Stuff

Notes from the Studio

2010-02-28T16:25:00.002-05:00

So...this is kinda what a studio session looks like (especially on days where there are more than 4 hours to put into it) and more to the point, this is what today's has been like.

1. Caffeine. Coffee is made, tea is made, mental checklist run through.

2. Restring what needs restringing, then break 'em in (I prefer that a)I not have to retune in the middle of a section and b)I prefer the slightly more rounded tone)

3. Tune up

4. Warm up

5. Review (though this has probably been going on the whole time). What song, what section, what instrument, what order.

6. Plug in.

7. Play.

8. Repeat.

9. Listen and/or drink coffee.

10. Tune.

11. Play.

12. Listen.

13. Repeat.

14. Play again.

15. Play again.

16. Curse mistakes.

17. Shift guitar strap.

19. Move patch cord

20. Listen.

21. Listen again/smoke cigarette.

22. Play.

23. Curse weight of Les Paul

24. Pull out hair while smoking cigarette.

24. Drink juice.

25. Listen and feel relief.

26. Rub shoulder.

27. Switch guitars for next piece.

28. Tune.

29. Plug in.

30. Repeat prior 26 steps.

31. Find comfortable spot to listen to final takes (ie, sofa, lounge chair, prone on floor-whatever works).

32. Break to eat.

Rules to remember:

Do not get distracted by hot bassist.

No noodling until engineer says it's safe

No plugging in or unplugging until engineer says it's safe.

Do get lost in a good riff going well.

Enjoy the dry take playback - if it's clean and sharp dry, it's gonna smoke when it's wet (for non-musicians: "dry" means sans effects, "wet" means with effects on).

Trust the engineer.

Trust your gut.

Trust your hands, your ears, your heart.

Do kiss the hot bassist when the moment allows.

Valentine's Day - An Excerpt from Red Light

2010-02-14T18:42:00.003-05:00

Red Light

by JD Glass

When I showed up for my ambulance rotation the next night and once again presented myself to the nurse's station, Carol and I were old friends.

"Hey, Scotty!" She waved as I neared.

"'lo, Carol," I waved back, "what's in store for me today?"

She gave me a big smile. "You're riding with Tigger and Trevor—the terrible twosome of the trauma trade." She said that last part in her best game-show voice.

"Okay," I drawled affably. This was going to be one hell of an adventure, I was sure—if I didn't screw it up.

Some of my anxiety must have reflected on my face, because Carol tapped my arm. "You'll be fine," she said, "and you'll be with two of the best guys on the road—you couldn't ride with better," she assured. "Come on, I'll take you outside to meet them."

All I could do was bob my head in agreement because here it came, the moment I'dreally been waiting for as I stepped across the same tiles I'd walked over the night before on my way to the ambulance bay.

Through the glass doors I could see the backs of two ambulances and four uniformed figures chatting in a corner.

"Oh, here," Carol said, stopping at the locker that was just inside the passageway, "give me your jacket," she told me as she unlocked the door and reached inside, "grab your wallet, and put this on instead."

She handed me the standard uniform jacket the hospital personnel wore, and I goggled at it as I did as she asked.

"Don't want you to stick out, do we?" she asked me, grinning as she adjusted my collar.

"Uh…I guess not?" I hazarded, still struck dumb. I patted my chest to make sure my wallet was in place, then readjusted my gear belt across my hips so I could reach everything: holster with tools on the right so I could grab them easily, pocket mask just behind my left hip. I shifted the jacket once more so it fell comfortably.

"Let's introduce you to the guys," Carol said, clapping me on the shoulder. We walked through the sliding door.

After meeting Tigger and Trevor, they took me through the "one hundred"—the check list of items the state required onboard, the items the city required, and the items the hospital required. This particular hospital was a "voluntary hospital"; they voluntarily linked to the 911 system by contract and agreement.

"Okay," Trevor said when they were done and had shown me where everything was, "let's get started. You get to sit in the jump seat." He grinned, pointing at the seat that faced the head of the stretcher.

They hopped into the front cab and Tigger started the engine. We pulled out slowly as the radio crackled to life.

"Five-five Eddy, what's your current status? Over."

Trevor grabbed the mic. "This is five-five Eddy, we are currently one hundred and enroute to our see-oh-are, over," he said crisply as we pulled out onto the main street.

"Redirect five-five Eddy. Respond to…" the voice continued, giving a street location and the reported patient condition, which Trevor wrote down as Tigger turned the rig around.

"Hold on back there!" he advised, then flipped the lights and sirens on.

My blood pounded in my head with excitement and nerves. Where were we going? What would we find when we got there? What was—

"Hey, Tigger?" I called from the back over the din of the siren.

"Yeah?"

"What's a see-oh-are?" I asked as we sped through the streets.

"C, O, R," he yelled over from the front, "stands for 'center of rove.' It's the actual cross street in the middle of the area we respond to."

"Oh. Thanks," I yelled back, adding that information to my mental file.

The first call was a fifteen-year-old male in a playground who'd at least severely twisted his ankle, if not broken it.

His friends clustered around him, and as I took the first set of vitals, Tigger quickly examined his leg and foot.

"That sneaker's got to come off," he said, shaking his head.

"I can't pull it off," the boy said, his words catching as he spoke. He had to be in pain, because the visible skin above the sneaker had already turned a reddish purple and was terribly swollen.

"I'm sorry, guy, but…" and Trevor put his hand on the boy's shoulder, "we've got to cut your sneaker."

"But…but…" he spluttered, and Tigger sent me to the back of the rig to pull out splints while they handled the distraught patient. Trevor not only insisted I apply them, which was very, very cool, but he also had me present the patient when we got to the ER.

Once we transferred the patient off our stretcher, we cleaned the mattress pad and set it up with new sheets. I learned very quickly that this was SOP (standard operating procedure) and would happen after just about every call.

The next thing we responded to was an MVA on a side street: a driver had run his car through a stop sign and T-boned another vehicle.

"This," Trevor yelled over the siren as we drove, "is what we refer to as an 'All-State' call."

"Why?" I yelled back.

"Because," Tigger chimed in, "it's all property damage—you'll see."

When we got there, the driver of one car spoke to the responding officer, gesticulating wildly as he tried to explain himself, while the other driver sat in his seat, hands fixed firmly to the wheel. He knew who he was, making him oriented to person—he was Guy Carlotti; he knew where he was, so he was oriented to place—he said he was up shit creek because this was his wife's new car; and time—he knew the date. This made him "Aye and Oh times three," which was what I wrote on the PCR.

Tigger took tension on his head, meaning he held it between his fingers and lifted slightly—just enough pull to lift a six pack of soda is what we were taught—and this would be enough to relieve pressure from the head to the spine in case of a neck injury.

Trevor had me fit him for a cervical collar, which I slipped into place around his neck, and on a three count, we shifted the patient as a single unit so we could place the short board behind him, then fastened him to it, at which point it was safe for Tigg to let go of his head. We had to maneuver a bit to get him onto the stretcher, and the cops helped us with that, because Mr. Carlotti was no lightweight.

Once inside the ambulance, and at Trevor's subtle insistence, I got to perform the entire examination drill: A, B, C, D, E. Although the patient's blood pressure was slightly elevated, the rest of his vitals were within normal ranges, and except for his statement that he felt "a pain in the neck" that he said would turn into "a pain in his wallet," the examination revealed no bruises, no bleeding, no broken bones, no signs of internal damage, and he was able to wiggle his fingers and toes.

Again, the guys had me present the patient in the hospital: we had a forty-year-old male who'd been in an MVA. He had a slightly elevated blood pressure, or BP, and was complaining of neck pain. He was aye and oh times three, his eyes were PEARL: pupils equally active and responsive to light, positive bilaterally for clear lung sounds, positive all four quads for nerve response, which meant he could wiggle his fingers and toes, and had no medical history to speak of. I may not have presented it in the right order to the attending doctor, but at least I presented all my findings and left absolutely nothing out.

