Security = Happiness

  • Share a photo that depicts your interpretation of security . . .  It could be a worry stone you keep in your pocket or that favorite tee shirt that makes you feel awesome every time you put it on.

— Krista, The Daily Post

I can never be creative unless I have an absolute feeling of security. I always have that in Annaghmakerrig.

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In the Tyrone Guthrie Centre, I sleep next to my writing desk. Because life is too short.

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Main House, the Tyrone Guthrie Centre at Annaghmakerrig

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The Main House, Under a Crescent Moon

Finished a story yesterday! A continuation to Magellan’s Mirror. Also, ordering more copies of self’s Mayor of the Roses.

Stay tuned, dear blog readers. Stay tuned.

Self’s “First Life” (Juked.com)

“First Life” first line:

  • Ever since they moved our colony from Tonle Sap to the Philippines, my mind hasn’t been the same.

“Rufino” from Self’s Collection MAYOR OF THE ROSES

There were fourteen years before self’s first and second book.

The first was published by Calyx Press in Corvallis, OR.

The second was published by Miami University Press.

The third, The Lost Language, is only available in the Philippines.

The fourth is an e-book published by Vagabondage in Florida.

There’s also an anthology she co-edited for Calyx Press: Going Home to a Landscape.

Recently, she got an email from writer and teacher Susie Hara, who said she had liked the story “Rufino” in Mayor of the Roses.

It was the last story to be included in the collection. She threw it in at the last minute.

Rufino was a real person.

Here’s an excerpt from the story:

Towards the end, he couldn’t wear any clothes. They had to cover him in banana leaves.

It was in July he died — I couldn’t believe it. A voice on the phone told me.

“Rufino died na.” It was my mother speaking. Naturally, she had to be the one to break the news.

I was staying in a friend’s house in the Santa Cruz Mountains. In the mornings, fog blanketed the hills. We heard the mournful mooing of invisible cows. One or another of us would look east, toward where we heard Neil Young had his ranch, wondering whether we’d catch a glimpse of his pink cadillac that day.

Stay tuned, dear blog readers. Stay tuned.

 

Dense 2: At the Tyrone Guthrie Centre in Annaghmakerrig

Texture. Texture. Texture.

That’s what she thinks about, when she thinks of this week’s Daily Post Photo Challenge: DENSE.

Self loves stone, and exposed brick, and rough surface, like the inner walls of her cottage:

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Interior Wall of Self’s Unit at the Tyrone Guthrie Centre in Annaghmakerrig

In attempting a picture of a painting, she ended up “layering” the image with the reflection of the room behind her: her writing studio.

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Self does all her writing in this room on the 2nd floor. She was trying to take a picture of a painting in her room and ended up experimenting with the reflections on the glass.

#amwritingfantasy

Excerpt of the story she’s been writing (TRIGGER WARNING: Language):

Drinker says, low: “Big passed.”

I answer:  “Fucker. Big’s not big. He’s Big XXX. Mark it. I slash three quick XXXs across my screen.”

Finally, what real bread looks like: a loaf from Cootehill SuperValu (studded with cranberries) Self has been slicing off thick chunks, toasting, and then slathering with rich Irish butter)

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Handmade, Cranberry Loaf

Stay tuned, dear blog readers. Stay tuned.

Now For One of Self’s: “The Lost Language”

This was published many years ago, in a magazine called Isotope.

Published in Utah and edited by a poet, Chris Cokinos.

It joined together two things: science writing and creative writing.

You would find, in the same issue, a play by a physicist, a nature essay, a poem by a mathematician. That sort of thing.

Self loved it.

Chris Cokinos, what are you doing now? Know that self considered Isotope a very noble experiment.

Here’s an excerpt from the story they published, which became the title of her third collection. It’s one of those hybrid things: part essay, part memoir, part myth, part short story.

The Lost Language

Filipinos once had an ancient written language. If I were to show you what the marks look like on a piece of paper, they would look like a series of waves. Or like Egyptian hieroglyphics. Like the eye of the Pharaoh I saw in my old high school history books.

The language was written on tree bark. Epics were probably written in this language, but I don’t know what they are. My ancestors are shadowy people. Shadows.

When I was a little girl, perhaps eight years old or so, my mother gave me a book of Philippine legends. The legends were mostly about beautiful maidens and enchanted animals. But the story I liked best was about Hari sa Bukid, which means King of the Mountain.

Read the rest of this entry »

“After Action Report”: Story # 3 in REDEPLOYMENT, by Phil Klay

  • We took different routes all the time. Don’t be predictable. It’s up to the convoy commander, and they’re all lieutenants, but most of them are pretty good. There’s one who can’t give an Op Order for shit but tends not to fuck up too bad on the road. And there’s one female lieutenant who’s tiny and real cute but tough as balls and knows her shit cold, so it evens out. Still, there’s only so many routes, and you got to use one.

That’s as true of RL as it is true of a convoy in Fallujah. Thank you, Phil Klay!

Very flat, affect-less voice does not fool us: there’s dread here.

Stay tuned.

What the Writing Desk Looks Like Today, 12 March 2017

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Self’s horror story, The Rorqual, now up to 15 pp. YAY!

Stay tuned.

#amwriting: What the Writing Desk Looks Like Today

A story is fashioned from:

  • scotchtape
  • stapler
  • a book on Story Structure
  • newspapers
  • post-it notes
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The Writing Desk Today, Thursday, 9 March 2017

Since this is a story about shape-shifting invaders, it can be classified #horror or #fantasy:

  • The settlements that raised the white flag vanished, and its people with them.

Stay tuned, dear blog readers. Stay tuned.

#amwritingfantasy: More “Down”

So far in self’s story, the two characters (who are as yet unnamed) argue about anything and everything while Pinkie Pie (the name of the bathosphere) floats expectantly a few yards away.

It’s the end of the world, people. The sky’s all kinds of lurid colors, and what these two want to talk about is:

I haven’t seen cake in almost 30 years. Even forgot what it tastes like.

Are you serious? All right, let me refresh your memory: Cake is sand, rain, and seaweed, all mixed together.

Stay tuned, dear blog readers. Stay tuned.

#amwriting: story-in-progress “The Mark”

“Come with us, we’ll show you,” says the shorter man.

“I don’t trust you, I don’t know you. Why should I go with you?”

“Sometimes,” says the taller of the men, coming up to him with a slight air of menace, “sometimes you just have to get out.”

“That’s right,” says his companion. “Get out.”

P.S. #everlark

Because dystopia is everything.

Stay tuned.

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