Friday, December 02, 2022

notes & things | 12/2/2022

I will be plunging back into press work and poetry work this weekend after more than a month away, so if I am supposed to be working on something with you/for you hopefully I can get it wrapped up or at least underway. Tucked carefully in an email folder there are at least a month's worth of things that were less critical--submission queries for the books I haven't had time to read yet, discussions with authors and corrections on books in progress.  I have a whole lot of orders to fill so will start there. Then probably the overdue contracts for what I've accepted for 2023.  And then set a plan for layouts as I close out the year. The last month and a half has been a lot of boomeranging back and forth in and out of the city and devoting what little time I have to paid work to not starve, so it's been a struggle. To triage the necessary to survive and the not. My head hasn't been in it at all--still isn't--but again the faking it and making it rule applies. 

I feel even further away from my own work than do other peoples (which is at least bolstered in importance by involving others)  but I hope that I can get AUTOMAGIC available before New Years.  Poetry in general feels not at all important but maybe then that's when I need it the most. That when I am not writing is maybe exactly when I should. I looked at the very pretty proof copy of the book yesterday and felt the weight of sitting down to make those final edits.  To even care about releasing a book when I do not feel like reality is quite real anyway. Or that poetry life and real life are not even meeting each other. Not to mention the drag of December when I swear yesterday it was well on its way to darkness at 3pm. 

But then again, barring the heft of all that has happened, this feeling is always here, the uncertainty of December, especially without even a glimmer at the end of Christmas, which is less bright this year and sort of murky in the distance. I will hopefully snap out of it by New Year's--all of it, the holiday funk, the SAD depression, the writing fallow ground. Or at least I hope so. My mother's death prompted a really steady creative churn, but it did take some time to acclimate. I had hoped to do another advent project this month, either with art or words, but I am giving myself the year off, which is perhaps the kindest thing I can do. J keeps bringing me things when he visits, I think to cheer me up, --praline chocolates, a cinnamon candle-- and I am trying to be merry, putting up the tree and garlands, hanging stockings, but I still cry a lot randomly.  

Tonight, I am going to settle in with whatever slew of terrible holiday romance films I can find on streaming and eat pimento cheese and triscuits, and probably an entire pine of mint cookie ice cream. All creature comforts I am fond of in winter particularly.  I will light the candles and string the Christmas tree lights and shop online for an ever-dwindling number of family gifts I  will never quite get used to. 

Monday, November 28, 2022

notes & things | 11/28/2022


I am not sure I am at the alright part yet, but today felt a little bit like normal, or a new normal.  Last night found me crying on the bus on the way home thinking about being without parents, which seems like you are without anyone worry about you (which is silly, since obviously friends and partners care about your safety and well-being, but perhaps never so fervently as parents.) The hole left by the death of my dad is maybe a smaller hole than the gaping chasm left by my mother, but is still a hole and still bottomless, or at least it seems so at the moment.

Last week was doozy, with both the funeral and Thanksgiving happening right next to each other and not really feeling like I had my bearings at all.  I cried last night crawling into my own bed the first time since Thursday and being so fucking glad to be home after a chaotic weekend. I need stability and quiet and cats and all the familiar things.  Today, getting up and starting my writing day, I was feeling a little bit better moving evenly paced through work without the crunch of the past month of trying to finish things in half the usual time. I looked at the calendar and realized it had been a month on Saturday since my dad wound up in the hospital, a month of this particular slow-burn horror. I intend not to leave my apartment for at least a week.  

I am getting used to fatherlessness much as I struggled to get used to motherlessness. I was at the house this weekend, which is a kind of excavation but also a kind of erasure. In my dad's office that used to be my sister's bedroom, I found an entire drawer of remotes to appliances we no longer owned. Books on birds, fishing, and casinos, probably most of which I'd bought him. A stash of golf tees in a cup with something about fathers and golfing that I tossed in the trash. The house has been hollowing out steadily, but already, there are rooms that feel not at all inhabited by us.  I once wondered why my mother and aunt threw my grandmother's glorious costume jewelry into a fire, but I kind of get it. Some stuff will be donated, of course, or given away, trashed, or maybe burned. Since my apartment is already full of too much stuff I want very little.  Last week, I took a  book on bird lore and some photos of my mom as a kid not in the albums. This week, a  watercolor I gave her as a gift that has been on the wall above my dad's chair for over a decade. Everything there seems too heavy, to both carry back on the bus and to carry just in general. I have to be selective or die under the weight of it.