After we transferred him from the stretcher to a bed and Trevor got someone to sign off on the paperwork, we set up the stretcher and picked up a new short board on the way out.

There was another MVA. The driver "RMAed"—refused medical assistance.

Two asthma attacks. Check vitals, check lung sounds, present paperwork, and set the stretcher.

A fifty-six-year-old male with chest pain, a history of CHF—congestive heart failure, with visible jugular venous distension bilaterally. A check of his vitals revealed a rapid pulse and elevated BP.

We administered oxygen, and for the first time, when I listened for lung sounds, I heard rales: the distinct sound of cellophane paper crinkling that meant fluid in the lungs. The patient also had pitting edema, which meant that his extremities were so swollen that when I pressed a fingertip to the skin, an indentation stayed there for several seconds or longer.

Needless to say, we took him rather quickly to the Emergency Room.

After that call, things quieted down a bit, and the guys drove to a Chinese food place off Bay Street where we picked up some food to go.

It was getting very close to the end of the shift. Tigger parked the rig on Edgewater, a large lot that faced the bay, and it was neat listening to them talk, while we ate fried rice and smelled the salt of the ocean as we leaned against the front of the vehicle.

The radio crackled. "Five-five Eddy, come in."

Trevor grabbed the mic as he hopped in the front, and I clambered through the side door and settled myself into the jump seat.

"Oh, man!" Tigger groused from the driver's seat as Trevor wrote down the address and we pulled out of the lot. "It's Danny again. The skell probably ODed to avoid getting busted."

"Can they do that?" I asked.

"Sure," Trevor chimed in, "while we can override on the scene to declare the medical emergency and go to the hospital, the cop can choose between continuing the arrest afterwards or letting it go as a medical—that's the cop's call."

"Saves 'em a lot of paperwork if they let it go," Tigger added.

When we got there, I had a feeling they were wrong about this being a medical override. Three patrol cars were there—one parked in front by the curb, another perpendicular to it, and another parked right on the lawn—and as we walked into the pile of sticks that was supposed to be a house we passed a living room where two cops held a skinny, unkempt man who constantly screamed, "You ain't taking my boy from me—you ain't! You ain't!"

Another officer stepped out from the hallway. "This way," he said, and beckoned us over, "the kid's Danny junior."

Suddenly, I was scared, scared that I wouldn't remember anything, that I didn't know enough, scared that whatever I saw would so throw me off balance that I'd vomit and forget everything, forget my job. I felt my head go light as the skin on my face tingled.

We entered the kitchen and stopped almost immediately. There, on the filthy, ripped linoleum that was covered in old food, dirt, and blood, lay the patient. Prone, head twisted to the side, a pediatric male approximately two, maybe two-and-a-half years old—the back of his head matted in blood and suspiciously flat either from the crib, or a fracture. A partially avulsed eye on the facing side. Multiple contusions over visible torso. Vomit all over the floor and a filthy Winnie the Pooh shirt. An incongruously fresh diaper.

His little lips gaped open and closed, open and closed, like a fish trying to breathe on land. I think my hands may have shook as I slipped my gloves out of my back pocket and over my fingers before I took another step and then…

It was all right there in my head, a litany of orders I followed, thought became action before I was fully conscious of it. I was the new man, so I set the regulator, then cracked the O₂ tank as Tigger passed me a pediatric non-rebreather air mask. I'd hold tension on his little head because with this kind of damage something in his neck had most likely been injured. Besides, I had the least experience, and this was something even the most rookie of medical personnel could do. I carefully cradled his skull in my fingertips to take the pressure off his spinal cord. Airway. A full minute count for respirations and I called the time and quality on them.

His breaths were irregular in quality, but he was breathing enough according to protocol, and we administered the maximum oxygen allowable.

Trevor soaked some sterile pads in saline, and Tigger produced a cup from somewhere and handed it to him. Trev first carefully covered the bulging eye with the soaked cotton, then with the cup, taping it firmly in place while Tigger oh-so-cautiously slipped a cervical collar around the little guy's neck. I spoke to Danny Junior the whole time, as did the guys. Every now and then I'd see the cops shuffle in and out of the room, or from the corner of my eye catch a pant leg shifting uncomfortably.

On the count of three we carefully turned and affixed Danny to a short board, still speaking to him, reassuring him that he was okay, that no one was going to hurt him. I watched Trevor's hands shake just the slightest bit as he secured the headrest to the board so I could take my hands away from Danny's head. Clear fluid slowly dripped out of one little ear.

A finger of ice stabbed at my sternum as I caught Trevor's eye. That fluid wasn't a good sign.

Tigger told the cops what hospital we were going to go to and radioed ahead to alert the crash team as we moved the patient to the ambulance, and just as we got inside, Danny's hands, which had been balled into little fists, went slowly limp.

Tigger drove like a man being chased by the devil itself as the sirens blared over our heads. In the less than two minutes it took us to get to the emergency room, Danny's blood pressure had skyrocketed, his pulse rate had dropped, meaning bradycardia had set in—and then he stopped breathing.

I used a modified jaw thrust and a pediatric Ambu-Bag to force air into his little lungs, and the protocol that we had been taught—that no one rides the rails of the stretcher into the ER, we're supposed to use a slow, step-by-step progression—got trampled underfoot when Tigger ripped the back door open and Trevor urged me tersely, "Ride it in—don't stop, don't stop!" as I stood at the top of the stretcher, feet balanced on the aluminum tube that created the base, stomach pressed into the mattress for balance.

The crash team met us as we sped through the doors, and it was Trace's hands that met mine and allowed me to stop artificial respirations so she could drop a tube down his throat. Blood frothed on Danny's lips, and in that second we lost his heartbeat.

The flatline buzzer screamed in my ears, and the next thing I knew, a pair of hands grabbed my shoulders and yanked me away.

My head jerked, a sharp steel snap of muscle, to see who it was. Carol. It was Carol. "Come on, Tori," she said very gently in my ear, "your shift is over."

"But…" I gestured to the stretcher that had to be made, the paperwork that lay neglected on it, "I've got to—"

Carol shook her head as she gently guided me back to the nurses' station. "You're done for the night—you're done with your rotations." She flipped deftly through the stack of paper behind the counter.

I was confused as I shucked my gloves, rolling one into the other to prevent contagion, and I dropped them into the nearest red bag. What the fuck? I had another two nights left. Had I really fucked it up so badly that they didn't want me back in the ER?

"What?" I asked, "I'm supposed to—"

Carol pulled a sheet of paper from the deck, wrote something quickly, then thrust it at me. "You pass, Scotty, you pass. Call me when you need a job."

I took it from her hands and folded it slowly as I gawked at her in disbelief. I was done? I passed? But what about the rest of my shift? What about Danny? I peered over my shoulder where the crash team had pulled the curtain and worked. The stretcher we'd brought the child in was gone, so were Tigger and Trevor.

I felt Carol's eyes on me. "It's okay," she said, and laid a hand on my shoulder. I met her eyes, cool and clear blue, which held intelligence and compassion. "Do you smoke?" she asked as she handed me my jacket.

"Uh, sometimes?" I answered, confused. I switched out of the jacket I'd been wearing. What did smoking have to do with anything?

Carol's hand traveled from my shoulder to pat my arm. "Why don't you go out by the bay, have a smoke, and I'll meet you in a minute?" She peered around my arm, behind me, where the crew still struggled behind the curtain to keep Danny alive. "It won't be long."

"Okay," I agreed, holding my jacket before me dumbly. I felt nothing. My brain didn't work. She could have told me to go do anything and I would have done it—I didn't even know how I breathed, just that it happened, air in, air out, an automatic response to signals sent by the lizard part of the brain, signals sent, received, and interpreted by nerves that I couldn't feel as I walked out the bay doors.

Several long boards rested against the wall, and a short board. The head rest was still affixed, I noted, and it was smeared with blood.

Tigger and Trevor had gone. They'd left a gaping space on the tarmac where the ambulance had been, and I don't know what I stared at as I finally lit a cigarette under the glare of the bay lights.

