Patchwork

This was one of those days made up of many seemingly unrelated segments, with no connecting thread and no plan really. Well, there was a plan. Nearly all my days start with a sort of plan, usually made the previous night and often jotted down somewhere and left where I'll be sure to find it, i.e. by the coffee. But sometimes plans need to be put aside. I like what Ray Bradbury said once to a group of young writers. He said you have to just keep writing and sending work out. You have to stop worrying about whether what you want to happen will or won't happen and just wait to see what does happen.
So I spent the early morning packing rats that on Monday, will head out in all directions to people who will be happy to see them.
At the park while Orion played on the slides, I struck up a conversation with a woman who sat down on the grass with me. We started talking about kids, then genetics (she's a student) and finally, depression. An hour later, she was marveling at how she'd been able to tell me, a stranger, so many things she hadn't been able to say to anyone. I imagine all she'd really needed was someone willing to sit and listen and not be embarrassed when she cried.
We stopped to get Orion something to eat. I took a chance and let him have his applesauce cup in the car. He's pretty good with it at home. I counted on him spilling a spoonful or two. He immediately spilled the entire cup in his lap. We were on our way home anyway. I reassured him, saying "It's okay. We'll clean it up." and "It's not your fault." To which he replied,"I know, Mommy. It's your fault," and began spooning it off his pants and into his mouth.

I've resumed work on a book project that has lain dormant for far too long. (Also my fault) It's a collection of stories written for images of various pieces of art, some pieces Neil wrote previously and some new ones by David Niall Wilson. It's to be more or less an art book. Cemetary Dance will be putting it all together. I'm sure they'll do a lovely job. It's me that got stuck. The Gaiman pieces are very short and the David Wilson pieces much longer and several of them are so removed from my concept of what I imagined the art was about that I've had a difficult time reconciling the mix into any sort of whole. But the stories are good and I think I'm very close to a way to pull it together.
I must. Because I said I would and because I'll need to move on soon to Tiny Stories. I'm very much looking forward to that one. We've received stories from all around the world.

I've chosen my armature for the house piece. I've settled upon an unsightly old floor lamp that I didn't throw out because I thought that one day I might make something out of it. It has a very heavy base, which is an asset for armature. The other asset is that I won't have to weld anything or screw anything together, which will sort of make up for the time I lost during my hospital adventure. Tomorrow my daughter Alison is coming to spend the day. She says she's had a cold and needs some babying and some of mom's homemade soup. She says she's bringing her pillow. So tomorrow I'll get up and put some soup on and make tea and she and I will toss ideas around.

G'night

Grim Ratter in 2D

Fun with Grim Ratter... I'm making a special gift tag for this rat, complete with a very cool poem by Really Rather Not Nice.
I'm going to make something for outside next week after most of the Grim Rats are shipped to their new pets.
I've narrowed it down to two choices and have decided to wait until the day of to decide. I'll let my sense of the day guide me.

October 18

The Grim Ratter

*****


October 18 is the day my father died. October 18 is the day my nephew was born. I love them both. Really, October 18 is just a date.

*****


Darkness and Light

The thunderstorms raged on through the night. Once again, Orion snuggled against me. He’d fallen asleep as we counted between flashes and roars. We were awakened just after midnight by a booming louder than those we dreamt through, then the shaking started. It was the second earthquake of the night, only a 4.6, but nearby. Earthquakes in the middle of thunderstorms were a bit over the top, even for a weather witch like me.
But today, the desert is like a jewel. Every wet surface is a bright piece of sky. We’re driving home from school, after a stop at McDonalds. Orion munches on fries and I’ve just worked a little piece of burger from between my teeth, wondering if it’s actually digestible. Beak likely. Snout. I’d wanted a salad, but they refused to give me one without chicken in it, unless I bought a burger too…
No matter. I’m driving over Gene Autry toward the mountains. Zero 7 reminds me once again how I once loved jazz. It’s sixty eight degrees. All the windows are open and my hair blows all about. The air smells like cool water…
I’m taken back to another time, driving in my MGB with the top down, listening to Charlie Mingus and oh so high. Back then I was sure the only time I was sane was when I was high. Back then it was probably true. But not now. My lab coat would be folded in the seat beside me, held down by a couple of heavy text books. There’d been a small body in the morgue this morning. Dr. Bill had warned me. But I was young with the taste of Fearless in my mouth. Death was for strangers on metal tables in green tiled rooms. Even my grandmother was still tooling about. Then here she was. Slight shoulders, delicate seven-year-old hands. A fall, the file said. We’d see. Bluish double slashes like elongated vampire bites fell randomly across the arms and shoulders, one set marred a pale cheek.
“I think, electrical cord,” said Dr. Bill.
“I think I quit.” I said.

Some things never go away. We live with those things, or live in them.

The desert is like a jewel. Zero 7 didn’t exist when I spent hours in green tiled rooms. That was another life. Almost somebody else. I’m driving toward home. It’s sixty eight degrees. All the windows are open and my hair blows all about. The air smells like cool water. I breathe it in, soak it up.
I feel well and lovely in a light that bathes everything in beauty. This is nice, but I’ll be glad to be home. It’ll be dark soon.