So much stuff, even despite several thinning outs.  My mom threw out or passed on a lot of our stuff when they re-carpeted a couple decades ago, and my dad cleared out much after her death. But still, several decades of decor and thrifted stuff and hand-me-downs were still there. Cupboards full of platters and dishes for parties that were never going to happen again. Broken appliances and random cables.  Its a well-used house, cheaply built in the 80s, so who knows if or what it can be sold for.  Particle wood cabinets and baseboards, mismatched tile and stained carpeting. Busted doors and broken fixtures. The most valuable thing is the land its on no doubt, but its also unruly land, which we saw this summer when nature overtook the carefully plotted gardens and patches carefully tended by my dad in better days. The trees keep the last summer my mom was alive.  Then a large part of another just narrowly missing the house in October before my dad's hospitalization. Like an omen. Or the birds that weirdly kept inexplicably getting in the house, four of them,  this past year.  None of it good. 

Thanksgiving, like it did five years ago, felt off kilter and a little like ripping off a bandaid too soon, so I don't know about Christmas or what we'll be doing if anything at all since the old structures and traditions, will need revising into a new shape around the holes that are left. Maybe that means entirely new traditions, or revisions of old ones, I'm not sure.  It's hard to believe its December even at all since mentally I am stuck somewhere back in October before everything slid sideways. I intend to unpack some new Amazon holiday things and the tree from my entryway closet tonight and attempt to fake it til I make it anyway. 

Sunday, November 20, 2022

notes & things | 11/20/2022

I am still feeling a little like the world is unreal these days.  Yesterday, I looked out and could have sworn I was trapped in a furiously shaken snow globe.  By the time I made coffee, it had dwindled to a few flurries.  It gets so dark so early, and I sleep so late, usually till around noon, , that it seems there are a few scarce hours of daylight before nightfall. I'd intended to write all day to get a jump on work for this week where I'll be traveling a bit and away for the holiday, but instead I had a long, long phone call with a friend I'd only been texting the last few months and it felt good to catch up on all her misfortunes (her own family and pet deaths) and my misfortunes. We both agreed to bury 2022 forever and never speak of it again. This summer, I'd been very happy, and some good things (personal, professional) had developed in late October  I will talk about later, but the price of good fortune was the exact opposite it seems.  Autumn has been positively Greek in its hubris.

Tuesday is my dad's memorial service, when we will placing both his ashes and my mother's, which have been on the mantle for the past 5 years, in the ground of the plots they owned since around the time they got married. It is all moving very fast and I have yet to catch my breath or spend much time with my thoughts.  I've mostly been working furiously and napping frequently in equal measure. I have to keep reminding myself that its the holiday season, that Thanksgiving is this week.  I am not really feeling it, but am hoping to fake it til I make it, procuring new garlands and stockings from Amazon for my bookshelf, some new evergreen sprigs for some vases. I was going to just wait til I get back to the city next Sunday, but I may just put it up tomorrow. 

I write this post now as I would normally be embroiled in my twice-weekly call with my dad, an hour I have cautiously watched approach on the clock on all day as I did the usual Sunday things like sweep the floors and clean up the kitchen. The past few years, he had taken over where my mother had left off on Sundays and Wednesday nights.  I have always been grateful for that time, mostly since the previous 20-ish odd years of living away from them had involved very little phone convo with him, since my mom liked to do the talking for both of them with him occasionally chiming in from the other side of the room. Only when she was really sick and the delirium had set in did he take over. It was sort of like getting to know someone new, but also very familiar.  I am not quite sure what I will do with myself, especially on Sundays when the 6pm call was so engrained in my schedule my entire adult life.  We would talk about meals and streaming and what was going on there.  About his cat, (who at 17, passed away recently as well while he was in the hospital, and we were at least glad that we did not have to share this with my dad.)

Though I suppose life is all about finding new routines and structures, but it feels like, though I cling to my structures and routines like a life raft, they sometimes fail me. I don't know what my new Sunday nights will look like going forward.  Maybe I should just plunge myself into writing and work and when I emerge into 2023, things will look a little less lost.  