I felt her before I heard her.

"Carol said you'd be out here—would you like to get a cup of coffee with me?" Trace asked in a low throaty voice that held none of the past night's banter, but an evenness instead, an evenness I could understand.

I exhaled quietly, my gaze still focused on the parking lot lamp as I answered. "Sure." I tossed my cigarette to the cement and ground it under my boot. When I felt the light pressure of her fingers on my elbow, I didn't pull away, but I could feel my muscles automatically tense, as automatically as I breathed.

"Do you want to stay here, or should I pick you up when your shift is done?" I asked. My voice was strange, flat, a clipped sound in my ears as it floated out into the air.

Her fingers closed around my arm. "I'm off now. Let's go."

In my car, I followed Trace's directions, and instead of going to a café or a bar, I drove toward her place, a nice condo off the water along Father Capodanno Boulevard.

"Hey," I began, an urge growing in my chest that prompted me to speak, "do you mind if we stop at the beach on the way?"

"Why not?" she agreed, and patted my knee.

I tore my eyes from the road to glance at her. "Thanks." I grinned slightly and made the turn. Seconds later, I pulled into the parking lot, found a space close to sidewalk that led to the beach, then cut the engine. Trace hadn't moved her hand and I covered it with mine.

"Take a bit of a walk?" I asked. Her eyes seemed almost colorless in the darkness of my car, as the light that reached us from the lamps on the boardwalk cast the rest of her into deep shadow.

"I like to come here to think, too," she said softly, and she unlocked the door.

"Thanks," I said again, because I had no other words, and I eased out of the car and waited for her just at the edge of the walkway.

It was cold and the wind whipped about, kicking the sand up, and we hadn't even gotten onto the beach proper yet.

Trace smiled and we walked together under the boardwalk instead of over it, to the water, the water we could barely see as a black gleam on the horizon, but we could hear, a steady thud that grew as we waded through the sand.

I let her take my hand as we neared the hard-packed shoreline, and the slip of her fingers against my palm stopped me from walking, brought me back from some edge I hadn't even known I was approaching.

I closed my eyes and just took it all in—the sound of the waves as they pounded down, the smell of the salt in the air, the harsh whip of the wind as it lashed my hair against my skin. I could feel the heat of Trace's body as she closed the distance between us to stand next to me, her shoulder nearly level with mine.

The warmth appealed to me, called me, and I put my arm around her to give some of that back, to get more of it. She let go of my hand to ease her arm around my waist.

"I really appreciate this," I said into her ear so she could hear me over the wind and the waves.

Trace shifted in response, her lips brushing against the delicate skin behind my jaw. "These things…they're never easy," she said. Her mouth pressed into that spot, a blossom of heat in the cold that surrounded us. "Not the how, not the why, they're just not easy."

I understood that, in the same place that told my hands what to do, in the same way I understood my ABCs, but it was the part that told me how to breathe that put my other arm around her, that found her eyes and traded the salty scratch of the wind for the surprising baby softness of her lips.

Trace leaned into me and I was so raw, I was aching, I was starving, and when her tongue slid along the roof of my mouth I reached for her hips and pulled her to me urgently.

Her hands molded under my jacket and up my ribs, massaging along the muscles with a need that fired my blood. The heat that rose from my cunt threatened to take my head with it. Her leg slipped between my thighs and I needed more, more of everything.

"We can't do this here," I gasped, breaking away from that kiss that had brought me back to sanity.

Trace's fingertips dug into my arms as she scraped her teeth along the exposed column of my neck. "I'm less than four blocks away," she murmured into my jaw.

Although her place was less than a minute away, it took longer than that to get there because we tripped along the sand, kissing, biting, allowing the hard rake of fingers to slip from cloth to skin and back again, and when we were actually in the car I drove with her hand held tightly in mine.

I'm not sure how Trace managed to open the door, reaching behind her that way, but once we were inside and the door slammed shut, Trace slammed me against it with a kiss that rolled in my mouth like the ocean as the nerves tingled along the skin of my back where it had hit the hard surface.

My clit strained against my clothes when the hard tips of her nipples pushed against my chest and my tongue met hers to explore the cunt-like softness of her mouth. My fingers methodically undid the knot that held her scrub pants up so I could slip my hands beneath the thin cotton and cup the bony prominence of her hips. When her thigh slipped between mine, my hands drifted from her hips directly to her ass, and I gripped her firmly so I could ease her along the flexed muscle of my leg. Hers snugged up against me perfectly.

"Oh…" I groaned softly, grateful for the pressure on my clit, equally grateful for the jolt of Trace's body against mine, for the slight, steady shudder that ran through her frame as her hips rode my thigh.

"Want more," she breathed into my neck. I didn't know if it was a question or a request as her teeth again worried the muscle.

She straightened against me, grabbed my shirt, and led me to the couch, her scrubs falling along the way as I kicked off my boots and her hands relieved me of my holster. The clang of it as it struck the ground seemed to hang in the air, a thin metallic whine that rang into the dark. I ignored it as my pants followed and we fell onto her sofa, a tangle of legs and shirts and skin.

Trace sighed, a sound that wavered as my fingers quested along her stomach to find the prize I wanted and my lips marked her neck.

"Take what you want, baby," she urged when I finally held the slight rise of her breast bathed between my lips and the hardened peak between my teeth, "take what you need."

I stretched along her, above her, suspended. I watched the dark gleam of her eyes and I burned, I burned with a need, a hunger that threatened to turn my bones to ash.

I took her mouth as I took her body: a sharp sudden thrust into slick wet heat, a heat that seemed to meld with the burning of my bones when she tossed her head back.

"Yes…please," she moaned, and pushed frantically against me, on me, pushed so hard it had to hurt as she dug lines into my back, marking my spine as surely as I'd marked her neck. I could feel the skin split, the fluid rise and bubble behind her touch, and still I burned, we burned as her hands finished their trailblazing to grab my ass and she shoved her leg between mine, spreading me, anchoring me to her.

Burning. I was burning as my fingers filled her over and over, burning as my clit rode hard, even harder on the tendon of her thigh. Burning. There's the floor. Burning. Tiny limp hands. Burning. Little lips open and close, open and close until they stop, and then—

Trace grabbed my head and pulled me to her for a kiss that filled my mouth with blood and my blood with fire. She gave me no warning but the quickest glide of her fingers as they trailed down my ass to my thigh. She showed me the same mercy I showed her—none.

She filled my cunt completely.

I was the fire bleeding down the mountain, the liquid slip between her legs, the flame that took us both as she buried herself in me.

"Harder…" I urged, a harsh breath that scorched my throat as it flew out. And the burning…stopped.

Gotta get more? Grab your copy of Red Light here.

To Be and To Become

2010-01-31T20:11:00.003-05:00

So...

I was doing laundry today and letting the random flotsam & jetsam that drifts through my mind do its thing, when something occurred to me as I was folding the clothes:

the idea of human beings being "unique" because we are tool users, and the question of biology versus being.

Well, there are plenty of other living creatures that use tools: birds build nests for shelter, certain apes use twigs to remove insects from holes, there's a species of octopus that carries discarded coconut shell halves around to use as a portable hide-a-hole.

Somehow, in my mind, I thought about gender, identity, its construction, reconstruction, and assignment.

And I thought and thought...

Human beings are not born with shells - so we "discovered" caves, then learned to build homes. We're not born with fur, so we learned how to make clothes. We don't have wings, but we build planes. We cannot breathe underwater, we created submersibles, SCUBA, and submarines. We can't see at night, we can't sting our enemies, at least, not as part of our biological gifts, but we can don night vision goggles, shoot arrows, bombs, and bullets.

There's a section in TH White's "Once and Future King" (and yeah, I know, some people hate it, but I don't) about when God speaks to all the embryos/creatures created and asks them what they want. They ask for hands like spades and special teeth, and bills and gills and all such manner of things. But the human embryo asks to remain an embryo since that is its original design and in doing so, answers a riddle that the creatures didn't realize had been posed.