GRIM RATTER IS HERE (Tell your friends)



Summer has left us in the usual way.

Yesterday morning we sat outside in the near dark with our cereal bowls, watching jagged horizontal lightning crisscross the sky over the mountains and hearing the distant booming, getting louder, coming closer.
Last night we lay in bed listening, Orion too. No matter how we position ourselves, he tends to orient himself in a most inconvenient perpendicular manner. Summer was leaving. It began to sound as though he were pulling up the mountains to take with him. Or simply pounding them into the ground. It was glorious, just at the edge of frightfully loud, with the flashing and the booming and the rain splashing into the pool like stones. For me, thunderstorms are very like homemade vanilla ice cream. I wouldn't eat it every day, but when I do, it's my undisputed favorite.
So long summer.

So today the desert is wet and dripping and shiny with clouds of many shades moving fast overhead. Tomorrow will feel just a little more like a world where Halloween could happen.

I'm still recovering, feeling better, but not moving at my usual light speed. More like the speed of paint drying. But moving, nevertheless. Large rodents may still appear, after all.

Today is the deadline for entries TINY STORIES. However, as I just had a brush with our friend Grim and Podrasky just had a son, we might be convinced to accept last minute entries.
I'll talk with Bob in a few days and let you know what's up, er, as soon as I know.

I just heard a bit of thunder, not too close. Promises, promises. Puddles everywhere for little boys to splash in and dangerous old cats to avoid.

G'night

Back from the Edge, Grim in tow...

Lisa is Better
Lisa is Back
And
The Madness Continues…


I’d like to introduce you to my new friend, Grim Ratter. He’s smart and witty with a winning personality!
Okay, he’s smart and feels terribly misunderstood. But he does have a dry sense of humor. After all, it’s a tough gig he’s got there. He enjoys discussions with the Neil Gaiman Rat and sneaking up behind the Easter Bunny Rats, tapping them ever so lightly with his tiny skeletal paws…


He’d like to come hang out with your rats too. Or on your desk or bookshelf. His classic robes never go out of style actually, so he looks great anywhere, anytime.

I want to thank you all for the tremendous response to the September Rat Madness, so will extend the sale to include Grim Ratter too.

$15 and $5 for shipping RATBAG
(Now, thanks to Ravyn, with New Improved Paypal buttons!)

But only until Halloween. If you want to have him with you by Halloween, you should place an order before Oct 25.

Or, as always, you may mail to the SlaughterHouse address:
4741 E. Palm Canyon Drive PMB C-115
Palm Springs CA 92264

Thanks and Happy Ratting.

Ahhh… It’s good to be back.

It's the little things...

Back in that "other life" I mention occasionally one of the projects I worked on involved looking for pyrogens in sterile surgical kits. A pyrogen is defined as any substance that causes a rise in body temperature. In our project, we searched for pieces of viruses. Right. Fragments. We found some too. It's awfully hard to kill something that is, or is not , technically alive in the first place. Harder still when the something does what it does even when broken into tiny shards of itself... Such a little thing, even beneath the eye of an electron microscope.

I had these flashbacks to the laboratory as I lay on the floor of our shower stall on Monday evening. I also remembered Orion feeling sick on Friday. The poor tot woke so miserable he couldn't sit still. He toddled blindly about until he threw up. Then the fever came, but the next day he was better. Just a little droopy. Was that Tuesday?? I was feeling pretty confused and someone kept calling me, interrupting. "No" I kept answering.

It was Pete, trying to get me up. I was lying half in and half out of the shower and still in my clothes. I couldn't quite remember getting there. But I remembered several hours of being very ill. Now I'd lost the use of my arms and legs. Friday. Three day incubation period. Oh boy. A mighty(comparatively) human engine, practically shut down by a little thing only micron-sized.
I'll spare you the details, but will say it was Pete's lifeguard training that recognized I was in shock. Moments later I was hearing a paramedic say "pupils are fixed and dilated."
Wow. Just like TV. Are they talking about me? I think so, cause this really, really hurts.

Yesterday was all sleep, all day. I heard people moving around. Orion sat on the bed with me for a bit, fascinated by the hospital band still on my arm, spelling out Spiderman, Orion, and Cookie, on my laptop. I half watched all four episodes of "Surface". Meh . More FireFly, please.

And today, I'm sore all over and fuzzy and it all seems like a very bad dream. No doubt the bill will snap things into reality.

I'm still too fuzzy to put it all into perspective, but it occurred to me as I lay on the hospital bed with my morphine drip, that going to a modern hospital for help is a very high privilege. Many people go through this exact agony with no comfort and no relief but death. Many of those are children. Many are suffering through similar experiences as I sit and type this, more as you sit and read it.

We've got to change our evil ways, baby....

If everybody would help just a little.

Bank of America is introducing a new savings plan whereas people can opt to "round up" purchases with their check cards. The extra bit goes straight into a savings account. I don't know the details yet, but it sounds like a good idea at first glance.

Isn't it possible that something similar could be done for other purposes? Like helping provide clean water? Or food? Or education? Are people too lazy and self indulgent to lift a finger and select the "round up for ____ relief" button? I don't think so. I hope not.