Thursday, November 17, 2022

the body and its failing machine

November persists and does as November does. On Saturday, we watched my father's last labored breaths, and though the drug cocktail (morphine and ativan) he was on in the final moments was supposedly designed to increase comfort and ease the transition (to what none of us knows), it was still jarring to watch the breath drain out of his worn-out lungs. Because the lungs, for whatever reason, were the things giving out, which meant that he was fully mentally present, but sedated at turns, in all of it...the hospitalization, the two weeks of ventilation that was hoped to give him a chance to recover after trouble breathing but did not do so in the end, leaving him completely trapped on the machine.  

The UTI infection that landed him in the hospital and made him incredibly weak set the stage and a bacterial infection in the lungs caused, they believe, by asperated food that led to pneumonia.  In a normal person, probably not a death sentence, but in an 81-year-old man already frail and thin and so very weak, it meant the end. An end we, and some very hopeful hospital staff, tried to prologue with medical technology, but ultimately failed. We'd been warned about tough decisions--to take off the ventilator and hope he pulled through, or to leave him bed-bound in a nursing home on it forever. The latter, not an option, especially since it already felt like we were pushing the bounds of what he'd have wanted with the ventilator in the first place--because for a minute, it seemed like getting off it and getting better was still an option. He often spoke with the horror of my great-grandmother Chloe's last few months bed- bound in long term care, and wanted anything but. But for a couple weeks, we believed recovery could still happen, the original infection that had weakened him cured by antibiotics. But the strain on the body--the weakness, the malnourishment, made him a sitting duck for other nasties. That acknowledgment, that it wasn't going to happen, which slowly sank in Saturday morning after the doctor's final trial off the machine failed, was the hardest part.

So on Saturday afternoon, with some of the family around in the form of cousins and his remaining siblings, we said goodbye without trying to seem, to him too much,  like we were saying goodbye, chatting about western tv shows on the set above, endless pharma commercials,  and chocolate chip cookie recipes (whether milk chocolate was an acceptable alternative to semi-sweet or dark) as he slowed and drained. He'd been awake for a few moments, wide-eyed and clasping our hands with a tenacious grip, having come out of the sedation they'd mostly kept him under the past two weeks, but unable to speak, to only gesture with his hands--to wave us away, I swear, or maybe just to wave goodbye. Then motioning for someone to raise the bed.  He stared for a while at the ceiling as the drugs fully kicked in. Maybe a half hour.  I was turned talking to my aunt and when  I looked up and his chest had stopped moving and moments later, the nurse confirmed his pulse was gone.

I count myself lucky or unlucky that I lost my grandparents early--some early to cancer, or to freak accident-induced blood clots like my grandmother-- most of them in childhood with the exception of my paternal grandfather who we were not particularly close with due to distance and divorce (he later succumbed to fast spreading cancer). When my mother died, it felt unexpected, though she was riddled with so many cascading health problems (the heart attack, legs ravaged by a latex allergy that failed to heal, the deep infection in her foot that led to delirium) in the months before her heart gave out. I was convinced she was getting better, up to a point, but she was not. The end was therefore completely a surprise and not a surprise. I was also not there to see it happen. 

My dad, for most of his life, despite the same seizure disorder my sister has, was pretty healthy right up til the last few months. His pain in his legs and back (he called it sciatica, though the doctors believe it was more like arthritis) had gotten worse in the past year, necessitating a cane or walker, but he was still reasonably spry. Though recently, the falls had become more frequent and while not injured, he had trouble getting up the last couple weeks he was home. Once, he was rescued by the Amazon delivery guy when he fell trying to get up the steps. The next time, the EMTs.  His appetite had taken a plummet and though he talked often about food on the phone weekly, was not eating enough of it, rendering a man who had always been thinner than the rest of us, much too thin. All of these things made him frail and vulnerable, and in classic Bowen fear, convinced he had cancer and not wanting to know (he did not). My sister tricked him into hospitalization by promising a routine doctor visit. He was doing well a couple days in, but then stopped being able to breathe on his own due to secretions building up in his lungs.

