. But he warned me from the start that he always chose the badge over the boyfriend, so I can’t say it aloud. I want to be the one worth giving it up for, but I don’t want to be the one who asks.

What if he says no?

There’s no taking something like that back once it’s been said. No matter what else you say, it’s there and it’s between you and it keeps growing until it’s a huge barrier that you can’t overcome anymore so you say goodbye and move on. I don’t want to do that. So I leave it unsaid. The words ring in my brain though, and there are times, like now, when I want so bad to let them spill out. If I pick a fight with him, I’ll have an excuse to yell. It would feel so good to let loose and say everything I always have to hold back. Let it go. Spew it until the words come out in dry heaves.

Instead, I go into the kitchen and turn the lights on. I rub his come across my skin until I’m coated and I pretend that it won’t wash away in the shower, that it will always be there, that he will always be here.

He follows me, leans against the door jamb, watches me. “Are you okay?”

I tell him, “Yes.” Because that’s all that I can say.

~~~


When I was writing this story, several friends were ending relationships. One of the things that baffled me was how they’d seemingly rather go through a divorce than talk to each other. “Oh, I could never tell him/her that!” Why not? Supposedly, this is the person who loves you more than anyone else, the person who has your back in times of trouble. What's the wost that could happen? S/he leaves you? That's already happening! As long as you’re losing everything anyway, why not go for the Hail Mary play? Why not have a long, honest chat before it gets to the divorce stage? But that’s me talking from my perspective, and I figured out a long time ago that you can never understand a relationship from the outside.

I’m a writer, so watching friends go through their private hells sparked a story idea about people who won’t, or can’t, talk honestly about their feelings. I was mulling over characters as I drove home from work. Traffic was slow (what a surprise) and a traffic helicopter was circling over the freeway. Suddenly, I had my opening scene in mind, and the characters came pretty quickly after that. I wanted it to be clear that my characters loved each other, but I also wanted to show that silence would eventually doom their relationship.

If I had shown the readers only Zach’s body language, they wouldn’t know how much was being left unsaid and appreciate the depth of the silence. Unlike the reader, Steve only has the surface clues to go by. So from Steve’s perspective, the dynamics in this scene are that Zach is a little pissed off that he didn’t return calls, but he’s tired and doesn’t want to deal with it because he’s had a rough day. But everything must be all right because Zach wants sex, and even wants to play a little rough.

From Zach’s perspective, only Steve is getting what he wants out of this relationship. Steve set the rules, and for now Zach is trying to abide by them. This isn’t a good relationship. Zach is realizing that. In his internal dialog, he talks about throwing up words, as if holding them in is poisoning him. It is.

Blood and Guts

By Lisabet Sarai

You know, I love Garce dearly, but he comes up with the hardest topics! This week his choice is "character dynamics". He wants us to talk about what makes our characters tick when they're together—how their interactions reveal their separate motivations and their mutual conflicts. At least I think that's the gist.

As you've probably gathered from his posts, Garce thinks about these things a lot. He takes a remarkably analytical approach to his writing. I say remarkable partly because all that analysis somehow doesn't suck the blood and guts from his writing, the way it would for me. He manages to keep the flame of genuine emotion alive in his work even as he slices and dices, rethinks and reworks.

Not me. I can't pick my own characters apart the way I used to do with Anna Karenina or Holden Caulfield. If I do, I'll kill them. I'm not one of those authors who hear voices in their heads, potential characters screaming for me to write their stories, but when I write, my characters sit on my shoulders and answer my questions. “Now what are you going to do?” “What do you want?” “Why do you feel that way?” I ask. Then I listen to what they tell me. When I write a conversation, I mentally put the characters in the same room and wait to see what they'll say. It's something of a mysterious process, and definitely synthetic rather than analytical.

About a month ago I was working on an erotic romance tale involving BDSM initiation of a younger woman by a more experienced man. I'd recently been reading a blog about character profiles, so I decided to try that technique with this story. I wrote down everything I could think of about the two protagonists. You know, all their back story, plus items like “deepest secret”, “strongest desire”, “biggest fear”, “biggest character flaw”, “most admirable quality” and so on. Then I began writing the story. I promptly ignored about half of my analysis. When I went back and re-read my profiles, I saw that I hadn't followed them very closely. But I couldn't force my characters to fit their descriptions. I'd written those sketches before I got to know the two of them, and the analyses were only partly accurate.