Such a little thing. Spare change. Baaaaaahh. Americans as a whole, are lazy. Too lazy even to save money for their own futures. The secret, as with Bank of America's new savings program, is to make it effortless. My problem with this approach is the same I have with bribing children. Everything shouldn't be so easy. But in this case, does the end justify the means?

I'm wondering how to approach retailers with this? Some of you must have better heads for business than I. What do you think? It might be a good opportunity for someone in marketing to redeem themselves from the special hell reserved for people in marketing.

I know, I'm a dreamer...a somewhat angry one. But then, I used to dream about being an artist.
Now I'm an artist and I dream about using the art to do something meaningful.

We are not safe. We live in a false security. My experience on Friday would have been quite different had it been shared by hundreds, or thousands. We'd better wake up, we little puppets. We'd better raise our heads, we little sheep. We may not be able to make sweeping changes alone, but little things matter. Little things we do can change things. For better or worse.

And, if we're not careful, it's those little things that'll get us whist we sleep.

G'night

Darkness, and Light

I was, as everyone, stunned and dismayed at the news of the earthquake in Southeast Asia. and I’m sure, like others, cried as I read the stories. I always have an awareness of suffering, stupidity and injustice. Those never go away. I counter that frustration by giving as much as I can to causes I believe in, by speaking out when I can, and by teaching my children to be responsible people. It’s these big disasters that can trip us up though, leave us feeling helpless, pointless, and scared. After all, we think, I’m powerless to do anything, what I do means little at a time like this and if it happened there, it could happen here, to me and the people I love.
We cannot afford to think like this. Thinking like this is what puppets do. We are not puppets. On the other hand, we can’t ignore what happens around us.. Ignoring is what sheep do. We are not sheep. So, what then?
I don’t know, honestly. But I don’t enjoy feeling helpless, or miserable, or pointless. I’m pretty sure that feeling that way doesn’t do anything to help. So, I’m thinking I’ll not live in fear, but will be as prepared as I can be and for everything else, I’ll appreciate what I’ve got and do what I can for others.

Which reminds me, speaking of appreciation, if I haven’t thanked you lately for stopping in and adding your thoughts, thanks. You guys are very cool indeed.


The rats have left the building. Thank, you, thank you very much. All the little rats are on their ways to wherever they were supposed to go.

Ben handled the sale just fine, after all. He went to Hawaii.

Now I turn a bit of attention to the yard rat. Thanks for your comments! Okay then. We shall have a rat building day. I’ll let you know exactly when. I was originally going to build something temporary for this Halloween thing. You know, a Grim Reaper made of black trash bags or something like that. But…I have this dream.
I’ve had this dream for a long time, but now (sheesh) it’s time to promote it to Plan. I want to createthe kind of place that will sort of embarrass my children but will enchant theirs. We’re already headed in that direction, but I’m thinking big , as I usually do… a place that looks ordinary enough outside but where inside, kids just walk around with their mouths open saying ‘wow”. And “can I live here?” Okay, adults too. Maybe it’s a silly dream, but it’s mine and I’m sticking to it.
So I’ll make a creature that will last. It’s a start.

We had our niece, who is five, over this weekend. She’s moving miles away very soon, and we will miss her terribly. I’m always so grateful when they let her come on Saturdays. I’m always thinking when she’s picked up, that she might not get to come back. I’m sure that if I’m ever lucky enough to have grandkids, I’ll be even ‘worse’ with them, if that’s possible. Pete’s family is nice. They are tolerant of me and what I do, and appreciate the hard work I put into it, but are (whispered) not like us. Honestly I’ll never understand how Pete came to be, well, Pete. When Orion visits them, he comes home just as he was before the visit. When kids visit here, they tend to go home a bit dirty, full of all sorts of stories and ideas and likely as not, dressed as Batman.

So, yes, it’s a silly dream. But it’s mine and, in a hard world, it’s what I can do.

Orion_spidey 

Wisdom of a Spidey-Tot

This is the first time I’ve been in town for Halloween in some years, and the first ever for decorating here.
The real problem, you see, with creating something Halloween in my front yard, is the yard.
It’s similar to the obstacle I must overcome each time I make a sculpture, i.e., I must create an entity that can hold its own in surroundings I can’t control.
When I create a painting, I can fill the negative spaces with whatever I want. If it’s going to be a scary image, the corners and farther regions can be shadowy spaces. I need go no further; the viewers will equip those shadows with horrors that live in their own minds. Or, I can surround my figure with solid black, taking it completely out of this reality and placing it in a void where anything is possible---including the figure.

So, back to my front yard. That difficult canvas. There’s not a gnarled old tree, bare
branches reaching like blackened fingers into the darkening…..
No, nothing like that. Hell, there’s not even a tree with leaves, except the orange tree. And, sheesh, how much more cheerful can you get than an orange tree??
It’s damned depressing.
There are eleven palm trees. I use the term “trees” loosely here, you understand, as a palm tree is merely an overgrown type of grass. Ours don’t even produce coconuts or dates, only date beetles, which look suspiciously like big flying cockroaches to me. And, once a year, flesh colored little worms that get in and seem to materialize on the ceiling.
So, there are eleven palm trees, an orange tree, a ring of small olive trees, a cedar fence on one side, a wall on the other, bright blue skies, mountains and happy, happy just mocking my black October soul.

