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April 19th, 2016


Today on their website, the art-rich and beautifully designed short fiction zine Middle Planet, made by Julia Gootzeit and (LCRW 33 contributor!) Eric Gregory, features my story “Asleep in the Traces”, about a sleepwalking giant that steps on a girl’s hometown, then sucks her up onto its back to live with the refugees, which Julia has generously interpreted with the deliriously surreal artwork above. Please support and patronize them, should you feel inclined! There will be new pieces coming live on the website from the second issue once a week through June, and ebook and print versions eventually. And they have a Patreon.

I’ve gotten in the habit of coming up with something rambly to say about a story of mine when it comes out. I’ve tried to make it something not so much about the story as tangential to it, because I hope the stories speak for themselves. I think it’s a good habit, or I’d break it. But this one I’m having a little trouble with.

“Asleep in the Traces” is a story about how you can never go home again. It’s a story about finding out what you took for granted. I wrote it from my tower of isolation, the year after I moved from my home city of Boston to north suburban blight Detroit. As such, it’s of a piece with “Virtual Goods”, which was in Ideomancer a few years ago, and “Cloud Mountains”, which is forthcoming in Strangelet sometime soonish. They’re all three rather desolate stories, concerned with loss and alienation, though ultimately, I hope, redemptive. And I love all three of them, don’t get me wrong. Particularly this one. Because figuring out how to move on from loss is a pretty essential human skill, and Marie has it harder than most, and I think she manages beautifully. But the place I wrote those stories from–it’s a hard place to want to go back to. I mean, I wrote them to try to get out. Into my head, since I couldn’t actually get away the way the people in these stories do. Look back in this blog and you’ll find posts that pretty clearly illustrate my mindset in that period, should the stories themselves prove too obscure.

When I first found out I’d be moving away, a few well-meaning friends reminded me of a stereotype familiar to writers, that of the artist expat. Maybe, they were saying in not so many words, you’ll find out you need to get away from a place before you really understand it. At the time, I hated this advice. It was insufficient comfort, offered at no cost to themselves from people who didn’t have to leave.

They were right. The longer I’m away, the truer it becomes, the more deeply I understand the place I come from, and through it, myself. But being away from home doesn’t just help me understand it. The phenomenon being observed is altered by the act of observing it. The more clearly I understand it, the further removed it becomes from the place I remember. I can’t go back.

On the other hand, I am suddenly able to understand and empathize with a whole category of narratives in ways I haven’t before. The immigrant experience, for example. Also certain traditional laments.

Is it a fair tradeoff? I don’t guess anyone has much of a choice but to make it worth their while, whether in fiction or otherwise. Like Marie, I’ll keep trying.

   Art, Writings | No Comments »


January 15th, 2016

Today drops the inaugural issue of Orthogonal SF: The War at Home, which features my story of technopagan populist revolution, “#Anon and the Antlers”. Yes, that’s a hashtag in the title. Yes, I did take leave of my senses a little. Not a little. That hashtag is the tip of the iceberg.

There’s not much I like more than a cautionary tale. This one starts with mad ambition, as I suppose cautionary tales tend to do.

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   Environmentalism, Realities, Writings | No Comments »

Writing in the Woods

September 27th, 2012

I don’t know why I never thought of it before now. To be honest, I probably did think of it, but until now always decided, based on personal insecurities, qualms about walking too close behind Thoreau, that it was a bad idea.

I have intermittently carried my little notebook with me when I go hiking, to jot down notes, fragments. I come up with good ideas in the woods, though they’re most often of the stopgap variety, something that will get me over whatever hump I was banging my head against back at my desk, but fails to help me anticipate the next hump or perceive the underlying flaw that is the cause of these humps. Often I come up with half a dozen stopgap ideas on an hour’s hike and forget all but the least useful one. It was nice recently when I realized I could take notes in my iPod, which I pretty much always have with me. Still, too often I forget to use it.

Until yesterday I had not seriously considered the possibility of actually, committedly writing in the woods, of taking my laptop, sitting somewhere with my back to a tree trunk and knuckling down. I suppose this inspirational windfall is made available to me now because of an advance in technology: I now have a cutting-edge-as-of-Spring-2011 laptop that will reliably last 5 or 6 hours on a battery charge with the screen brightness turned all the way up. Hooray! I have caught up with the future. The technopaganism proponed by Willow in Season One Buffy is suddenly an actual, viable option.

I haven’t thought nearly enough about technopaganism. It seems the time may be ripe? More on that in the near future, maybe.

So today I went into the woods to write. It was too cold in the morning, but by noon, it was sunny and the temps hit 60, so rather than chicken out and end up hating myself after drooling all over myself with excitement at the idea the evening prior, I packed a lunch, laptop, book, cane, camera, mushroom-hunting kit, water bottle, hoodie and scarf and ventured forth.