And it hit me, these questions and answers about who and how and why we are, in the ways we can change, the ways we don't, the things we argue about as right and wrong.

Our bodies...are NOT our destiny. Sure, there are things that are limited by biology, and so, we use a knife to cut meat, a shovel to dig, a rocket to reach the moon, a surgeon to fix a tear, change a face, or even a persona.

We are not merely tool users, we are tool innovators, constant Manifestors and Evolvers of Potential, individually and collectively.

It seems the more esoteric philosophers are patently and materially (as in real-world) correct: we dream, and we become, through years of trial and error, via shifts in perspective and in our every day actions.

All of it, these palpable touchable things, from medicine to machines - are the literal material manifestation of dreams. And none of these things - from the "minor" every day of clothes and shelter, to the "major miracles" of our current modernity - absolutely none of them emerge with us from the womb.

We are squeezed out bloody, helpless, and naked. We are given a body that follows a basic template. Some of what happens after that is dependent on our surrounding environment, but the rest? It is absolutely, positively, 100% up to us.

To be human is to be a modifier - and to build upon the accomplishments that precede. What do you want to be? Someone invented SCUBA and the submarine, Orville and Wilbur Wright gave us wings. A team of human beings brought us to the moon, gave us ears and eyes that penetrate deep into the night skies, discovered how to sculpt flesh.

We once wore skins, now we have designers. We lived in caves, now we have architects. We listened to the radio, now we exchange - sometimes "real time" - information via the internet.

We change our environment, from paint to temperature, to suit our needs, moods, and moments. We use machines to accomplish things that are biologically impossible - for humans. We consider none of this "unnatural" and in fact, consider those unable to do so deprived.

And so I concluded: you don't like your hair? You cut it, tint it, shape it, hide it. You can correct and color your eyes. You want to fly? Take a plane. Swim in reefs? Get the appropriate tools. And if you're a boy who wants to be a girl, or a girl who wants to be a boy...you fix that, too, in whatever way works for you.

Now I've got to walk the dog. Wonder what I'll think about next!

In the Blue Moon of the New Year

2010-01-10T20:03:00.002-05:00

...things have started off in an interesting way. I've been watching as one day at a time, things that seemed so remote a possibility as to be improbably have become actualities. It makes me think that yes, this is THAT year, the one where dreams and wishes so often and dearly longed for and perhaps even relegated "forgotten" can come true.

And so...I wonder. And I dream. And Hope, that tiny little niggle that drives us, that can take us to the edge of despair then drop us over, raises her head, proves she's hard to swallow and outlives even the worst of all possibilities.

On a professional level, there's a lot going on: I'm still in the studio cutting singles withThe Charm Alarm (and we're hoping to have a release for the early spring - yay!) and I'm literally in the thick of three new novel titles:

Tin Can Knights

I Am the Gun

The Gabriel

Work is also progressing (slowly but surely) on two graphic novel/comic titles: Sakura Gun and Three Dragons. Interestingly enough, there are also companion novels for these, so not including other sequels (and yes, for those waiting, they will be coming - one of the is in progress, another two are in the very early outlining process).

I've got a lot of work ahead of me, but it's all stuff I'm looking forward to.

On a personal level, I've made some amazing new friends, learned, grown, and have taken some very definitive steps in new and better directions. I am extremely lucky to have the family I do, and I've finally figured the trick of balancing my time - so I can spend more of it with them, as well as with all of you :-)

Amazing what can happen during a Blue Moon, no?

Rock on!

PS: For those in town, I'll be doing a reading/signing/q&a at Bluestockings bookstore in NYC, January 30th @ 7pm, along with Rachel Kramer Bussel and Cheri Crystal. I'm very much looking forward to seeing as many as can make it!

Behind the Curtain

2009-12-05T16:02:00.005-05:00

The last few weeks have been pretty hectic, not just for me, but probably for everyone. There's been holiday shopping & prepping, there's been severely ill family members, there's a deadline for writing and for recording.

Of course, there's also the not-invisible background that critical things in my actual life are being decided by people I've never met but have somehow ended up with the power to declare whether or not I'm entitled to the same rights as every other human being...ho hum.

That's why I don't watch tv ;-)

All these balls are being juggled somehow -- and with the exception of the recording, most things are proceeding a bit more slowly than I'd like (in the case of the political arena, much more slowly, but that's another story).

Anyhow, this is an open letter so to speak, to everyone who has emailed, facebooked, myspace messaged, and otherwise gotten in touch with me only to receive a shorter answer than usual: I'm sorry. There's a LOT going on -- most of it good, and all of it that's productive, I'm certain you'll enjoy in the near future.

In the meanwhile, I'd also like to thank Queers On the Verge for this:

http://queersotv.com/FVWweek2.html and for those that asked what's coming up, here's the list :-D:

1) January: Reading/Signing/Q&A @ Bluestockings with several other authors in (date to be announced super soon)

2) February: is my Birthday (and yes, I celebrate all month long :-D)

3) March: Interview w/ Q&A on blog-talk radio, interview in Curve Magazine and...release of the first single from The Charm Alarm's newest recording

4) April: Deadlines need to be met (and boy, do they!)

5) May: Gigs with The Charm Alarm, and a couple o' few reading/signing things

6) June: Yet another deadline, and the rest is to be planned...

I'm laughing at myself - there's so much more than that going on, but these are the things I can discuss at the moment. Maybe in another day or so, I'll have some sketches done during "down time" while recording to share with y'all. For now, here's a shot taken while I was paying attention to something else in the studio: http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?pid=4150832&id=148962983091

Hope everyone's having a wonderful December so far.

Rock on!

2009-11-20T17:46:00.002-05:00

It's funny, being a 'creative" person - generally speaking, people think you just "sit down and do it" - meaning, no effort, no sweat involved. Well, sometimes, there's sweat;, sometimes there's joy, and sometimes...there's a pencil sharpener.

Yes. A pencil sharpener. While working out (meaning layoing out the groundwork) for a new project, I pulled out my handy-dandy pencil, a sharpener, and an eraser (because there's a lot of foundation lines even in a sketch). I let my hands do what they needed to do, which is learn what I challnenged them to: some new poses, positions, styles. And...this is what they came up with: http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?pid=30857987&id=1069085664

Tomorrow will see me in the studio, in fact, the rest of this week will be a little cyber-quiet because I'll literally be in the studio with The Charm Alarm recording our new album, but I may get a little downtime here and there, and if I do, maybe there'll be some more sketches, maybe even some completed ones - to share. Happy Turkey Day to all those celebrating!!

Once Upon A Time...Part 2

2009-11-01T16:48:00.000-05:00

He was large where she was small, she was quick where he was deliberate. He was of Earth and Water, she was of Air and Fire and between them, they were both carried by and bore steel.

And so in the first few days, they reconnected and rediscovered one another, delighted to find that what they had enjoyed in the last budding of childhood had blossomed into something fine and beautiful, a true friendship that would have no compare.

In the many hours of the many days and nights they worked together, these Knights (for such they had become) saved lives, really and truly and on more than several occasions, each other's as well.

In the quiet times in between, in the desperate times during, and in the sorrow and rage that would inevitably follow after witnessing and being unable to truly aid in one of those many situations that prove that Evil, though usually hidden, does on occasion bare its face to all (and no, you may not ask, dear reader, for they were sworn to protect you from it and I have promised to do so as well), they healed each other, too.

Sometimes they spoke, sometimes they listened to music, and other times, they let the silent comfort of an unconditional and unbreakable Love fill the space between them as they sat in the front of their tin can, attempting to grasp the "why" of the unmentionable.

But it was not only the job they shared and spoke of; together they shed tears and blood, laughter and hope, for in their closeness, they spoke of and told each other everything (EVERY thing) and in that baring of primal self to one another, they knew in an unspoken way, that they were connected, and nothing on Earth, above it, below it, or within it, could ever change that. They had not only truly become Best Friends, they realized that they shared a soul.