The answer to the problem is, I believe, to go with the surreal.

It’s the only way, I think, to work with what’s there. Right now, in my head, I see a pack of giant rats. Right. Short trip after all the rat, rat, ratty, rat work I’ve done for the past few weeks. But really, a pack of rats, one exploring the mailbox, one on the roof, one digging in the trashcan and another climbing the fence… Looks good---ain’t happening. Not this year. Not that much time.
But I can get it started. I could make one big monster, probably the one for the mailbox. Our carrier is such a grouch. He’ll just love that.
Hmmm. So much other work to be done. Do I dare take a couple of days off to make a yard rat?
Orion is enjoying a Halloween costume on a not-Halloween day. There seems to be some connection here….but what?


Oh yeah…he’s wearing the Spiderman getup for the fun of it.

What was I thinking? I somehow forgot about doing things for the fun of it.

There you go. Problem solved. Just like that. Cup of coffee, started writing and figured it out. Hmm, I think this is how I meant this journal to work in the first place. Thanks, guys! I’ll keep you posted along the way. Would you be interested in watching wire and paper become a giant rat?

G’night

People tend to send me rubber rats. I generally like that. Ravyn sent me this one, which is more plastic than rubber, but that she painted herself with designs that look like the work she does with henna. I think it's likely the most elegant rubber rat I've ever received.

I'm deciding what to make for the front yard this Halloween. I was actually thinking to make a very large Grim Reaper, but actually may make a ridiculously large rodent-ish ....thing.

I finished up more boxes of Rats today. Yesterday rats went to the UK, to France, to Canada and to Chile. Cool.

Little Death, Part II conclusion

Here is part II of "Little Death". Please forgive typos. I don't dare proof an old story. That would only lead to a bout of editing...

Thanks for the poem RRNN! And Carl V---hope 24 hours wasn't too long.

Again, Happy October. Hope you enjoy the rest of "Little Death" We're going for a walk now, looking for bats....and such.

Little Death, Part II

The boy stared, expressionless, past the old man, not seeing him.

Halloween is for the dead. Heart thumping, Jacob backed out of the doorway and stepped quickly past sepia portraits of long-dead relatives. Happy Halloween. He hurried, panting and wild-eyed down the stairs. Jacob Rabold had unintentionally stepped out of his spectator’s box and re-entered the game.
“Have to …get…some air,” he said, wheezing. He grabbed a sweater from the rack and jerked the front door open to the blinding gold light of late afternoon. He staggered to the rocking chair on the porch and plopped down, breathing raggedly. After a while, he quieted, gazing down the darkening street. A bit later, he began to rock, the chair creaking rhythmically.

If you call Death, Death will answer.

At six o’clock the streetlights flickered on. By seven, Jacob knew that something was coming.

“Okay, Dad, Jimmy is all ready. Don’t let him eat too much candy,” Leslie said, pulling on gloves to match her cat costume, complete with tiny ears and painted whiskers, “The emergency numbers are on the fridge. Treats are in the basket outside the front door.”

Steve wore a long black cape, red vest and plastic fangs. Leslie had colored in a fake widow’s peak. It emphasized Steve’s receding hairline in a way that gave Jacob a touch of satisfaction despite his trepidation. Jimmy looked exactly as he had this morning, but was different somehow, distant in the vague way only children can be. Jacob studied his grandson as though he’d materialized from nowhere. This was the boy who’d drawn Death in crayon.

“Happy Halloween,” Jacob said hollowly. His daughter stopped plucking at her hair and looked at him, puzzled.

The doorbell chimed.

“Well, who could that be?”, she asked, her eyes lingering on her father’s face as she opened the door.

There stood Death, in miniature, framed by the porch columns.

Leslie’s jaw dropped, but she recovered quickly. “Of course! You must be Markie from next door! What a terribly clever costume. I’ve got to get your picture!” She laughed, digging for the disposable camera in her purse. Much later, a very changed Leslie would wake, wandering the dark house in search of that camera, rummaging blindly through drawers and cabinets until Steve, water glass and medication in hand, would find her and lead her back to bed.

For now though, her mind’s defenses were in place. They could still shape the inexplicable into the acceptable. She ignored her gut feeling that something is wrong, and bent to the little hooded figure, “Going Trick or Treat with Jimmy and Grampa?”

It nodded once and held up a plastic pail just like Jimmy’s. In its other hand was a plastic scythe.

Jacob saw the caller quite differently. This wasn’t the little boy from next door.

“I’ll…I’ll be right back,” he said, “I uh, it’s colder than I’d thought.” No one noticed, in the glare of the porch light, the waxy sheen of his face, or his trembling hands. For the third time today, his heart was racing and his gut felt full of worms. For the third time in decades, Jacob was afraid.