So far it has gone amazingly well. Turned out I didn’t need the scarf. I was perfectly able to regulate my temperature as long as I kept in at least partial sunlight. When I got cold, I got up and took a walk. When I ran out of ideas, I took a walk. Or I picked up Little, Big and read a scene, or even two sentences, and bam, I was off again. Honestly I cannot think of a more appropriate, serendipitious book to be reading at the start of this experiment. Maybe it’s what gave me the idea.

The other benefit, the one that is so completely obvious I feel like kicking myself it took me this long to notice, is the surroundings. I sit at my desk in my office. It is packed with books and interesting supposedly inspirational objects I have picked up in my travels. But I’ve stared at all these books and doodads for thousands of hours by now. They have lost their inspirational capacity. Anyway, they sit there in the same office at the same desk while I’m writing computer code the other 80% of my life. It just doesn’t work anymore. So–I go out. I go to a cafe with a kickass view and good beer, like the Bookmill. I go to a big, old library with weird nooks and corbeled vaulting. Yes, these places are better. There’s new things to look at, different things, and I have made the effort to get there, so I might as well knuckle down. But in these places, there’s people buzzing around everywhere. There’s the internet. So I resort to my computer desktop background. Sigh, yes, it is a last resort. Yet it does give me solace, because it’s something I can change at a whim with no effort to give me something new to stare at. I hit the F11 key and gaze off into whatever woodland scene or mountain peak I last stood on with a camera. Sometimes I put my hands up around my peripheral vision like blinders and try to pretend I’m there. Then, sigh, I hit the F11 key again and go back to the blank page.

Are we seeing the obvious solution here? Is it absurd that I have not thought of this in 15 years? Yes, yes it is! Why would I not just go to that place I have been imagining myself to be, such that when I run out of ideas, instead of staring myself cross-eyed at pixels, I can look away from the screen and see an actual, 360 degree, fully olfactory and tactile woodland scene?

Also, not insignificantly, the woods do not have internet.

In the four hours I’ve spent in the woods since noon, sitting in 5 or 6 different locations–blood-red sumac grove, sun-bleached picnic table amid wildflowers, boulder, silver birch on hillside overlooking swamp, different sun-bleached picnic table under dead apple tree–I have written some 1500 words. Doesn’t sound like much to you big city writers, but for me I normally can’t hit that in a week.

Huzzah. Baby steps.

It won’t work in the dead of winter. It won’t work in the rain or the burning-bright, mosquitoey summer. But in late summer/early fall, when the sunlight is warm and the shadows cool and the bugs are singlemindedly absorbed in finding those last flowers to nectar up at before frost hits….

I think I may write a novel in the woods.

   HM, Trees, Writings | 1 Comment »

On the Influence of Place on Place

July 30th, 2012

I took a coach bus from Boston to Manchester, New Hampshire. I don’t normally take buses in this country—either I have a car or I ride the train. New England was once my home but is no longer; after only a year, I recognize its beauty as transient; I perceive it as a place existing in contrast to other places: hilly, richly wooded, old. These strangenesses, combined with the impact of ugly fluorescent-on-blue patterned fabric on seats and ceiling, too-cold air conditioning and an uncomfortable narrowness of seats palpably not on an airplane, rendered in me a displacement.

When I glanced up thus detachedly from drowsy study of my lap as the bus wheeled sharply out of a park-and-ride lot in Londonderry, NH, and a low hillside knotted with bleached shrubs spun into view, I found myself for an instant transported to roughly equivalent conveyance pulling out of a dusty motel parking lot on the outskirts of Quetzaltenango, Guatemala. In a moment that low stucco wall would appear: the one with the graffiti mural of the feathered serpent. The pickup truck in the next lane would pull away and be replaced with another 30 years older, half its size. The blood in my head would begin to expand from the altitude. And the unconscious potbellied man encroaching on my elbow room in the seat beside me would become, though dressed wildly differently and dreaming in a different tongue, perhaps no less inscrutable.

Manchester is a run-down city, an old mill town. I had considered it an ugly city. Between brown concrete high-rises, gradually, imperceptibly, the empty brickworks refill with boutique manufacturers. Absent windowpanes are replaced with new glass. Massive raised highways, long since displacing streetcars, divide and circumvent.