Still, I understand the value of Garce's approach, digging deeper. The sort of questions he asks (we've discussed this quite a bit) bring out the underlying meaning in a story. In the best literature (and I count Garce's work in this category, though I know he'll deny it), characters are more than just players acting and reacting. They also embody abstractions—psychological, philosophical, or political. Nixie is more than just a confused, horny, bitter, very female monster. She's trust betrayed, faith destroyed, and yet she's also the flickering of hope, refusing to be drowned in despair. The suicide bomber in “How Paradise Comes to the Blind” strikes me as a very real person—arrogant and yet humbly seeking the peace and reassurance of God's presence—but at the same time he represents intolerance, ignorance, fanaticism. Even Garce's intimate tale “An Early Winter Train”, about a man stuck caring for his Alzheimer's-afflicted wife, has multiple levels. It's about the persistence of love and memory, about power, about flaunting conventions.

I didn't really intend this post to analyze Garce's character interactions. He can do that far better than I. I was going to talk about my current work in progress, a dystopian scifi romance. As it happens, at the moment I'm actually stuck trying to understand the dynamics between my two main characters.

Rafe is the sole human guard at an internment camp for gay men. When the Plague raged and the dying populace rioted in the streets, the Command swept all men with a supposed genetic marker for homosexuality into remote “quarantine” camps. Legions of powerful robot warriors patrol the camp. Rafe himself doesn't understand why he's needed, but he accepted the lonely, boring job as alternative to a prison sentence for a gang murder he didn't commit. He's cynical and bitter, a loner just trying to do his time.

Dylan has been a resident in the camp for seven years, since he was seventeen. A genius with electronics, he has been working methodically on a plan for escape for the past three. He has become convinced that the multiple levels of security at the camp are too difficult even for his skills, so he's using social engineering to snare Rafe into helping him. Dylan is cynical, too, but he's also a manipulator. He's not the type to sit around waiting to see what will happen. He has almost boundless self-confidence. He's also an extrovert, a natural leader.

I'm a chapter and a half into the story. Rafe and Dylan are just about to meet for the first time. (Rafe has watched Dylan on the security camera. Dylan knows this.) Dylan is being hauled into Rafe's control room after deliberately and visibly reprogramming a robot guard.

What should happen next?

I know that before long, Dylan needs to seduce Rafe. It's part of his plan. Rafe needs to think it's his idea, however. I also know that ultimately, the two must fall in love (this is a romance, remember) and both become fugitives from the Command.

So how should I play this scene?

I could dive in, just letting the characters do what they want. But they're not talking to me.

What are the emotions here?

Rafe: curiosity (how did Dylan manage to control the guard?); anger (who did this hotshot kid think he was, breaking the rules?); a bit of fear (would Rafe be blamed? and what about the Plague? Is Dylan a carrier?); lust (Rafe has watched Dylan masturbate); a touch of sympathy (Rafe has looked up Dylan's sad history).

Dylan: triumph (his plan is working); guile (he must not let on that this is deliberate); fear (but just an edge); exhilaration; lust (this is his first sight of Rafe, and the guard is something of a hunk).

And what are the underlying themes in their relationship? Obviously trust—initially they mistrust each other. Dylan must seduce Rafe and win his trust. Then he'll lose it again when his deceit is unmasked. Freedom. Rafe is as much of a prisoner as Dylan. Being with Dylan will make him realize this. There's also the political dimension of discrimination. Rafe has had sex with men, but he doesn't have the “homo-gene”. He's been conditioned to think of Dylan and the other residents as deviant and in some sense less than human, the scum who unleashed the Plague upon humanity, while he himself is not “queer”. So part of the character arc will involve Rafe coming to terms with the fact that there's no real difference between him and Dylan, sexually speaking. This will lead to a re-evaluation of many things that he has taken for granted.

But that comes later. Right now I'm just trying to work out the control room scene. I think that it ends with a blow job, Rafe deciding to use Dylan's mouth. Dylan's hands are bound behind him. There's a power dynamic here. Rafe believes that he is in charge.