Now, dear reader, I'm sure you are wondering why they were Best Friends and not something other, and the reason behind that is simple: not all soul mates are lovers (nor are they meant to be) and these two had already pledged their hearts to others: he to a woman who became the mother of his children, and she to a woman whose fire matched her own.

One day, during a silent moment in between calls, our two Knights had grabbed some pork fried rice (for they were very hungry after the last adventure!) and parked their tin can in an old parking lot that faced the bay. The island that held the Navel of the World sat before them, the bridge from their forgotten burg to the Holy Land of Brooklyn soared across their right.

They ignored their neighbor, another who sat in a similar tin can, for he was not a true Knight as ours measured them: he had just revealed that he took pictures of some of those difficult scenes - not to teach or to learn from - but to make ugly jokes of, and our heroes had just been made unhappily privy to both.

Both disturbed and uneasy that such a one as that was among their number, and so they sat in their ambulance and ate in grey silence, not even the radio on to disguise the occasional call of the gulls that wheeled before their windshield.

He was a Knight who served the Light and had knowledge of steel, for such had once been his trade. His thoughts turned in the quiet until finally he said aloud, "Wouldn't it be amazing if there was a sword that could never be handled by anyone that wasn't pure of heart?"

She was a Knight who served the Light and had knowledge of swords (for that was one of her past-times, despite the fact that both women and women with weapons are frowned upon). His words fired her imagination, stirred her knowledge of things esoteric as well as her memories of an amazing tale she had read (that had in part, set her on her path. It was titled Daggerspell and written by an amazing person named Katherine Kerr, should you be bold enough to begin that journey, brave reader) and she sat up from her slump and gazed at him.

"It would need something special, something magical, changed, charged, at its core," she told him and he agreed.

They stared at one another for a moment, excitement filling the air between them.

"I know what it should be!" he declared and a huge grin broke across his face. "I know how to make it!"

And he told her, and her delight grew and matched his. "I know who should wield it!" she answered.

She pulled out her pen and some scrap pieces of paper (napkins from the Chinese food). They talked hurriedly, she wrote frantically, for at any moment, the radio could and would go off, sending our Knights out into danger again.

But it was in that exact moment the seed for a new world was planted - and this is where the story really begins.

Once Upon A Time...Part 1

2009-10-31T11:09:00.000-04:00

...in the forgotten borough of a city that many considered the navel of the world, there lived a boy and a girl and in the way of boys and girls that they knew, they met in a comic book store and shared occasional afternoons discussing the delights of the worlds they found therein, enjoyed flights of art and fancy, and shared theories and opinion on various books they enjoyed.

And though they were not the best of friends (for the boy was a few years older than the girl and their circles ran a bit differently at the time) they were still quite fond of one another. Still, in the natural "way of things," they lost touch for a little while.

This was important and necessary, because the girl still had growing to do (being very young still) and the boy was first discovering his footing through the world as a man.

Because of this, and because it was the trade of his father, the boy (now a young man) became a steel worker, and this he did for several years. The girl still had to finish high school and begin college.

But our now young-man was unhappy working with steel, preferring to swing it instead, and the girl, who was now a young woman, had more interest in saving damsels (and others) in distress rather than becoming one.

Both had been very affected by those books they had read at such tender age (and this, dear reader, should warn you that what you read you may very well become, so be very careful of what you let into your mind).

They each pondered the problem and despite the separation of time and space (for how did one become a hero-knight in a land where heroes were considered a fairy-tale found only in the books they had read, and steel in public frowned upon) they each hit upon the same solution.

And so it came to pass that one fine chilly spring morning, the young woman would walk into an ambulance base for her first day at this particular location and be assigned as a partner to the young man who had been her friend.

Such was the beginning of the order of the Tin Can Knights (and the Brotherhood of Blood, but that is another story).

2009-10-25T17:50:00.001-04:00

So...I was watching a movie on cable a few months ago (yes, it's true - I very occasionally take a break) and I was so enamored with the art work, it inspired a complete story concept, new character, the whole nine.

Yesterday, I happened to watch the same movie again - and it hit me, I mean, really hard(!) what i wanted for the cover.

For those who've read Triskellion (part of the anthology Outsiders and available at BriskPress.com) you've briefly met Ren Toya (and if you've not met her yet, you're in for a good surprise).

This is her symbol - and the beginning of what will be her story.

3 Dragons

Toys In the Attic

2009-10-23T23:03:00.000-04:00

Spent the majority of today writing, and one of the things my character was focused on was a toy from childhood and that special toy, small and worthless as it is, is invaluable to her. It's a key to so much...

It made me think about that one thing, the one special thing, that I have from a time almost before I have memory.

It's a pair of boats, simple boats, made of wood. One's painted green, the other a mustard yellow.

Both were made by my Dad, one for me, one for my brother. The paint on the bottoms of both is mostly worn off, but not the our names written in indelible ink.

It was only about a year and a half ago that my brother and I looked at them very closely and discovered that if you look carefully under the paint on the smokestacks, you can see, stamped and stenciled in tiny letters, that my father named those boats after our Mom.

What's your special toy? What's that one thing that you have that's the key to that special place, days of endless summer or never-ending dreams?

Con Part XI

2009-09-04T07:25:00.001-04:00

Well...it was a long time ago. I'm grateful for family and friends that helped me find my way when I realized it was time, and more than, to leave the dark hole I'd been living in.

It was an effort, a tremendous one, to make myself eat, to still my hands and not seek to make the outside bleed like the inside did until finally, one day, it just didn't happen anymore.

And...I found my way, my path, a path that eventually took me so very far away from those days: I ate, I worked, I played, and on a day I didn't expect it, I fell in love. She was...is...the most amazing person I know, and as my mind swam forward through the years to the present, I understood, understood in ways I'd never had before, why.

"We were so good together," she said, almost a whisper into the breeze as it lightly blew the hair about her shoulders. "We could have had everything." We both watched as she twisted the ring that sat on her finger.

The soft chime in my pocket startled us both, and back to the present, I pulled my cell phone out. "Hey baby," I greeted softly. The tone that rang I'd programmed just for her. "How're you doing?"

"I'm fine, baby--I'm on my way. Where are you?"

I smiled. "That's not necessary, Tee--this thing ends in another hour or so, and I'll be home before you know it."

"Dork." She laughed, that light sound that I loved to hear and lifted my heart with it. "I'm already at the Center--I've met a dozen Jedi knights, several Stormtroopers and three Batmans, and I just passed the place you're supposed to be. Let me guess--you're outside smoking?"

"Not exactly," I chuckled, "just the one -- only half."

"Hey, I see you!" she said excitedly. "I'm right by the door."

"Don't come out, it's cold," I cautioned, "I'll come in to you." I could see her face through the glass not twenty feet away and I waved before I put my phone back in my pocket.

"No," I said finally to Beth, "we couldn't. But I do, now."

I walked away and left her there, not knowing or caring if she watched or followed and as I pulled the heavy glass door open, I felt it rush out and over me when Tee pulled me into her arms, a blanket that spoke of warmth and love. I was loved, I was loved...I was loved. And I loved just as much in return.

I breathed it in, the scent and feel of her, my life in my hands and held close against my body, my heart thudding against her chest as I nuzzled into her neck. "I'm so glad you're here," I murmured, then took her face gently within my hands and kissed her.

"Mmm...me, too," she agreed. "The lab called, just a little while ago," she added softly.

"Yeah?" I asked just as quietly and I felt my body go still. "What did they say?"

"They said," she began, then reached up the slightest bit to kiss my nose, "that we're both going to need to watch the stress levels, because we are." She leaned back to grin at me, the smile lighting her face even more.

"We 'are'?" I repeated dumbly, a smile breaking across my face to match the band of light that spanned my chest.

Tee nodded.

"We are!" I whispered, awed, and pulled her close to me again.

I felt rather than saw Beth walk by.

"Who is that?" Tee asked, staring at her back as she disappeared into the crowd.

"No one," I said, and kissed her fingers before I let them go to wrap my arm around her shoulders. "No one that matters."