I disembarked and walked for miles to destinations I’ve visited many times, always by car. Again, the exhaustion, the pack sweaty on my back, enforced a mindset I have previously reserved for foreign lands. Permitted the abundance of time and necessity to traverse the city on foot and at length, I discovered neglected Victorian graveyards, ponds, hillside neighborhoods in need of paint, an overgrown railroad track, bridge abutments enriched with graffiti. Between the Piscataquog and Merrimack rivers I found the city’s old French-Canadian quarter, untouched by urban renewal, the main street lined with pawn shops, barber poles, diners. I visited the library. I sat in empty parks on rusted benches, reading.

The impatience and familiarity of home would have prevented me doing any of this.

All of which is just to say again, I guess, that in order to come home, you have to go away.

   HM, Travel, Writings | No Comments »

Urban Green Man

June 22nd, 2012

Urban Green Man is the both the title and intended subject matter of a forthcoming theme anthology from Edge Publishing for which I’ve been invited to submit a story. Considering all this moss that’s been creeping from my armpits and between my toes of late and the details of my living circumstances over the past couple years, you’d think this would be right up my alley, right in my hermitage, so to speak… but for some reason I’m really having a hard time at it.

The below ramblings on nature and the city are the result of an attempt at writing-avoidance aka “brainstorming” in order to figure out what the green man myth could possibly mean in an urban context and in the modern age.

Some variety of blue lobelia, best guess Lobelia kalmii, Franklin Park Wilderness, Roxbury, MA.

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   Birds, Environmentalism, Flowers, HM, Religion, Writings | No Comments »

Me and the Thunderbird

June 14th, 2012

Thunderbird, on a 19th-century Cheyenne drumhead, Detroit Institute of Arts.

The co-opting of Native American culture makes me sad. For years I thought a thunderbird was a car driven by greasers and meatheads and Pontiac not a doomed, desperate tragic hero of the Ottawa but a disreputable manufacturer of cars. If it weren’t for the automotive industry, though, would I ever have even heard these names? I guess we owe them for keeping the memory alive, in however twisted a form.

And there are instances of co-opting that make me unashamedly happy. There’s a really nice Mexican lager called Bohemia brewed by cervezeria Motecuzoma Cuauhtemoc in Monterrey which I would never have tried if it weren’t for the portrait of Motecuzoma they use for their logo. I could do without Mel Gibson, but he put native Yucatec Maya speakers in a big-budget film. When I heard Johnny Depp was playing Tonto in an inexplicable remake of The Lone Ranger, I was as annoyed as everybody else until I remembered Dead Man… that long, wordless opening scene, a bespectacled, comically pale-faced young Depp staring out the window of the train at the landscape of the West as the grim faces of passengers shift and fade around him, visions of his own death in the wilderness pass before his eyes, and that brutal Neil Young noise riff gnashes over all. Just thinking about it makes me want to go watch that movie right now….ahh, but I have shit to do. Anyhow–however trumped up Depp’s one-sixteenth Cherokee blood, I give him credit for caring about Native American culture, to the point that I’ll probably see The Lone Ranger.

And so on and so forth, with mixed feelings of reverence and liberal guilt. I am not really supposed to talk about it, being as how I am a white male.

Which brings me to the point of this. I have co-opted Native American culture. Part one of my novella “Death and the Thunderbird”, featuring those lovable, culture-raping centaurs; a locomotive powered by sorcery; and yes, a thunderbird, is live today in Beneath Ceaseless Skies #97, opposite the excellent Tina Connolly. I labored long and hard over it and am proud. If you’re a fan of the centaurs, I don’t think you’ll be disappointed. But I doubt it will win any awards for cultural sensitivity despite my best intentions. By way of beginning to atone for this, I share below a brief bibliography of American culture-rape. As usual, I would almost rather you read the source material than my story. But read the story too, if you have time.

Ok. Must stop myself. Enjoy! Be edified.

   Art, Beer, Centaurs, Film, HM, Precolombians, Writings | No Comments »

Permanently Unlost in the Infinitely Receding Forest

August 11th, 2011

Where I live now, no matter where I stand or how far I walk, it always looks like the woods are just beginning beyond the farthest-away squat little fenced-in company cottage I can see. I can pursue them, but when I get there, they’ve inevitably receded to exactly the same distance as before.

These days the actual forests have barb-wire fences around them and the skulls are decidedly un-mossy, so I dwell in forests of the mind. Justin has recently introduced me to the concept of psychogeography, which I gather basically demarcates any attempt to interpret urban landscape as the product, or the manifestation, of the internal landscapes of its inhabitants. I’m going to bend that a little to fit my own purposes. Or maybe completely ignore it, just fall back on the usual influences—Castaneda, Borges, Freud and Thoreau—under a different auspice.