Dylan knows better. How should Dylan act? Should he taunt Rafe,or should he pretend to be frightened and humble? I think that the former would work better. He'll goad Rafe, work him up, encourage the guard to take him. That's Dylan's immediate goal, to snare Rafe sexually and induce him to assist in Dylan's escape. At the same time Dylan will subtly show Rafe that the guard is no freer than the inmate. He'll also earn Rafe's grudging respect. As an ex-gang member, Rafe will think more highly of a bold, rebellious Dylan than a compliant one.

Hmm. This might work. But honestly, I really won't know until I sit down and try to write the scene. All the analysis in the world isn't going to help if my characters decide that I'm wrong.

Regrets ...

REGRETS'S ... I'VE HAD A FEW

Guest Post by Keta Diablo

I don’t think there’s a person breathing who doesn’t live with some regret over an incident, a decision or a day in their life.

Etymology of the word regret: Middle English from the word regretten, from Anglo-French regreter, from perhaps of Germanic origin; akin to Old Norse grāta or to weep. Dated from the 14th century, regret is a transitive verb that has several meanings: to mourn the loss or death, to miss very much or to be very sorry for one’s actions or mistakes.

Like everyone else, I’ve experienced all three meanings. I’ve had great loss of loved ones in my life, I miss people that for one reason or another have sought a different path, and I regret some of my own decisions or actions from the past.

Perhaps a better phrase would be I regret my lack of action from the past. Do you remember in your childhood someone asking you what you wanted to be when you grew up? Maybe they didn’t in your childhood, but I had some very curious aunts and uncles. Someone was always asking me where I’d like to see myself in 15 years or what career path I’d take, or worse, “If you could have one chance to be anything you wanted, what would you chose?”

At the time I had no idea. Who would at ten years of age? I probably said something like a famous rock singer. Those years have now turned into memories and I never became that famous rock star. I lacked conviction, determination and courage – all things that go hand-in-hand with legendary beings. Oh, yeah, I guess I should include talent in the list.

I could never have been a rock star – I don’t have a good voice, but that doesn’t stop me from wishing just once in my life I could have walked onto a stage to the roar of the crowd when I entered.

Or stop me from wishing . . .

I had learned to play the piano so rather than listen to Beethoven I could emulate his lovely sonatas,

I had purchased that ranch in Montana and lived among one of my favorite things in life—horses,

I had learned to speak French fluently, just because,

I had enough courage in my younger years to move to a warm climate because I detest cold weather,

I learned to water ski and surf because I know I’m missing out on a lot of fun,

I’d have gone to law school instead of squandering my college years away on a degree I do nothing with,

I could make this list of regrets much longer, but then I stop and think of all the things I’ve been blessed with—family, children, friends and my beloved animals that have journeyed with me through life.

I stop to remember when my list of regrets seems enormous that so far I have my health. I can walk out my door and smell the flowers, watch the barred owls in my woods feed their young, and listen to the loons on my lake call out at night.

Maybe I’ll take that French class this year or hire a tutor to teach me piano, but in the meantime I’m not going to concentrate on regrets – I’m going to be thankful for what I do have and then I’m going to go outside and dance in the rain.

~ ~ ~

Keta Diablo writes erotic romance and gay fiction for Phaze Publishing, Amber Quill Press, Noble Romance, and Decadent Publishing.

Her latest releases are Magnolia Heat from Noble Romance, Blood Oath from Amber Quill Press, and Crossroads: Shadowland from Phaze Publishing.

More about Magnolia Heat:
Gay Fiction, Noble Romance

North Carolina, 1876: Rumors abound about the dark, mysterious Dominic Beresford in Chapel Hill. Their curiosity piqued, their libidos functioning on overload, Craven and Anthony are intent on obtaining answers about the supposed licentious gatherings taking place every weekend.

When the duo are caught spying on Beresford Hall, their punishment will be swift and severe, and in Craven’s case, dispensed by none other than the stunning Lord of the Manor. What begins as penance soon veers off to a session of feverish passion where the avenger becomes the pawn in his own game. A male/male historical that will leave you breathless.