Con Part X

2009-08-21T16:28:00.004-04:00

It wasn't the cold, and it wasn't the ringing in my head. It wasn't even the heavy sound of wind that rushed through my ears or the strange heaviness that filled me from the diaphragm down.

It was something simple: my hand. I couldn't move my hand and it was the near panic at losing that sort of control over something so very basic that set my heart to racing and my breath catching in my chest as I tried to sit up.

"Baby, take it easy," Beth's voice soothed, her hands pressed against my chest and as I looked over her head, I saw my brother, my brother whom I hadn't seen since just before Beth, I, we...

"Get your hands away from her - you've done enough."

It was an easy enough story to put together - we'd almost been side swiped on the left side by another vehicle and in an attempt to avoid the car in front of us, the rapid deceleration caused the car behind to slam into us which threw our vehicle into the right lane where we then hit another car, then flipped.

Noah had protected me from the drum case that had tumbled our way, but no one could have prevented my arm from breaking between my body and the second side impact.

And no one could have prevented the internal damaged wreaked by the sharp blow against my lower back.

I myself wasn't permantly injured but...I felt a very quiet sorrow that settled somewhere in my chest when I realized what it meant.

We never made it to the show - and while Noah had shattered an ankle, he could still play. The show would go on without me, I went home, an uneasy truce drawn between my brother and Beth, a heavy cloud over my head that didn't lift, even when ensconced in our bed with the whispered reassurances that the loss wasn't my fault, that in time we'd try again.

It wasn't that I didn't want to do that with her, for her - it was the thought of doing it again, the same way that made me want to scream defiance.

But I knew how emotionally fragile Beth was and for the time being, forebore from telling her that I'd be willing to do anything but that, not again. It had hurt not my body so much, though there had been that, too, but my mind. I was starting to think I still wasn't over the sheer shock of the whole thing.

I tried, in my own way, to suggest we do something slightly different, something not so...well, it didn't matter. Beth was convinced that it was beautiful, that it would be fine, and

I started to cut myself again in places that wouldn't be seen when Beth wasn't home, and once the cast was fully off, I stopped eating.

Con Part IX

2009-07-22T16:37:00.002-04:00

Those were perhaps the most perfect days, those few days, that Beth and I ever had, the wonderful, beautiful us I'd always known we could be.

The night before I left, for the first time, Beth cried, not for sorrow nor for rage, but for love, a love I could feel with every part of my being, when she came on me, in me, verbalized the wonder she felt when my body tightened and pulsed around her and when we finally slept, she still rest within me.

"I love you, JayJay," she whispered into my neck and held me close with gentle desperation, the same way she'd made love. "I love you and our baby."

The ride to Rhode Island passed in a blur of high spirits about the gig - and anxiety about the gig - but the four of us balanced each other well, and Noah was almost as careful as Beth in reminding me to drink enough water, eat another something or other.

Noah reached behind the bench in the double row van that held us and our equipment and when he turned back around with a bottle of water in hand, his eyes widened before he lunged forward to grab me and tuck me under him.

Then the world flipped on its back with a sharp, brilliant blasting howl...before it turned silent, warm, and black.

Con VIII

2009-07-22T16:35:00.001-04:00

"Aw, honey," he said after placing a warm arm across my shoulders and handing me a blue handkerchief of softened cotton to wipe my face with, "you gonna be okay - you just focus on you, on your melody, baby, breathe into your rhythm - you'll be alright, you'll find your way."

Somehow after talking with Noah, things did seemed to get better, I felt better and as we got closer and closer to the departure date, I cut myself less, ate more, started paying attention to Beth's attentions until one day, about three days before "D-Day" (she called it that because she wasn't thrilled about my going) I felt it, that sense, that knowing: Beth and I were going to have a baby.

For the first time, since I'd been officially told, even after having gone through the first few months, I knew it for myself: I was no longer simply "me," but for a little while, I was an "us;" me and this little thing that was growing under my skin, under my heart...a part of us both.

The how it happened...I couldn't think about, I couldn't let it bother me, because the expression on Beth's face and the way she held my hand as together we listened to that rapid little heart beat that filled the room through the speaker and watchted it, pulsing and alive on the monitor in black and white, made it all worthwhile.

Con VII

2009-06-28T12:24:00.001-04:00

It was Noah, Noah Jole, the saxophone player who noticed first.

Beth wanted to tell everyone, but I didn't and for the first time, as far as I could tell, she respected my wishes.

I also didn't want to see my parents or my older brother, didn't want to go out, didn't speak with any of our friends - I'd even stopped giving private lessons - something I'd been doing to earn my daily bread since I was sixteen, while the only reason I dragged myself to rehearsals was because I'd fought so hard to become a part of the jazz combo I now played with - and we were scheduled to go on tour in less than a month - not a large one, to be certain, but it was an important one: we would headline one of the stages at the Rhode Island Jazz fest, then go to Chicago for a BB King tribute.

I didn't understand it, my feelings, either. Beth was perfect, everything I'd always hoped, everything I knew she, no, we could be and more...we were a family...and my career had just taken a very positive turn.

Beth humored my moods and told me it was all a part of the process my body was undergoing and my gp - the one she'd picked - apparently agreed.

One late afternoon, after she'd dropped me off at the local concert stage we rehearsed at, Noah eyed me as he polished the brass of his instrument, the soft chamois rag a caress over the creature he loved to the exclusion of most of the world.

I sat on my stool and tuned my guitar, plucking at the nylon and silver strings, checking the intonation.

"When you due?" he asked me in a soft undertone.

I stared at him.

"C'mon, girl," he said, his voice teasing, rich, and low, "I've got three sisters, two daughters, and three grandbabies. You think I can't see you there, the baby marks all over you? And Beth," he said, and rolled his eyes, "isn't she just so proud? Fussin' over you like...she's..." he put his sax down on the stand and put a hand on my shoulder. "What's the matter, honey? Ain't you happy?"

And much to my horror, I realized the answer even as I tried not to shake my head.

No. I wasn't - not at all.

Con (Part VI)

2009-06-06T21:51:00.001-04:00

She was so excited, excited about a child whose hands would match ours, and she wondered aloud while she stroked and kissed my still-flat stomach about eye color, hair color, my mouth or her nose, my talent for music or hers for medicine.

While there were times I'd discuss it with her, the rest of it I felt strangely disconnected, from her, from my body, from the things happening within it.

I found myself contemplating sharp edges, wondering how far, how deep I'd have to cut, how long it would take to fall asleep, and I started experimenting - a slice here, another there, tortured, exquisite lines, designs even, on my forearms where no one could see.

It became my art, my release, proof that I was still alive, because I couldn't feel anything else except the tears and all I could hear whenever I etched another line was a voice from childhood: "You want a reason to cry? I'll give you a reason to cry."

Fuck that. I'd give it to myself.

Get Engaged!