With a family of people taken out by a host of other things, he is perhaps lucky to have lived to be 81, when I suppose the body just begins to give out like a well-used car.  If the other ailments don't get us, the steady unwinding of our internal clocks will get us all the same despite our best efforts. There is still the sense of unrealness, even though unlike my mother, I was there to see it happen. I hope this means he will not turn up in my dreams later, not knowing he's gone, which happened for a good year after losing my mother. Also that usual strange relief wave that comes as the backside of grief--that the very worst thing that can happen has already happened. But mostly both hating and marveling at the body's machinery and the unfairness of an active mind caught within its cage of it and unable to stop its failure even with medical machines and hospital professionals and still the expiration date marked on all of us. 

Wednesday, November 09, 2022

notes & things | 11/9/2022

We are now in that dark dip in November, always a tricky place and moreso in recent years.  With my dad still in the hospital and the outcome still uncertain, this week we hit the 5 year anniversary of my mother's death and I am just trying to triage feelings and mounting work and general anxiety that is knife sharp and occasionally bleeds out all over the room and people around me. Or it doesn't and I feel alone inside it like a dark lake and I am looking for a board or a broken door to float on. There are no poems here, there isn't time, and outside of some orders, DGP work has been shelved for the coming weeks in favor of getting things done to get paid and pay rent and shit. In between, there are weekly trips to Rockford, which always makes me want to crawl out of my skin--even before illnesses and hospitalizations and this unbearably early dark. I find I have to be away from home base when I also feel I really need to be here--for the structure, for the cats, for some semblance of normality, yet if things go awry, I also want to spend more time with my dad, especially he's unable to turn this around. Without structure, I am completely ragged and wind-tattered most of the time. I feel completely ill-equipped for almost everything. The time there is a vaccuum descend into and re-emerge.  This past weekend, a horrific scene in the waiting room that had nothing to do with me rattled me more than I'd like. 

I've put a pin in AUTOMAGIC release since poetry is not where my head is, though some may argue that is exactly where it needs to be, but I just can't right now. I still have to make final corrections and adjustments and order the final copies, so maybe in a few weeks I'll feel more like it. Poetry seems pale and inconsequential.  Like a game I play sometimes for stupid prizes There are other good things happening in the wings of the current tragic stage, both personal and professional (potentially) but right now I am mostly numb and poised in crash position.  I keep thinking if it were summer...not this, not this dark and cold, I could cope better. But then again, maybe not.  A friend once told me it was worse to suffer depression in summertime. Like you weren't supposed to be sad or anxious in warm weather, but it was perfectly acceptable in colder weather. I wouldn't know since all of my low spots have occurred in fall or winter. It seems impossible for me to be sad in summer despite what LDR says..

Monday, October 31, 2022

notes & things | all hallows eve

It's been a week. Which is to say it's been the kind of week I've been dreading but felt was kind of inevitable in greater or lesser degrees. My dad wound up in the hospital with an infection that had made him weaker than usual after a few months of more limited mobility that had been building the past year. He had been talking of pain in his legs and back that he'd written off as part of the sciatica that had plagued him for a while, requiring a cane and a walker most of the time (which apparently is more arthritic in nature as it turns out.). He'd complained about food just not being as desirable in the past few months, so had been steadily getting thinner, but not yet alarmingly so until recently. 

His condition had worsened in past couple of weeks to the point that my sister successfully tricked him into a trip to the emergency room under the guise of taking his stubborn ass to the hospital. The actual problem for his weakness and unsteadiness that resulted in a couple falls was dealt with quickly, but I arrived to find him a smaller, frailer version than I'd last left him. He seemed to be doing well all day Friday, but a seizure maybe (these are not new to him, and something he is medicated for, but very infrequent with more than a decade since the last) resulted in some aspiration and lung issues that led to him being put on a ventilator, which thankfully due to low covid infections right now was readily available.  He's been in a holding pattern since, sedated and intubated. and the doctor seems optimistic, they will take him off and go back to trying to get him ready for some rehab and physical therapy  

On one hand, for all their hope, I am being cautious with mine. My mother was sick in greater or lesser degrees for months, and yet her death shocked me to the core since I really believed she would pull through.  The visuals on this one scare looks terrible, this small, frail man hooked to a machine that is currently breathing for him (though the settings according to the nurse s are lower and more just augmenting his own breathing).  I have prepared myself for the worst. Well, am trying to while still hoping for the best.  A friend said via text today that hope is a tricky thing--difficult to have and difficult not to have. 