“R-right back,” he repeated, not blinking until he reached the stairs. He climbed them fast, grasping the handrail. He was unsettled but resigned and, oddly, excited. He felt …alive, with Death so near.

He reached his room and unlocked his desk drawer to reveal a familiar envelope. The notarized will he’d prepared for this moment. Only, the moment wasn’t like anything he might have expected. Was he truly ready?

He laughed aloud, then started at the unfamiliar sound.

“Death comes as a child,” marveled the old man who had no time for children. He laid the will neatly on his bed. It left everything, his savings and stock portfolio, his books, journals and mementos, to Jimmy. There was nothing left to do.

Laughter and happy conversation drifted up to him. He supposed the others weren’t meant to recognize Death, at least, not tonight. Jacob brushed a finger over his wife’s photo.

“Well, old girl, here I come!” He pulled his favorite jacket on in front of the mirror and offered himself a trembling half-smile.

“You’ve never been a coward, Jacob Rabold,” he said to the mirror, “don’t start now. He closed the door behind him.

“Where’d you disappear to, Dad?” Leslie asked.

“Went to get my jacket,” said Jacob, his eyes scanning the room.

“The boys are ready to go.”

“Well, so am I,” said Jacob, giving his daughter, to her astonishment, a peck on the cheek. He put his hands on her shoulders and said, “You’re a pretty thing, still.”
Leslie raised her eyebrows and giggled nervously, her eyes searching her father’s face.

“Must be the full moon,” She said, hugging him. “We’re all a little weird tonight. Happy Halloween!”

Jacob stepped out into the night. He saw Death and the Ewok under the streetlight swinging their pails and laughing. He fought off a momentary instinct to flee.

There’s no tomorrow.

There’s no tomorrow!

A sudden gust of cold wind washed over Jacob’s face. It left a sense of freedom so clear and bright he was drunk with it.

“Let’s go!” he said.

The trio set out down the street, marched over the rise and disappeared around the corner. Two hours later they plunked down, breathless and laughing, onto the front porch steps. Their feet were cold and their pails filled with all sorts of candies. Jacob’s throat was raw from laughing and hooting in wonderfully cold air that smelled of chimney smoke and pine. His newfound sense of wonder had conquered his fears. He was intoxicated and energized.

“This was the best day EVER, Gram-puh!” cried Jimmy, throwing his arms around the old man’s neck.

Indeed, it had been wonderful. Jacob had been Scrooge, on Christmas morning, greeting everyone they met, surprising the neighborhood with his cheer. He had skipped, danced, swung his grandson about, told corny jokes, marveled at the stars, gobbled sweets…

Like there was no tomorrow, Jacob thought. Because, there wasn’t.

It was all done. Jacob’s life played out before him. It had been a visitor that stayed too long and wore out its welcome. But now, oh now, in parting, Jacob admired its finer traits, loved its ironies, forgave its regrets. Hindsight sharpened his vision. Awe and humility softened his soul. Life had mostly been good, hadn’t it? He envisioned Emma, waiting for him in a pool of light. Emma.

“Time?” he mouthed silently at the small, dark figure, suddenly still.

“Yes, it is, “ said Death, in its child’s voice, “ready?”

“Yes,” said Jacob and Jimmy.

Jacob looked at his grandson, thinking only that he must tell Jimmy how much he loves him before he goes. He froze because, at that moment, Death reached up and pulled its hood back. Jacob stared into an angelic face with eyes of a shade that never existed, that could only be described as silent. A gentle voice said, “Good-bye, Jacob, for now.”

“Wha…?” Jacob gasped. The wind had picked up again. It howled through the trees. “But…I thought..WAIT!”

“Jacob, I have not come for you,” said Death, robes swirling about the voice. Jimmy pulled off his mask and smiled at Jacob. Bits of sugar clung to the corners of his mouth. The mask fell to the steps and the boy dropped lifeless into his grandfather’s arms.

Jacob looked up, his face slack with shock.

“…but, I will,” said a whisper on the wind.

The branches rustled above the empty street. The stars twinkled. And under the autumn moon, in the gentle fall of the last leaves, Jacob Rabold cradled the small, still body of his grandson. He pressed his lips to the boy’s forehead, and began to sob.


End

Happy October and Little Death, Part I

October is here, though the desert is cloudless today. We can tell it's autumn though, because instead of swimming, Orion and I sit with our feet in the pool and wait for the bats to come out every evening. It's no subsitute for crunchy leaves and crisp breezes, but it's what we have.

I'm still ratting it up for a few more days. Thanks so much for all the orders!

I thought I'd bring in October by sharing with you a story I wrote for a Desert Post Weekly project couple of years ago. It's a good way to slip into the season, as the desert does, with just a hint of a breeze. By the end of the month, things will be very different.

Here's the first half of "Little Death":

Jacob opened his eyes. The stain on his bedroom ceiling swam into focus, familiar as his own reflection. He identified sounds from downstairs; a television, the vacuum cleaner, Leslie calling that hateful cat, “Miss – seee ---spiz-spiz-spiz-spiz,” like air leaking from a wet hose. Damned irritating.
What was that smell? He wondered. Cake? No, cookies, baking in the oven. Jacob sighed, remembering. Oh, damn it t’hell. It’s f’ing Halloween. Leslie would be in a festive fever. His daughter attacked every occasion with a veritable arsenal of phoof and garnish. There would be racket all day; pumpkins carved, pies baked, Steve teetering like Wile-E-Coyote on that rickety ladder hanging bed-sheet ghosts and paper spiders. Then, after dark, stupid parties and Trick or Treat.