2009-06-02T11:53:00.001-04:00

ALC Publishing, the only pubisher of lesbian-themed Japanese comics (called "Yuri Manga") recently launched our newest comc anthology, Yuri Monogatari 6, with 12 stories of lesbian life and live by artists and writers all over the world.
We know there are a lot of you who would like a copy of the book but, for one reason or another, cannot get it. Maybe you're in school and can't afford it, or maybe you live somewhere where shipping from Amazon makes it outrageously expensive.
So, we've developed this new Project special for you!
Here's how it works:
"Project Engage" is very simple. Use any and all social media you *already use* to promote YM6 and EARN a copy of YM6 for your efforts!
- Mention Yuri Monogatari 6 in a relevant Forum, Mailing List, Blog post, Twitter about it, or talk about it on your Facebook, MySpace, LiveJournal page, or any other form of social media *that you already use* with a link to either the ALC Page on the Yuricon Shop or Amazon and get *5* points.
- Embed the Yuri Monogatari 6 video trailer (see below) on the any of the social media *you already use,* and get *10* points.
- When you have earned *50* points, email us links to these posts, your age and your address at anilesbocon01 at hotmail dot com with the subject line "Project Engage Links" and we'll send you a copy of "YM6!"
It's that simple.
Here's the IMPORTANT GUIDELINES YOU MUST FOLLOW TO BE ELIGIBLE FOR A BOOK:
1) You MUST be 18 or over. There is no exception to this rule. Include your age in your email the first time. Don't make us chase after you for it.
2) You may not create dummy accounts/blogs or pages for this. If we check and you have no other posts on your blog, or no other posts on the Forum in question, your entry will not count AND you'll make us look bad, like we're spamming the world. So - please only use accounts on places that you already use regularly.
3) This project is meant to support and promote ALC and YM6. A link followed by a damnation of everything we are doing will not make you any friends. If you want to help us out, we're delighted. If you want us to die a fiery death, don't feel obliged to "help." :-) Lying and cheating to get a book is also not the point. This is to reward folks who *want* to do something concrete to help support us.
4) All links *must* be verifiable. We're willing to sign up for forums, or friend you, but if you stick them in a private area that no one but you can see, then that's kind of not the point. -_-;; Also, the point is to spread the word, so four links in one page still only count once.
5) Yes, previous posts, links and embeds count. If you already mentioned YM6 somewhere before today, that is absolutely, positively acceptable. Just collect *50* points worth and you've earned yourself a copy of YM6!
6) If you are not 18+, please feel free to share links and embeds, but at this time we cannot send you a book. However, your support is still very much appreciated and I want to thank you, so email those links and I'll send you an "I Love Yuri" postcard to show our thanks!
***
Here are the links to share:
YM6 Video Trailer Link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yli_kPSVkFs
YM6 Video Trailer Embed (use this code -or- if the video loads, click on the arrow icon on the bottom of the video next to the volume control and cut and paste the "embed" code to your blog/page:)
Yuri Monogatari 6 on Amazon: http://...com/bgnvut
Yuri Monogatari 6 on Yuricon Shop: http://...com/alcpub
***
Project Engage is open to anyone 18 or over. Feel free to get your friends involved. A few of you banding together *can* get a book to share - the point is to get the word out! :-)
If you have questions, please email anilesbocon01@hotmail.com. Thanks and here's to the success of Project Engage!

Con (Part V)

2009-05-24T22:59:00.000-04:00

There were things that changed immediately: how we ate, what we ate; Beth was meticulous and watchful of every single thing that went into my mouth even before the confirming blood-test ten days later.

She paced by the phone after that appointment, had been ready to drive back down to the lab to get the results herself when the phone rang and the voice at the other end told us what she already knew.

There were no more "lost weekends." With the exception of work for either one of us, I have to honestly say she devoted herself to me - and I felt horribly ill about ninety percent of the time and it wasn't simply the nausea and its accompanying joys- it was the horrible headaches as well.

For the first time during the entire time we'd been together, it was finally, finally, just us, just the two of us: no drinking, no strangers, none of the usual things that she always said needed, no crying jags or suicide attempts...

Beth was happy for once, really and truly happy, and things were almost like being eighteen again, vitamins and food - anything she could think of that would tempt me to eat.

She was loving, tender, she relished the changes in my body and was so very, very beautifully gentle when we loved...

But as wonderful as it was, I cried...almost every time.

Con (Part IV)

2009-05-17T11:17:00.002-04:00

It was a mistake to think that heaven was anything other than a figment of someone's imagination.

I'd gotten used to what I referred to as "lost weekends" with Beth - days where we were both free - she from work, and I from rehearsals and gigs - she cooked, we drank, we went out and came back and made mad, mad love to each other, with another, however, whatever.

There were days I didn't remember and didn't worry about, because as crazy as things could get, I was safe: I was with Beth.

Two, maybe three hazy days had gone by, and I finally got clear enough to know where I was: in one of our many favorite positions, with Beth between my legs as I lay on top of her, bodies pressed hard and moving fast, her hands firm on my ass and urging me on as we moved close, so close to that lightning edge that I didn't think anything of the hands that closed around my hips, the shift of the bed, and the heat of another impending upon me, but the hands felt wrong somehow, and the blunt edge that eased between us, the body that overlay mine was wrong, too.

She tore her mouth away from mine. "Don't hurt her, Louis," she warned as he entered me.

Stunned. I was stunned, that she'd pushed this, that she'd allowed it, and the weight of his body pinned me firmly between them even as I tried to move away.

"It's okay, JayJay, it's okay...shh," she soothed and cupped my face between her hands. "Look at me, baby."

I did, stared in stupefaction into those ice eyes, even as tears stung mine because despite her warning, he hurt, her brother hurt as he moved in me and my heart ached because this felt so very, very, wrong.

"Relax, honey, it's just Louis, a part of me, just like you're a part of me, just like our baby's gonna be."

I bit my lip against the tears that fell anyway.

"Oh baby, don't cry," she asked and drew my mouth to hers, delivered tender kisses. "Okay, honey? Okay? We're gonna make that baby together, in our bed, sweetheart, that's all we're doing. Do you love me?" she asked, her eyes searching mine.

I closed mine a moment anyway because despite the numbness that had grown in my body, my chest still ached, and I had to reach through the pain because I loved her, loved her with everything I was.

Finally, I nodded, unable to speak against the shock and the pain, lip still tight between my teeth.

"I love you, too, baby," she said and pulled my head down to her shoulder and held it there as I trembled against her. "Just feel me, baby," she whispered and shifted beneath me, "I'm right here with you. Louis - ease up a little - you're hurting her," she told him and he did, lightened his body off mine.

I hazed again as he came, shuddering within me, and I neither noticed nor cared when he left because as soon as I was free of him Beth rolled me onto my back, held me, kissed my tears, wrapped herself around me and whispered words of love until I fell asleep.

I ran a fever for two days, four days later, I bled, and on the sixth I threw up at the smell of milk.

Beth was thrilled.

Con Part III

2009-04-16T07:31:00.002-04:00

Everyone loved Beth: older, smarter, beautiful. Even my estranged parents were something resembling happy that I was with her.

By twenty I was her house-pet, bleeding with her because she'd wanted to die, loving her through the blood and the pain, watching, over and over again, as she got drunk, brought someone home, wanted to hold me while he fucked her, kiss her, comfort her, fuck her until she finally came, nails deep in my back, slammed desperately close to me, hot and slick and wet, all to prove I loved her, and I did, I did.

Beth was my life, my home, my world, everything to me, and I was everything she wanted me to be.

She brought me women, she picked out men, I even dated a few for her, because she loved to go out, have them watch while we made out, then go back home without them so she could suck me off.

And Beth...loved, loved to watch me with other women, loved to join in, but still, in the end, I came for her, with her, and she for me.

There was only one line I drew:

No matter how she teased, no matter how she begged, even once when she cried, the only time her tears didn't change my mind, I wouldn't sleep with any of the guys she brought home. I'd hold her, kiss her, anything else she wanted, but I didn't want them to touch me and they were as uncomfortable with me as I was with them. We touched her, but we kept a respectful distance from one another.

Until one day, she crossed that line, too.

Beth wanted kids, wanted them so much it was one of the things she cried about, because for various reasons, she couldn't have them. When I promised to have them for her, the smile she threw my way, the kiss she gave, the heart-filling touch in how we made love after that made me think this...was heaven.

Con (Part II)

2009-03-29T15:06:00.003-04:00

She stared at me. "That's...that's not what happened." Her voice was barely a whisper and her fingers fluttered, helpless,by her sides. "It's not what I meant."

My face was cold, but heat thrummed though me, forcing me forward. "Not what you meant?" I asked, incredulity warring with anger. "Beth, you had to call a fucking ambulance."

Somehow, impossibly, her eyes seemed even paler as did her skin and she shook her head. "It was...it was an accident, I swear to God."

The haze I'd felt earlier kicked back, a vicious buzz that now impelled me, my hands, my fingers curled around the cream and white lapels of the fashionable short trench coat she wore.