Since he is currently under heavy sedation and not missing me, I headed back to the city to finish up some deadline writing projects, tend to the cats, and get some warmer clothes for going back later in the week when he will hopefully be back awake and kicking or at the very least awake. The day before things went south he had seemed really good, still very frail, but up using his laptop (well as much as shitty hospital wi-fi allowed), watching television, and drinking coffee. He was sleepy, but could have a conversation. By that night, he'd started having some problems that got worse.

In many ways, my dad is a very different person than my mother, with none of the overall health problems that plagued her in terms of heart disease and diabetes. He is also just mentally and emotionally stronger on the whole. Age will still sink its teeth in though. As will fear.  One of the reasons he wanted to avoid the doctor was he was certain he had cancer--which he did not.  On Friday, when the doctor came through, he asked, partly joking,. partly serious, "So I'm not going to die?" We all laughed.  Hours later, he came close to it. 

Tonight, the veil is supposedly thin, and I feel anxious that its so thin he could just slip through without a sound. Though I suppose any of us could. It's that weird time of year when the clocks will be changing and the trees bare and I want to crawl out of my skin. November is not my favorite month, never was-- and even less so the past few years since my mother's death at the beginning of it. Tonight, we are going to watch some horror movies and eat chocolate and appease the spirits. Hopefully they won't steal us in the night. 

Thursday, October 27, 2022

Tuesday, October 25, 2022

#31daysofhalloween | little apocalypse

Years ago, I had a book that didn't quite make it out before the press shuttered, fitting since it was about the end of the world and all (though we've had several apocalypses since.) I may at some point issue a bonus print version, but you can read it here, though:

Monday, October 24, 2022

#31daysofhalloween | overlook

As if anyone ever has to ask what my favorite horror movie is....

read it:

Saturday, October 22, 2022

#31daysofhalloween | licorice, laudanum


A couple year's back, I spent a springtime writing poems about Chicago's most famous serial killer and the Columbian Exposition World's Fair, which involved a lot of research and true crime reading. And while the project veered off in interesting directions not at all intended,  made a little e-zine for it, or you can read just a sampling over at Tupelo Quarterly, which also includes a brief process note...

Friday, October 21, 2022

#31daysofhalloween | the torturer's apprentice


This little collection will be soon going out of print with BLP, so get it while the show is still in town...

Wednesday, October 19, 2022

automagic coming soon....

Today, my proof copy of AUTOMAGIC arrived in the mail, which means I hope to spend the next couple days searching for ever-elusive typos and tweaking margins and getting it ready before I place an order for the first batch.  Every time, I am amazed at how beautiful and nice the quality is for the POD books, which have come a long way from the humble beginnings in the early aughts.  I am probably right when I say that a good number of trad publishes I've worked with also use POD instead of printings, thus the quality has improved overall in terms of cover gloss and interior papers.  I opted for cream this time as with ANIMAL, VEGETABLE, MONSTER though I went with the size I used for FEED, so it's an inch or so larger and tops out at 100 pages. I need to nudge over my title riding a little far to the right, but otherwise the cover is glorious both front and back. I had initially planned for a hardcover edition, but it does seem unnecessarily expensive per copy (which would raise the sales price higher), so I nixed those plans in favor of paperback. 

I am learning how much I revel each time in the process of bringing a book into the world with each step.  I usually compile the manuscripts a couple years in advance, so AUTOMAGIC has been waiting, mostly finished since the end of 2020, though I added in a new section, the bird artist, that I wrote last year in this longer version, as well as what remained of the unfinished unusual creatures series completed in  2021. The other stuff is older, beginning with work from as early as 2018.  This was prior to writing most of what went into FEED and AVM, but after finishing up SEX & VIOLENCE in late 2017. Unlike a couple of the others I did give BLP first dibs on, I knew I would probably issue this one on my own--it being an idiosyncratic little victorian dream of a book, largely since I had more timely and pressing projects with newer books like COLLAPSOLOGIES.

The past few months I have been picking at bits and pieces and revising some things, but mostly it was intact and only needed the final layout and adjustments and of course, the cover and promo graphics and trailers. The business of launching a book into the world of course being arduous even with a publisher behind you, let alone fending it alone. I've been more and less successful with past books depending on how much effort I put into them, with comparable sales to my trad published books so I know better now what works and what does not. Where to sink efforts and what is wasted time. 