(Bondage. Forced seduction. Intense and graphic scenes of man love.)

* * *

More about Blood Oath:

When Kale MacDonald's beloved grandmother dies, she leaves him a letter urging him to travel to Savannah, GA to find his destiny. Kale is confronted by a strange, decadent man who appears to be stalking him. He's also confronted by a trio of rogue vampires intent on killing him. Mystery and danger collide in the City of Secrets, and no one is who they appear to be.


* * *

More about Crossroads: Shadowland:
Gay Fiction Series CROSSROADS, Phaze Publishing

Frank must travel to Louisiana to solve another missing persons' case. This time, Rand insists on accompanying Frank to get a hands-on introduction to the PI business. Evil forces are at work in the bayou. Frank is pitted against a centuries' old ghost and races against time to save two innocent young men from eternal damnation. Rand gets caught in vortex of prejudice when he encounters a sinister duo bent on violence against gays. Sinister machinations converge in a maelstrom of retribution and hate. Frank must pull out all the stops to save the young men and the man who holds his heart.

You can find out more about Keta and her writing here on the Net:

Keta’s Haunt, http://www.ketadiablo.com
Keta’s Keep Erotic Blog, http://ketaskeep.blogspot.com
Keta’s Gay Fiction Blog, http://thestuffofmythandmen.blogspot.com

Regrets, I've had a few ...

I have regrets, certainly I do. Many of the things I regret most, no one will ever know about, because I am too embarrassed to ever admit to them to anyone. For the most part they are small, non-life changing events, where things could have gone either way and neither would have been of great impact. Yet there are some that linger. That no matter what I do, they have small impacts on my psyche day after day.

I do have some of Ash's views about regrets, that really, they are moments that have passed us by and dwelling on them doesn't accomplish much. Like Charlotte, I've regreted moments with my writings, either subs I never sent out or ones that I did when I knew they weren't ready. Like Garce, I have sat in an airport and regreted the route I chose (especially if it ran me through O'Hare). I agree with Lisabet on infidelity - it's more guilt than regret that I feel. And like Kathleen, I regret fear.

And fear leads to my biggest regret, the one that I almost hate myself for some days. My one major regret, that I still feel such shame about it that it hurts to even think about it sometimes, is never telling anyone who could do something about it that I was raped.

How's that for a week-ender. (Yes, I knew I would be addressing this when I proposed the topic).

Although, I am sure it doesn't come as a surprise to those that know some of my stories (both Diggin' Up Bones and a story in my Kinky Girls Do deals with a rape survivor), and who have read past posts of mine.

The shame doesn't come from having been raped. Please, let me say that right now.

Rather it comes from having been too damn terrified to do a single thing about it. I was so broken over it, since it was a boyfriend that did it, that I kept dating him for a while afterwards, forcing him to be the one to break it off. Hoping with every day that went by that finally that would be the day he would tell me we were through.

I was 16 at the time. I was the shy geeky girl that none of the guys really noticed, and I was naive as hell. I had only dated a few guys, and only been serious about one other. And up until this night, he had been kind, caring and loving. I still don't know what set him off, and I doubt I ever will. Certainly when I tried to bring up the subject, he never viewed anything as wrong.

It shaped me in ways I don't like thinking about. It's been more than a decade and a half ago, and I still have nightmares.

Thankfully, when I met hubby, we were able to work past it together. He was patient with me, and understanding, and mature enough not to push me past my comfort level. Instead, he let me more or less set the pace. I say more or less, because well, he did coax me out of my shell. Then again, he had to. If he hadn't, I am not sure that I would ever have dared trust again.

The regret lies in the knowledge that if he did it to me, he could have later done it to someone else. I have to live with that, wondering. Hoping and praying that it was an isolated incident, or that at least the next woman was strong enough to do what I wasn't.

I wish I had had the kind of relationship with my parents that I could have told them. But I never felt confortable. I always felt that somehow, something I did caused it to happen. And that would be pointed out to me by them, and that the pain and shame would destroy me.

The only thing I can do now is to try and raise awareness, through my writings. Through posts. And through conversations with my daughter, and one day, with my students.