Halloween is for the dead. Another sigh escaped, chased by a wide yawn. Jacob stretched his bony arms up over his head and dropped them onto the bed, then turned to address the photo of his late wife on the bedside table. “Emma, why the Sam Hill am I still here and not you? You loved this Halloween crap.” He sat up, eased his feet into his slippers, then planted his hands on his knees and unfolded like a rusty jackknife.

“Trick or Treat,” he grumbled, shuffling into his bathroom.

He twisted the hot tap and watched the hand in the mirror rub still icy water over the grizzled face staring back at him.

In his mind’s ear he could hear Tom saying, “You’re a bitter old coot, Jacob Rabold.” Tom had been Jacob’s neighbor for thirty years and had called him a bitter old coot for at least twenty of them.

“Screw you, Tom, “ said Jacob in his gruff morning voice. He spat in the sink and splashed more water over his face.

“Dried up old fools, all of us,” muttered the face in the mirror.

Jacob swished his razor in the now hot water filling the basin. Bingo, he thought, bake sales, time-killers for the dead-in-waiting. And now, that damned old Nora in a crossing guard uniform!

“Ha!” he said aloud, lathering his scant beard, “…looks like a wrinkled shirt on a bent old hanger, she does.”

All of them. All of us. Skeletons waiting to be let out of our skins. We old farts are nothing but spectators. Just ghosts, watching the living.

“That’s right, Tom, old boy. I’m bitter,” he said, rubbing a towel over his face, “I’ve had enough!”

If he had the guts, Jacob would end it today. Right now. It wouldn’t be so hard. Not for the first time, he reached out and pulled at the edge of the mirror. With a soft click, it swung open to reveal neatly sorted pharmaceuticals---sufficient for a variety of tidy deaths.

But…Emma. He clicked the door shut. Damn that woman—she’d made him give his word. She’d known that he would hate growing old—would hate it so much he’d rather be dead. So she’d made him make that promise. Emma had believed in fate. Emma had believed in souls.

But, I could do it, he thought, buttoning his shirt.

I could, he thought, buckling his belt.

“I could,” he said quietly. He reached toward the medicine cabinet once again, then froze. A cold thrill of dread buzzed in his gut. Hairs rose on the back of his neck…Sometimes, Death taps us on the shoulder… The room seemed too bright. Jacob gripped the sink.

“Emma?”, he whispered softly into the still air.

“GRAM-PUH!!”

Reality fell like a curtain. Jimmy, small even for a boy of seven, was peering intently at his grandfather. He wore his Halloween costume over his pajamas.

“What are you supposed to be?” Jacob said hoarsely, still shaken, “A bear?”

“I’m an Ewok!” Jimmy proclaimed, suddenly kinetic, jumping and twirling about. “Ewok, Ewok!!” He giggled. “Mommy says come down to breakfast.”

Jimmy reached up and grasped his grandfather’s cool, brittle fingers. Jacob looked about nervously. Guilt, he reasoned, playing tricks on me. He wondered why he might feel especially guilty about his suicidal musings today. He shrugged it off and followed his teddy-bear grandson downstairs, but not without a glance back over his shoulder. A fire burned in the den’s fireplace. Outside, the wind plucked at a few stubborn leaves. The rest carpeted the lawn. Dead, dry, brittle. Across the street, old Tom Greeson raked contentedly. Fool, Jacob thought. With a grimace, he lowered himself into his worn club chair and clicked to CNN.

Leslie breezed in, smelling of cinnamon. “Breakfast, Dad,” she kissed the top of his head.

“I’ll take mine in here,” he said.

“Come and eat with us, Dad,” Leslie tried again.

“I’ll take my tray, thank you,” he said to the television. He sensed she was no longer behind his chair, but added anyway, “and plenty of salt.”

“Trick or Treat!” Jimmy was suddenly there, crouched at Jacob’s knee.

“Now, what?” Jacob grumbled.

“Mommy says we’ll need sweaters,” Jimmy said.

Jacob groaned inwardly, thinking of the coming evening. He’d spend an hour or more trudging up and down the neighborhood streets, standing in the cold air with his aching knuckles shoved deep in his pockets, watching Jimmy scamper to each door. The neighbors would gush over the boy, with courteous nods to the old man who used to be Jacob Rabold. Jimmy would yelp in delight each time some tidbit plunked into his pail, or the moon poked through the clouds, or the wind swirled the leaves. Jimmy was overjoyed by every detail of his world. Wait a few years, boy, ‘till you see what a tawdry sham it all is…

“Jimmy, come have breakfast,” Leslie called from the kitchen.

Steve walked in, wiping his hands. “Morning, Dad.”

“Humph,” Jacob grunted without a glance at his son-in-law.