I am finishing up a longer trailer this week and some graphics to promote the book and share some samples before I officially make it available on stay tuned...

#31daysofhalloween | another cautionary tale

This one is an older poem from my second book, IN THE BIRD MUSEUM, penned circa 2005, but one that has never gotten a recording and is a perfect accompaniment to spooky season.

Tuesday, October 18, 2022

#31daysofhalloween | mr. potter's cabinet of curiosities


read it here:

Monday, October 17, 2022

#31daysofhalloween | the summer house

"We went on for this like years til the child looked like any child.  Like any other life.  Play dates and fruit punch.  In the dark, we could pretend she was one of us, until she'd sigh or cough. A hundred drones escaping from between her lips."

Sunday, October 16, 2022

the red room, revisted

I've spent the last couple of nights rewatching (again) the brilliance that is The Haunting of Hill House and marvellng over how Jackson's work serves as a spark and a guide, but the series builds so much around it, sot of like the mask embedded in the tool shed in the second episode. The orginal source is there, and visible and recognizable, but so much else happens.  This is true of Blythe Manor as well, which touches on many of the same themes and horror tropes, but HH always has been my favorite for the family drama at its center, this wrought thing that holds so much in its web.--inherited trauma, mental illness, addiction, and also the supernatural, and a haunted structure that rivals the Overlook in its ingenuity and feeds on its residents.  And in fact some of the best moments are the dramatic ones that happen within the bones of the house. The conclusions and resolutions that have less to do with ghosts and more the personal dynamics. 

When you watch something for the third or fourth or fifth time, as I have with this, the scares are they lose some punch, but the dread and eerieness remain, the scene that is set. While the jump scares do not stop the heart, the feelings are deeper that they evoke..horrific is maybe the best word. Once you know what happens, the experience of a film or book or series changes. You start to notice structural parallels in characters and plotlines. I still say the bent-neck lade, who turned out to be the ghost of Nellie's future death haunting her since she was a child, is the most apt metaphor for depression I've seen. 

Structurally the series builds well, approaching each character's p-o-v and then merging them together before we get to that of Olivia, where the greatest mysteries lie. The penultimate episode, which is hers, is disjointed and jarring and yet also ties other, previous things together. I only wish there was more on the house and its inhabitants--the non-living, and wished that was where the subsequent seasons would go, though Blyth Manor was its own treat.

This week, I quickly watched The Midnight Club, which given both my Flanagan and Christopher Pike obsessions proved to be highly enjoyable, as thoughtful and wrought as last years Midnight Mass, it dealt nicely with mortality and death and was a good story and interweaving of Pike's works. But definitely not as chilling or scary as HH. Apparently,  the next project afoot is a Fall of the House of Usher series, which stops my little English major heart, so that will no doubt prove exciting. 

#31daysofhalloween | automagic teaser


Saturday, October 15, 2022

notes & things | 10/15/2022

Last night, I slipped outside to mail a package and was met with wind and the beginnings of rain and once again it was the sort of fall evenings, now when the leaves are trending toward yellow and brown and the air smells like fall, that are perfect and yet descending much faster than I'd like.  It's still light at 5pm, I tell myself, but know that in merely a month, that will steadily not be the case. Novembers are still unstable months, perhaps that will always be the case now and I will just have to adjust.

I've been locking down to writing business and press business and berry pie and coffee brewed in my new Smeg coffeemaker, which was way beyond my price range, but so pretty I bit the bullet and bought it--coffee being about one of the most important things on any given day--more important perhaps even than everyday electronics.  I've used a French press for 20-odd years, but get tired of reheating everything beyond the first cup. It's a little less strong a cup, but warmer is better than strong in this case and I think I just need to adjust a setting I haven't figured out or maybe use a darker roast. 