So yes, I have regrets. And for the most part, they are benign. But that one ... it's a soul eater.

No Regrets

by Ashley Lister

OK. This is the first time I’ve said this in more than a year of blogging here, but I don’t think I can do this topic. It’s not that I don’t understand the concept of regret. I appreciate we’re looking at a negative assessment following the repercussions of a previous decision. And it’s not that there haven’t been (many) times in my life when I’ve made the wrong decision. But I don’t think I have any genuine regrets. I can’t see the point in brooding on what can’t be changed.

That said, because I don’t like to give up so easily, I’ve compiled below a list of five things I ought to regret.

1) I regret annoying one particular author with a scathing book review. Please note: I don’t regret writing the review. The book (in my opinion) was crap and I was obliged to say so in observance of the reviewer’s code of providing an honest review. But I regret annoying the author – particularly as the hate mail they sent through was unpleasant and puerile.

2) I regret making my email address so easy to find, allowing a disgruntled author to send me hate mail on receipt of a scathing book review.

3) I regret opening the email I received from a disgruntled author. Like the rest of the planet’s mortal population: I only have a dwindling number of minutes left to survive before merciful death releases me from the purgatory of existence. The fact that I wasted three of those dwindling minutes reading the misspelt rantings of a delusional hack is a serious cause for my genuine and heartfelt regret. It’s possibly the only genuine regret in this whole list.

4) I regret smirking at the typos in that email, which came from someone who insisted they have an ability to write properly. Admittedly, it’s rare that irony can be so amusing, but I think my smirking was somewhat childish.

5) I regret that my editor didn’t follow the advice of the disgruntled author, which suggested they should sack me and start employing someone competent.


But, as I said before, I don’t do the regret thing very well. If I started regretting decisions, I’d regret reading the damned book in the first place, or I’d regret agreeing to be a reviewer, or even deciding to be a writer.

To my mind regret is a redundant, reflective practice: so close to the childishness of wishing it seems indulgent for an adult. It would be like wishing for everyone to enjoy the book you’ve written – regardless of your absence of talent or the book’s abysmal quality. And, as the saying goes: wish in one hand, shit in the other, and see which one fills up first.

Pensees From Hell

DAY TWO

Atlanta International Airport

CONCOURSE D
GATE D08 3 JUL 10 1108 AM

The Popeye's helped. Some greasy chicken, some ice tea. Something to remind me of a brighter world just outside beyond the glass. The worst part about this is that this will not be a work of fiction. This is real.

Looking up from the keyboard and out to the tarmac, I see in the glass the grim bearded face of the seriously fucked. My kid and I have entered the world of the modern Lost Dutchman – the Stand By on Buddy Pass.

It seemed like a good idea three months ago. My neighbor works for Delta, she can get us a spot on the cheap with her buddy pass. The prices on Buddy Pass were incredibly cheap, just like me, and I jumped on it. It actually worked well for my wife. She saved $500 on her trip to Panama. Me? Not so good.

I had promised my kid and my Minnesota folks we would be there on the 30th of August for a week of fishing and berry picking and hanging out and seeing the fireworks on Sunday the Fourth. That was the plan. I didn’t realize at the time my neighbor’s Buddy Pass Priority was 99, which might be slightly better than Osama Bin Laden. If the 9/11 Terrorists had flown Stand By we would be living in a different world today.

As I write I hear the announcer boarding the plane to Minneapolis. There a five seats available. We are number 35 on the priority list. Its going to be like this for the indefinite future. My Minnesota folks do not think highly of me at this moment. Neither does my kid. Neither do I. We just keep hitting the terminals they send us to, until something hits.


GATE D12 12:34PM
My kid and I have been stuck in limbo between the Atlanta Hub, which I’m told is the world’s biggest airport, and the Minneapolis Airport which is big enough. I’m writing this live from Concourse D, Gate 12. This turns out to be a nice gate to be in exile on. There’s a Starbucks, and they have these little booths where you can sit and type stuff. You can stare out the window. Out there. I used to live in Atlanta, long, long ago. There was a world out there. A world beyond the The Glass. I remember standing on a sidewalk in the sun. I could walk over here, if I wanted to. I could walk over there. I could cross the street. Sit under a tree. I used to live in that world beyond the glass. I remember there were trees and green grass once, long ago. Domestic animals. My pet cat Ronnie. My wife. Home cooked food. My garden. I wonder how my garden is turning out this year. I remember sunshine, clouds and rain. I remember work and having a job. So long ago. Somewhere out there on the other side of The Glass.

