The
most important guest arrived Saturday morning. She was carried in a quilted
knitting bag next to gnome doll whose red-white-and-blue top hat affectionately
earned him the name Sam. His blue eyes were painted on and from beneath his
white curls, he stared uncannily at the first arrivals and party guests. Does he notice that I am still not married?
Does he know that I haven’t been home in a year,
or seen my Grandma in the last three?
“We drove with him in the backseat next to me the entire way,” Aunt Monica drawled, her Alabama accent at ten decibels. She was marked with a catatonic frenzy that only death brings about: doling out tasks to her sisters—schedule the mass, order the flowers, reserve the space for the luncheon— while her singular concern was the residues of the body that lasted over 90 years.…
A
story does not always come in a row like rising corn: sometimes it comes in
pieces. I’m sorry to say that we will begin in the third act and leave the
first alone. See, below.
We begin with Andromeda. She is standing in a white room. In front of her is the mother who
bore her — or, rather, some of this
mother. Andromeda watches. Her eyes are like a snake’s: unreadable.
What Andromeda would tell you is that she grew up alone. Of course, this is a naked lie. Andromeda has always been surrounded by people. Her nanny and sometime suckler, Aeschylus, who reveals the secrets of life and afterlife with an abandon that leaves Andromeda without a sense of tact. Her guardian and boyhood crush, Agamemnon (who else?),…
I pull the thick pieces together
while stitching with a large, curved upholstery needle and thick, waxed thread. It’s difficult to push the sharp point through
the thick material while simultaneously joining
the parts. It seems nothing ever goes
back to its original shape once torn.
I learned to sew in high
school. After classes, I worked in an
upholstery shop. The old craftsman hired
me part-time to remove the worn fabric
from furniture, then make a pattern.
Once I mastered pattern making, he
taught me more advanced skills such as
tying springs together with twine then covering them with cotton padding.
Eventually, I was taught to sew the
thick off-white fabric over the repaired springs
with a stout steel needle. Five years
later, I’m applying the skills I learned from the craftsman. …
The
air is crisp. Leaves are changing, and October is almost over. Halloween
approaches: the best day of the month for spooky season lovers. If you’re
looking for a scary read to cap off your night of jack-o’-lanterns, candy, and
costumes, check out Robert Jackson Bennett’s novella, Vigilance.
Bennett is better known for his superb work in fantasy (The Divine Cities trilogy, Foundryside), but with Vigilance (Tor, 2019), he ventures into dystopian science fiction. In the year 2030, the United States is in a state of almost total economic collapse. Most of the younger generations have fled as refugees to other safer, more stable countries. Global warming has induced massive flooding. A refusal to transition to sustainable energy has left Texas a burning oil field.…
We used to go on runs
all the time. People would call me Old
Yeller and kids would call me Marley, but we don’t go on runs anymore because
of my paws and now I’m just called Cleo, but that’s not my real name either.
Cleo isn’t allowed to
eat people-food. Cleo isn’t allowed to
sleep on the bed or sit on the couch.
There are a lot of things Cleo can’t do. I used to eat people-food every day and when
I’m alone I sleep on the couch.
But I am not always
alone.
I like Walter better
than Deborah. Deborah tells Walter I’m a
good doggy. Walter tells me I’m a good doggy. He used to take me on runs, but now Walter
takes me on walks. …
At first, the grief was bare, an unsheathed sword, its presence sharp. But then it turned, slowly, into a faded tattoo on a hidden part of my body. I tried calling your phone last night. I don’t know what I expected, but I was scared.
When I’m dripping in too much darkness, that same profound, welling of sadness finds me. It appears in the strangest places; in the back of my throat, at the roots of my heart. These moments are punctuated by the smell of oolong tea, memories
of getting drunk off Blue Wave Vodka at Brian’s house, hiding from the cops in your car. But you’re gone, you’ll never read this. When I found out, I ate an edible and laid on my couch for 20 hours, trying to wrap my mind around it, but it was just you, swallowing lemon seeds, presenting your empty mouth,
tongue drawn out toward me, the pride you had in that moment, the laughs that filled our empty stomachs, the crows feet on your face when you smiled, like footprints in the snow.…
No matter how long you’ve been painting, you learn something new with every canvas. Every single dang one.
All colors go together. Some just go
together a whole lot better than others.
Art is the deliberate attempt by
someone to make something he feels is beautiful. That’s all art is. You’re not
required to like it … to like it at all … but respect the time and effort the
artist took to try to convince you otherwise.
If black ain’t a color … what is it?
Folks will like your art better if they
like you. I know that thought might be repulsive to some artists. Some artists
believe that the work should stand on its own. I don’t necessarily disagree,
but if you make art and you’re the one personally selling it to prospects …
and not your agent or the nice lady in a gallery … then being likeable sure
does help people like your art a whole lot better.