This week, I finished up and placed an order for the first galley of AUTOMAGIC, which according to an e-mail I got this morning, is winging its way toward me now via UPS.  I will give it a good, thorough proofing, make any adjustments needed, and make an order for the 1st batch, which at this rate, barring printing delays, will be in hand by Halloween and its official release date.  I have a couple more teasers, a longer trailer, and some promo graphics in the works I hope to finish this coming week. I am also thinking about what I want to do for this year's advent project, which of course, will be here sooner than we know. Already stores are pimping Christmas, though I always feel like it rushes fall and Halloween too swiftly out the door and then stays around much past its welcome. (Scraggly , dusty winter-worn decorations past January 10th or so feel extra depressing.)  

This week, I got a new covid booster, so spent a couple of days with a sore arm and just kind of worn out feeling, enough to move my scheduled shift at HD to Friday since I really just wanted to not think and write. My arm is a little red, though not as angry and swollen as last time. While I did see about halfsies on masks on my bus ride downtown and the rates are down in the city, I don't know what the next few months will bring in terms of new variants.  I am convinced nothing will ever again lockdown or slow down or stop because, ya know, capitalism, but I will continue to mask in risky situations. I am still eyeing case counts, though obviously only a fragment of the picture (home tests and lots of people with "colds" or "flu" in my internet circle that sound a hell of a lot like covid.) We might brave a movie tomorrow or later this week, hopefully, a non-crowded one--probably the newest Halloween. Now that I am making some money from my horror addiction, I feel better about blowing it on theater showings and streaming fees. 

It's crunch time for the real estate site so I am working on some non-Chicago neighborhoods to help speed the process for the relaunch of the site, so this week, was writing about Cincinnati, with a couple more Ohio spots on tap. Also deserted houses for HD and LA restaurants for Cozymeal (which will require some more ardent research than the past couple of pieces on Chicago date nights and gift card presentation ideas but I am up for it, great things to know if I ever make it to California myself..) 

#31daysofhalloween | plump


You can read the entirety here:

Friday, October 14, 2022

#31daysofhalloween | alternative facts


poem as phantom ship


Earlier this year, I wrote some fiction. I haven't returned to it full-heartedly since, being more focused on preparations for the new book and new poem projects and just general writing and editing work, but I am never completely happy with my short stories--mostly horror and erotica genre pieces. I feel like stories require certain things of me--logic, timeline, acceleration, denouement. Poems are like this moment, frozen,  which contain the entirety of a story or narrative in a limited amount of space. 

While a story goes somewhere, has a destination, no matter how long or convoluted, the poem is just its own world, even when placed alongside other poems to create a larger world.  I struggle sometimes when talking about projects or submitting work, which always feels like plucking a few strands out of a rug and offering them with little context. 

Or maybe the better analogy is that fiction is more like a river or stream that wanders but does intend on getting to an endpoint, or even having a beginning at all, whereas poetry is a like a lake or small pond or maybe even just a puddle that reflects the sky. 

When I was a kid, I wanted to write sprawling horror novels like the ones I hoarded--the Stephen King, John Saul, VC Andrews. I tried, but never got very far (well for one thing I was writing them longhand in a looseleaf binder.) Poetry, when it came to me, was a new mystery, in which things could be done in a smaller space, a smaller scale.  Instead of building the seascape out of sand and rock and boats, I could encompass everything in a single drop of water. 

And what are ghosts but moments, hauntings, memories the stories we tell about ourselves and others after they are gone. The ghost ship is just a ship alone on the ocean. It doesn't have a destination, or if it did, it has long since forgotten it. It just is.

Wednesday, October 12, 2022

#31daysofhalloween | exquisite damage

This little zine formed the backbone for my longer DARK COUNTRY book, but you can read it in its original form with the collages from my "Terrible Place" series...

Tuesday, October 11, 2022

#31daysofhalloween | /slash/


This little spooky print zine project came out in 2018, but since has been rendered freely and electronically here:

Monday, October 10, 2022

poet as shapeshifter

I've been thinking about voice, particularly since writing is so much of what I do now on a daily basis--not just the poems or blog, but writing for different websites with different needs and entirely different audiences.  There is the online lesson work, which is more formal and academic, with the Worthpoint dictionary entries being very similar, both in the research aspect and the tone. Then there is the entertainment writing, which is newsier in tone, with a little bit of editorializing, but less formal.  Then the real estate neighborhood guides, which make me sound a little like a tourist brochure. And then there is what I was describing as "lifestyle" voice, which uses words like :"cozy" and "gorgeous." This voice is, of course, what I use for House Digest, and also the blogs I've been writing for Cozymeal.  Somewhere in the middle of all these things is this space, this voice. Which is somewhere between more informal writing and poems or essays that are more creative.  The poems are somewhere way at the other end of the forest and require an entirely different kind of thinking and expression.