With a single graceful movement, Jimmy stood and put his small hand on Jacob’s knee. He looked solemnly into his grandfather’s eyes for a long moment, then scampered toward the kitchen.

Jacob was unnerved. Why would the boy look at him that way? The medicine cabinet loomed. He swiped his handkerchief over his face as if to erase the memory.
Jacob had never paid much attention to his grandson. Back when he had a career, before his health failed him, he never had time for children. Now he lacked the patience. These days kids (and most adults) were warned off by his bitter demeanor. But not Jimmy. No matter how gruff his grandfather looked or sounded, Jimmy sought out his company.
Jacob stared at the television. Youth is wasted on the young. First we don’t know our butts from holes in the ground, then we’re dragged around by our loins like idiots. Just biology, telling us to make more stinking humans. By the time we figure out a thing or two we’re falling apart. No wonder old people are pissed off.

The fire crackled and the TV voices blended with the sounds from the kitchen. But Jacob wasn’t lulled. Something was stirred up inside him.

Halloween is for the dead.

His unease grew. He flipped channels and paced at the window, glancing over his shoulder now and then. He wandered about the house until he came to Jimmy’s room. The boy sat cross-legged on the floor, his back to the door, speaking earnestly to an assembly of plastic dinosaurs. An aquarium bubbled in the corner. The room was a startling explosion of stuff. As Jacob’s austere room reflected his own dry outlook, this room was a mirror of the boy. It overflowed with souvenirs of his adventures.
Planes, planets and a pterodactyl hung on wires from the ceiling. Movie posters papered the walls. The desk was buried under a globe, a glowing computer monitor, an ant farm and stacks of books. Roller skates, award ribbons, and a baseball glove hung from a rack. Rocks and shells lined the windowsills and more books crammed the shelves. Jacob blinked. There, among the papers pinned to Jimmy’s cork board was a drawing that grabbed and held Jacob’s eye. Two simple figures held hands. The taller figure had a straight slash for a mouth and dots for eyes, outlined in red rectangles—Jacob’s glasses. The little figure’s face was deliberately obscured by black crayon strokes. It held something in its other hand. A flag? Jacob leaned closer. No, a scythe. Again, the prickling chill, the vertigo. He tore his eyes away to look at his grandson who, no longer busy at his dinosaurs, sat very, very still.

***************

Rats

Honestly I've not done much more than paint and pack and send rats to lots of people. As Neil posted the "Rat Sale" on his journal, we received many, many more orders than we'd expected and are very happy to have each and every one! We have money for materials, I'm enjoying the great satisfaction of sending some support to the CBLDF, and more people have rats in their houses. Yay! Everybody wins. I've also met some really nice, very cool people. One such is Amity Brown, who took her Neil Rat to a signing last week in Texas and was nice enough to write to tell me that Neil was delighted to see the little fellow, and to send photos.


She's posted more here: http://www.frozen-o.com/~mollyblack/neilgaiman/neilgaiman.html

Anyway, I hope to have all the ratties done by the end of the weekend so that I'll be starting the "scary something' as October begins. Hopefully, this will help bring the Halloween spirit to us here in the desert. I'll certainly keep you posted as we experience October, our favorite time of the year.

You Are Here

The photo (below) is a small portion of a work in progress called, well, "You Are Here". It is actually going to be a desk with a glass top suspended over approximately 650 puppet figures looking upward and the one lone one looking at the graffiti on the ground. I'll give you the full story when I post photos of the finished piece. I still have the legs to finish, after doing my duty to the rats...

This house has been struck with a bug that brings fever and headache, mostly, then after about 24 hours leaves one feeling spongy and disoriented. It's like time traveling, without the time travel. Yay.
I think the worst thing about being sick is that I don't feel like doing much else, so I end up watching lots of news, which is enough to make me sick, even when I'm well.

Ben and I have just finished the most complex mold we've ever made. It is of the hanging jester from "Luck Be Nimble, Love Be Quick" , which belongs to Neil, who will be glad to know the original is perfectly fine. There are lots of pictures of the original in the journal if you care to search for them.

Off to sleep now, or at least rest. So to be back later, with more stuff.

g'night

You Are Here... 

Strange Geometries, Ray Bradbury and Evolution

I’ve been waking before dawn, for reasons unknown, to lie there in the darkness and think about all sorts of things. Often, if I forget to check myself, I begin to worry about things I have no control over. This morning seemed no different. The sheets were cool, the ceiling fan was running at helicopter speed, the room was mostly shadows and outlines. I lay there and decided I was going to stop being an artist.
It was an unexpected decision, and a surprisingly unemotional one. I decided I was tired of it. I’d finish up my commitments and start something new. Get a grant, go back to school. I felt calm, almost numb.
Then I woke up. The sheets were cool, the ceiling fan was running at helicopter speed, the room was mostly shadows and outlines.
And, this was the second time in two weeks I’d had this dream.

It doesn’t make sense to me, this particular dream, because in my waking hours I believe I’m just beginning to understand what kinds of images I want to create, just now perfecting the skills I need to make them, and have no intentions of quitting art. I’ve had intense, vividly detailed dreams since I can remember. Some so frightening I wake gasping, some so heartbreaking, I wake sobbing, and some so lucid I can affect them from within, or wake myself, or cry out to be awakened.