"Was it an accident that you fuckin' tripped me out, fucked me up, left me needing stitches? A fucking accident that happened almost three months after we broke up, I'd moved out?" The words came out an angry hiss, my eyes barely two inches from hers.

She blinked, flinched, under my hands, under the tone, and her face worked, tears in the corners of her eyes as I watched her struggle for control, something I knew because I'd known her so very fucking well. And then...the damn broke.

"You were mine, you were fucking mine, you didn't belong to her, with her," she said, her voice a harsh rasp. She covered my hands with hers, skin smooth as always, cool from the wind.

It was my turn to flinch, and I let go of her lapels, slipped my hands out from under hers. I stepped back again, I had to get away. Memories, no longer dull, sharpened by her voice, by her presence, flooded through me, as icy as the wind that had picked up off the river, of how much I'd been hers, of how it hadn't been enough.

At eighteen Beth fed me vitamins and pasta, cuddled me to her skin because she said I made her feel safe and loved, but except for the sensual, beautiful kisses, velvet soft touches of her body and mine, wouldn't touch me, because she said she was afraid she'd hurt me.

At nineteen, someone else--a beloved friend--had done what Beth had said she'd been afraid to, because she'd asked me to, because she wanted me to. It also infuriated her and since I lived one floor above her, two days later she came into my room with several bottles of wine, twined my body with hers and there we stayed for days following.

We matched, she said, we matched, and it was true, our hands were almost identical. I met her parents, her brother, her sister. When we made love that night, she wore my ring after. She came home with one for me the next afternoon.

Con (Part 1)

2009-03-21T22:22:00.003-04:00

I started cramping somewhere toward the late morning, hard and vicious, the sort that lets you know you're in for it, and it floated over that...that sense...I had, the edgy anticipation of something, or actually, someone, headed my way.

I hate that sense sometimes. I can go days, occasionally weeks, and if I'm lucky, a month almost two, before it hits me again, because when it does? I'm an edge-jangled mess, hyper-alert and twitchy.

That it came now, on top of pain that was four days early--an extremely unusual occurrence--left me gritting my teeth. This...was going to be ugly.

The nerves and the pain were beginning to fuzz me out and the effort to smile, to engage in animated conversation with strangers, the effort of separating mind from the aching throb that begged me to curl up somewhere dark to puke in peace, was surely eating away at the last of my reserves.

A slight lull in the crowd gave me my chance, and I excused myself from the table. I slipped between people and bags, costumes and weapons, the haze between my eyes flowing down my neck, my chest, until I reached the door, the patio of the convention center that overlooked the river.

There were perhaps half a dozen people--mostly in pairs--scattered about the large deck and I found a comfortable spot to lean against the concrete railing, lit myself a cigarette, and let the pain and the edge drift away with the smoke as I watched it.

I was clear and alert, the cramp settled to a warm, mindful discomfort in my belly. A name, a face, drifted through my mind and as the muscles seized--a twist that forced me to shift my legs, compensate with my stance--in the resigned way you know that whatever comes next, you'll still be wrong and have to correct it, I knew she was near.

"JayJay."

Her voice was the same: husky, low, and it sent that spike of resignation through my spine.

"Beth."

I didn't turn around, because she did what I knew she would: lean along the railing next to me.

"I heard you'd be here," she said as her sleeved arm rested next to mine and my peripheral vision caught her staring out over the water next to me.

I couldn't stand the thought of my back so vulnerable to her and I shifted again--pain be damned--and the leather of my jacket rubbed up against the concrete, guarding me.

"Wasn't a big secret," I answered. That was very true; it had been announced on websites and boards, even a couple of stores and a few emails. And then, there was always word of mouth...and there were always plenty of those.

"Hometown girl making it big, everyone whose known you knows," she said.

The afternoon sun shone down on her and reflected back up into her face from the water that shimmered below. Ice blue, winter sky blue, almost colorless eyes stared down at the river and the ice that lined its edges. Grey hadn't taken over her hair yet, a few thick streaks here and there were strung among coal-black waves, waves that still flowed just past her shoulders.

"Are you bleeding?" she asked quietly, turning those eyes, and those soft, soft lips, to me.

"Huh. Around you? Probably," I answered as flippantly as I could.

"You look like you're in pain," she said in the same quiet voice, and she reached automatically, the way she had almost a lifetime ago, to touch me, to reach that spot that would ease the muscles.

I caught her hands half way, gently pushed them back. "Again...around you? Definitely," I told her as I let go.

She stared at me, those ice eyes on mine, and for a brief moment, I wondered what she saw, what my eyes looked like to her. I knew than when I was at any emotional extreme, the outer ring turned a bright emerald green, but when I was hazy, or as both my mother and my beloved partner had told me, half awake and furious, they shone an amber gold. I wondered what she saw--the green or the gold?

Beth nodded. "I deserve that."

"You do, Beth. You do," I agreed.

I tossed my cigarette over the railing--it had lost its appeal--and shoved a hand into my pocket as I edged away.

"Can we talk?" she asked as I took my first step.

I hesitated. The last time we'd spoken, she'd issued an invitation, an invitation to her wedding that I didn't attend. Eight years. Eight years since I'd seen her to that invitation, eight years to this day on the patio.

She edged closer. "We haven't spoken in a long time, not alone." Her face was somber, sad, her eyes fixed on mine.

I glanced around the patio. The chill of the air off the water must have gotten to those who'd been outside, because with the exception of one lone smoker stationed about thirty feet away, she was right: we were alone.

"We haven't spoken alone since..." I let it hang, because the memory was dull, but the pain wasn't, another knife through my gut that made me want to retch.

"Since I hurt you," she supplied. She took another step closer.

"No, Beth. No," I corrected, stepping back with a shake of my head. "You didn't hurt me--you raped me."

Sober - A Fragment

2009-03-15T18:22:00.001-04:00

(consider this a...prologue...to the story that will follow)

It had been several years. I hadn't thought, spoke, not even dreamed, not a thing about her [I'm off you, baby, my blood's mine now] and it was good, so good to be clean.

Then...at the wedding of a mutual friend:

"C'mon, baby, you know how I feel - felt - about you."

[No, I never really did]

"You must have been pretty stupid, then."

[Yep, that was me, pretty and stupid: a landscaped vacant lot she'd driven around in dusty circles]

She caught my chin in her hands, fingertips a sensual cage as her lips drew closer. "I loved you. I still love you. Stupid."

She kissed the corner of my mouth, gently, softly, not quite the kiss she used to give. After all, things were different...now.

"I still wear your ring." She showed me. She wore it now on the other hand, in the position of friendship, and I watched as she switched it over, to the position that swore love.

[I'd forgotten about that. Forgot how I'd had it custom designed, the first real piece of jewelry I'd ever bought myself, the only piece since. Forgot how I was so drunk on wine and you, so wanted to see you smile, that I gave it to you, a piece of me, like all the others I gave. You gave me yours, an exchange, our left hands, the ring, the one that symbolizes friendship, loyalty, love, union, marriage. Your lips were full of wine and your tongue drenched in honey when you swore we'd always, always, be beautiful together. I didn't know then that lies were sweet]

She hugged me tightly then kissed my neck in that perfect, perfect spot she knew so well, the spot that always guaranteed my "yes" - or at least my "maybe." Then she begged me to come to her wedding.

To him. His initials were mine, his name similar, too. I promised I would - and didn't - my own would be three weeks later.

And now? That too was years ago, and since... There are days when my blood runs thick and dirty.

Creation

2009-03-14T21:45:00.000-04:00

Let the music...

let the words flow out

hot...fat...wet

Through my veins

to my hands

from my hands

to the pen

from the pen

to the page

words to you

in black

and blue

words for you

who couldn't read them

when

they

were

red

Tap...tap

2009-03-14T20:57:00.000-04:00

Okay, so I'm gonna try this blogging thing. Post a few thoughts, bits of stories, songs, poetry...the flotsam and jetsam that sooner or later become concrete works.

I figure I'll have something new about once a week. Hope ya like it.