The one thing I feared, and the reason I perhaps avoided writing for income was the fear that the paid world would take all the words with nothing left for me.  In the end, I didn't care, honestly because the alternative, staying at the library, was worse than having the poems dry up. The poems, while nice, would not help me survive. Or pay the bills. Or get out of a terrible, stress-addled existence. The poems were, it sounds terrible to say, negotiable. Which of course, a horrible thing--to think of letting go of them, something rather important to my sense of self.  But I could if I had to if not doing so meant the alternative. And its not like I wouldn't be writing something.  

Thankfully, it was not even an issue, the brain I use to write for other things and the brain I use for poetry not even sharing the same planet sometimes let alone the same resources.  It might be different if I was a prose writer, just word counts alone would be problematic.  On a given day I write anywhere from 3000-5000 words of various things, not including here.  My poems are pretty short. The entire manuscript of AUTOMAGIC came in at less than a 10,000 words total and exactly 100 pages. And it was written over the course of several years on and off.

So tonight, I don my blogging hat. This after donning my editing and curating hat for a while tonight, which is maybe a whole other shape, but one that does not involve putting words to the page I am planning on editing and revising some of the pieces in a bit I've written recently in the project I do not yet have a tile for--the more personal, romantic oriented poems, which of course, require me  to be a different voice, a different shape, than the more narrative, story-driven work of AUTOMAGIC I was editing last week.

So, really, within even just poetry, we are many different creatures all at once. 

#31daysofhalloween | strangerie

These collages accompanied a series of poems that eventually were included in ANIMAL, VEGETABLE., MONSTER. To see them with their orginal text, visit:

Sunday, October 09, 2022

#31daysofhalloween | the bleeding hour


The only poem I've written in more than one voice was part of my 2005 ERRATA chapbook. It was written for a forms class in my MFA and I think the only time I've heard it read aloud was in that class. I've always been to do a whole book like this, but it might be a little much...

This was also one of the pieces that did not travel with much of the chap into my second book, IN THE BIRD MUSEUM, but you can read a pdf of the original project in its entirety here:

Friday, October 07, 2022

poetry as haunted house

"Nature is a haunted house--But art---is a house that tries to be haunted."

--Emily Dickinson

Today, I was writing a piece for Game Rant on a movie that's based on a real haunting experienced by the writer/director. When I made a mental note to check out more info on the actual haunting, I was startled by what I think was the thud a bird hitting the window in the living room, something that used to happen at my parents' house all the time, even downtown, but never here. I took this as an omen and decided to shelve the inclination for the moment. 

As I was putting the final touches on AUTOMAGIC last night, it is so fraught with ghosts...the fortune tellers in the strange victorian futurist landscape of the ordinary planet poems. The haunted sisters in unusual creatures. The Eleanor series and the more violent, sinister underpinnings of the bird artist and the HH Holmes stuff. More than any other recent book, this is a predominantly fictional, narrative world without much involvement from me. And at that, like GIRL SHOW, one set entirely in the past.  I, as a speaker, as a character, am absent from this book. But then again, not absent at all. It seemed fitting last night to be rounding things out as the wind howled and heavy, cold drops of rain hit the windows. I am running the space heater daily until they turn on the radiators, which management has dutifully promised this weekend. In this weather, I am sleeping well--too well--a dead-to-the-world slumber that makes my arms ache from remaining too much in the same position wound amidst my pillows (I am a side and stomach sleeper--never my back) I also have the same chronological impairment every change in seasons brings, never quite understanding internally what time it is--the light being so different from summer.

The film I was writing about combines child-loss related grief with supernatural horror and I remembered this sort of psychological-based horror is what I loved so much about The Haunting of Hill House--how you would be in this heavy, wrought, terribly sad scene and Flanagan would throw a scare at you that nearly made your heart stop. Bly Manor, in all its Henry James splendor,  was good and did some of this, but Hill House set a high bar. This is the best kind of horror, moodily shot, psychologically loaded terror. Its something I would love to translate into poems, but struggle with how.