There have been a number of recurring themes in my dreaming life, but the one at the top of my long-term list is that of strange geometries. I have explored impossible spaces, entered all manner of structures that were larger inside than out, held tiny cubes between my fingers that I could climb into and turn inside out, walked on ceilings, cared for creatures that were one minute protected in my palm and the next surrounding me. Often I wake with tatters of understanding, a nagging illusion that some answer is lurking in my periphery, winking out of sight as my room comes into focus.

Like many others, I believe the next step in humanity’s evolution could well be one of perception. This is what fuels my constant expedition. The hard part is the documentation. One, upon exploring the mind, can collect strange artifacts. It’s hard to know what is valuable and what is not. The best approach is to keep good notes, without conjecture and hope that something might be gleaned eventually.

I really haven’t wanted to talk about evolution, because there is so much to say and so many who can say it better, but DAMN. It is massively disturbing that there are many people who can’t make the short leap from acknowledging heredity to acknowledging the evolutionary process. I met someone who rejects the concept of evolution yet owns a pure-bred Persian cat. As in a cat with artificially selected genetic traits. There are so few dots to connect, but she can’t let herself draw the picture.
There are so many things wrong with these scenarios. But one that stands out urgently is that we must protect the freedom of our teachers to teach this subject. And, we have to take responsibility for our educations, and that of our children.

That said, I hope you saw The Daily Show’s Evolution Schmevolution week. If not, find someone who taped or T-Vo’d it. It’s “like orange juice”. It’s ”good for you”.

Ray Bradbury is much on my mind today. Would you consider yourself to have done a good deed if you introduced Fahrenheit 451 to someone unfamiliar with the work? Have you thought about freedom of speech today? Remember those bumper stickers “Have you Hugged your Kid Today?” How about we come up with a new one? “Have you Defended Your Kid’s Education Today?”
Lots of you guys are writers. What have you got?

Strange geometries, Ray Bradbury and the Theory of Evolution. Now there’s some dreaming matter. I’m thinking, if I wake at five in the morning, I’ll get out of bed and take a brisk walk.

G’night

The guys: Poe, Ellison, Lovecraft, Gaiman--for some reason Blogger would not let me post photos within the journal text, so, photos here, text below (hopefully) 

Rat portrait in clay 

Oreo gone 

Rats, mostly.

There have been times when I thought working on small pieces--like rats --kept me from doing more challenging and exciting work Possibly they did. Now I use the time to think, much the way I do while driving a familiar route. This can be a very good thing. Sometimes it allows me to solve problems, especially engineering or creative questions. Possibly this more relaxed approach allows me to slip in under the edge of a problem, before learned patterns obscure more innovative solutions. I believe this is true at least some of the time.

I did give in to the urge to paint some rats differently. I’ve considered having some of the rats cast in bronze, and wanted to see how they might look, so gave one each of the four authors a bronzed finish. They’re kind of fun actually. I can see them hanging round some leather-bound volumes-- and a humidor. Artist’s agents are often driven insane (I’m told by my agent) by many artist’s inability to repeat themselves consistently. I would tend to agree. I can’t help but change things up a little, now and again. So, sue me.


I did some work on Tiny Stories. We don’t have all the stories in yet, but it’s not too early for me to start thinking about images and design. I absolutely cannot make an illustration though, until I finish the last two paintings I must finish for another project for an author who threatens to loathe me and send bad karma directly into my brain forever should I mention a damned thing about it. To say the least, I am motivated to finish the project.

I have nearly finished a story about the wish-granting harlequin cat I wrote for “First Incident Concerning the Influence of Neil, Nearly. I forget the title, always, and must spell it out FICTION, Nearly to recall it Anyway, it’s a sort of scary/sweet thing about that cat and a girl and possibly I’ll get it polished and the sculpted part sculpted in time for Halloween. That would be fun. Early on I used to write short pieces with sculptures I made. I’d fold them up very small and put them somewhere in the sculpture, in a little niche or something. I wouldn’t mind doing that again.

I’m getting started a rat portrait for Ravyn, of her mother and three nieces. I’m working with a type of plastilina, and enjoying it, but I find the clay works better when I keep it in the refrigerator between.

Jane Frank is going to be celebrating the fifteenth anniversary of Worlds of Wonder with a collector’s catalog which will likely be more like an art book with some of the best work of the gallery’s artists. It should be really nice. I’ll keep you informed. If you love the kinds of art you’ve seen there these years, you’ll likely want to get a copy. Not sure how many she’s going to have printed.

Finally, Orion and I are going to see a pediatric dental specialist tomorrow morning so I must turn off Boomerang and get him settled in. He seems quite unaffected by the whole tooth thing, though I’m afraid he’s eventually going to look like a little pirate. I gave him an Oreo earlier tonight, knowing it might not be the best idea I’ve had all day, but here we are. Sometimes you just want another rubber rat, even if you don’t need one. But, rubber rat or no, you still have to brush your teeth. ---ooookay , then.