GATE D18 1:43PM
I’ve been thinking about iambic pentameter which has intrigued me since my attempt at sonnet writing a few weeks ago with “Tink”. I have misunderstood Iambic Pentameter. Perhaps you have also. I had been thinking it was 10 syllables to a line of alternating stressed sounds. The mystery was Shakespeare, the Sonnet God, whose lines often fell short or over ran the ten syllable border. Then I realized, the word “Pentameter” is deceptive. Its not ten syllables. Its four stressed beats, two measures to a line. For instance:

DUMB Daddy DUMB Daddy DUMB Daddy DUMB

That’s four beats.

You’re CHEAP you’re CHEAP with STINK-ee FEET

Hear the beat?

The way to do it is to imagine three little girls jumping rope. Two of the girls are turning the rope and the third is jumping. The genius of little girls is that they jump rope in iambic pentameter without knowing it’s what they’re doing. They do it perfectly, because that’s the beat that brings the rope around.

JOHN and MAR-ee SITting in a TREE
K-i-S-s-I -n-G



GATE E11 3:35PM
Or imagine one little girl playing hopscotch on a sidewalk hopping her way through the little chalked squares:

STAND by SCUM you’re STAND by SCUM

You’re DUMB You’re DUMB you’re STAND by SCUM

Oh God. . . .

Get me the fuck out of this place . . . please God . . .


GATE A22 5:25PM

Holy God damn dang!!

This time we made it from the blue list to the green list. The blue list is the list of the hopeful in limbo. The green list is the list of the chosen people. As the hours get later most people have gotten their planes and the competition is thinning out. Our chances go up incrementally. We were right on the wire. We were on the blue, position number five out of a list five “blues”. The available seats were four seats. But that means if someone doesn’t show up at the last minute we move over the goal line and we win! Yay for our team.

I was at the check counter hanging over it breathlessly, as the guy went through the names, calling them out on the PA. People came through. They all came through. My son and I did not. We were the last. The last and only.

“Sorry guys.”

Suddenly a cabin attendant poked her head through the corridor entrance. “We have two seats empty!”

Everybody knew me and my kid were waiting. We were getting a little famous. By now.

The check guy jerked his thumb like a cop waving me through. “You guys – grab your bags – go!” People were heading for the desk, wanna bes, legitimates. We happy two, the last of the Blues ran down the corridor and made it so close – we actually touched it! We touched the plane ! The Ferryman's boat over the river Styx - when another attendant blocked the door, with a kind of shit eating grin. “Sorry, boys. They were in the restrooms. Its full up.”

“We can travel in the rest rooms! We don’t care!”

No.

So we picked up our bags and trudged back up.


GATE A18 5:50PM
Now imagine this. Suppose one of the little jump rope girls is called home to her mother, say, to eat lunch, and their nice old neighbor Mr. Shakespeare comes out to turn the rope and call the chants till she gets back. He picks up the end of the rope (“Art thou ready?” The little girl at the other end nods yes) and The Great Man begins turning and calling the chant:

“That TIME (hop) of YEAR (hop) thou MAYST (hop) in ME (hop) be HOLD (hop!)
When YEL -low (hop) LEAVES (hop) or FEW (hop) or NONE (hop) do HANG (hop!)

(that’s four measures, and altered stresses if I’m getting the hang of this right. I think I am. Ashley and Lisabet knows scanning better than I do at this point, but I'm getting there.)

Da DUM da DUM da DUM da DUM. Kids jumped ropes in his day. Who says this isn’t how he actually composed sonnets? It’s a sweet thought to imagine The Bard there with paper and a dip pen handy calling out the chants for his kids.)


GATE C19 6:45 PM
The pile of Blue People is getting shorter. There was a time in my life where I believed everything has a meaning, everything happens for a purpose. I’ve outgrown that idea, but I miss it like an old friend. Its very empowering to believe such things. It gives you patience. I envy people who haven’t lost their spiritual innocence. If you believe that you’re in Stand By Hell to learn some profound lesson, although that is a form of spiritual vanity, it gives you endurance. It goes back to Viktor Frankl’s book “Man’s Search For Meaning”. Frankl was a psychiatrist and a Jew unfortunate enough to be caught in the holocaust and sent to a death camp. As a psychiatrist, he observed the dying prisoners around him as a kind of hellish lab environment and found that the ones who perished quickly were the ones who saw the event as pure malevolent chaos. The ones who survived were the ones who found meaning in their situation and tried to live for the sake of others.

Am I thinking of Nazi death camps now?

I wonder why you never see books like this for sale in Airports.


GATE C25 7:55PM
Okay, let's talk about meter some more.

“Art thou ready, maidens in thy spring?”

“Yes, Mr. Shakespeare!”

In ME (hop) thou SEEest (hop) the GLOWing (hop) of such FIRE (hop!)
That ON (hop) the ASHES (hop) of his YOUTH (hop) doth LIE (hop)

Thou KNOWest (hop) such SWINE (hop) as THOU, they must exPIRE (hop)
STAND-by (hop) SCUM (hop) thou KNOWest (hop) art DOOMed (hop) to DIE (hop)


GATE A15 8:45PM
I miss the typing booths at C25. Also here they have Seattle’s Best”, which is okay, but I’m used to Starbucks when I write. J K Rowling wrote most of “Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows” at a series of Starbucks. True fact.

One of the people with real tickets for Minneapolis has a carry on bag with an embroidery of a loon. I love loon’s. You hear their wailing call on placid lakes at night as the sun starts to set. Up in Ely the sun doesn’t set all the way even at ten at night. True fact.

Now, a loon floating on, say Eagle Lake #3 outside of Ely, will look up and see the same stars as I see. Overhead the loon and I will see the starry bands of the milky way galaxy, the same stars the Ojibwa Indians used to look up at when they lived in those forests during the easy summer months. The loon and Ojibwa Indians did not know what stars were, although different tribes probably had similar traditional legends as to where they came from. Like Huckleberry Finn and Jim floating down the Mississippi river at night and speculating that “the moon most probably laid them”. Indians would have interesting ideas about god but the loon would not. It would not occur to the loon to worry about where it came from, and if you could speak Loon would probably tell you it came from an egg.



GATE C5 9:45PM
A loon does not have the mental equipment to comprehend God. Why do we suppose that we do? It is like Einstein’s cat trying to understand relativity. At the same time the loon and the cat have no interest that we know of in trying to understand God. Does that automatically make us divine beings? Only because we ask?


GATE D11 10:35PM
When crawfish on the lake bottom of Eagle Lake #3 look up at the surface do they have any idea there is a world beyond the mud and rocks of the lake floor? Or fish? Fish have curiosity. Especially predatory fish like sharks. They have intelligence, but have not been given the tools to understand the world beyond their own. So when a shark is hooked and hauled into a boat by poachers and has its fins brutally chopped off to be sold for soup and then thrown alive into the water, what must it think? Is it being punished for some sin? Is it in Shark Hell?

GATE D8 11:25 PM
So when we speculate on the existence of life in the Universe, what are we speculating on? Microbial life? Surely microbial life exists, because we see such an abundance in such a variety of biosphere's on earth. But what we're really talking about when we say intelligent life is technological life. A porpoise is intelligent, but lives underwater where metalurgy and technology are not possible. So the elements that go into technicalogical life are quite complex. Even the physical environment has to capable of allowing controlled fire.

Therefore what are flying saucers?

What if flying saucers were not space ships?
What if they were time machines?
The reported physical appearance of aliens look like Star Trek aliens, that is, they look like descendents of arboreal primates. They look like us with funny heads. They don't look like they came from an alien biosphere, the way a shrimp or an angler fish does. This is much more consistent with time travelers.

GATE D11 11:50PM

WE’RE ON!!!!!