Outside my office window there is an auto-body shop. It’s ugly. It makes high-pitched metallic noises repetitively. I have undertaken the mental exercise of replacing it with various monolithic elements of natural landscape lifted from my experience: a lichened granite ledge shaped by glacial processes, a kettlehole pond, a field of wildflowers, a hemlock glade, a Yucatan thicket, a colossal zoomorph of the Classic Maya. It works, to a point. There are some landscapes to which that space just won’t lend itself, even in my imagination: the mazelike warrens of thirty-foot boulders populated by owls and deer and Polyporous berkleyii in the woods of Satans Kingdom surrounding the neighborhood where I grew up. Or, you know, any mountainside I’ve ever fallen down.

But it keeps the bats out, if you get me.

   Environmentalism, Religion, Writings | 6 Comments »


April 4th, 2011

Pardon a short hiatus from the Guatemalan ramblings while I dig myself out from under this pile of work. In the meantime….

The word “soma” came into Sanskrit from some even more ancient Indo-European root tongue. I’ve seen it translated as “flesh of the gods”; it referred to a sacred ritual drink of the Vedic culture in the third millennium B.C. Little is known about it except that it was made from an eponymous and equally unknown plant, but I think it can safely be assumed to have been a psychotic doom hallucinogen of some sort. Occasionally I’ve come across the titillating but unsupported speculation that soma might have been Amanita muscaria. The Olmecs held a certain mushroom sacred too. These are the kinds of things that keep me up at night. Or at least give me interesting dreams.

And sometimes they work their way into my fiction. This month’s Apex Magazine #23, edited by the fabulous Catherynne Valente, features a rather dark story of mine about the beginning of time, “The Eater”, in which soma plays a passing role. Should you care to try it out, there’s a teaser here on the Apex site. Get the whole thing in print through the Apex store or in ebook form from none other than Weightless Books.

   Fungi, HM, Writings | 4 Comments »

Loving (A Setting) Too Much

March 14th, 2011

Dancing rain god figure, Altar O, Quiriguá, Izabal, Guatemala

The first days of my second trip to Guatemala, everything felt weirdly comfortable, familiar. The sight of the one-legged guy nimbly navigating the steep steps of a chicken bus to ply his scarred palm and sad story no longer blows my mind. Likewise the spiderweb cracks cris-crossing the impenetrable blackness of every car windshield in the city. I have learned the appropriate words to apologize politely for being two feet taller than everybody else on the bus and my backpack clumsily wonking them all in the face. The dudes with tin shotguns on street corners and in tienda doorways no longer fill me with fear. In fact they almost make me feel safer—which may even be their actual purpose.

All of which was satisfying in a way. I felt less helpless, better able to actively participate in my surroundings. But I started to worry I was just on vacation here—that if I wanted the intensity and awe and revelation of my previous experience, I should have traveled someplace else.

I’m always looking for new setting details—unique tidbits of color or scent, idiosyncracies of human interaction that will make an otherwise mundane story leap off the page. I’m also looking for entirely new settings into which I can expand my spotty experience, the range of subjects and places about which I can “write what I know”. This isn’t the only reason I travel, but when I do travel, there’s a strong chance it’s what I’m doing at any given moment: soaking it all up like a sponge. I talked about this once before, including some caveats, in Expatriates and Homebodies.

There’s a danger, though, that I’ve run into repeatedly: falling too hard for a particular setting, loving it so much that it starts to feel wrong, disrespectful, to try to assimilate it into my fiction. I’m afraid to take liberties for fear of screwing up the truth that made me love it so much in the first place. This has happened to me most often and most painfully with respect to precolombian cultures. The Anasazi (more accurately the ancestral Hopi) have had a strong influence on my wild west centaurs setting, but all the stuff that actually includes them is in a trunk never to see the light of day. The Aztecs (more accurately the Mixtecs) I am afraid to even touch. With the Maya, it’s even worse. In the past I have been unable to stop myself writing slavish, Castaneda-influenced historical fiction about how the Mayans possess the spiritual Answer to the Ultimate Question of Life, the Universe and Everything and we white people with all our rationalism don’t have the ghost of a hope. Which I loved, and even managed to sell, but which now fills me with uncomfortable embarrassment. I have endlessly blogged about them. And very recently, tenatively, I’ve been thinking about how I might dip my toe back into writing about them—though in a very different way than before.

I owe this new approach to this second visit to Guatemala.

That initial, superficial sense of familiarity never went away. But it was very quickly superseded by a whole new set of questions. I saw gradations, depth, in what had seemed uniform, and when I looked a little closer, I saw even more. I found myself thinking more and more about individuals—about character. What’s the difference, in terms of circumstance, upbringing, past experience, between the tuktuk operator who drives the white folks in circles to confuse them then tries to charge triple, the tuktuk operator who drives the white folks past his mom’s house to show them off to his nieces and nephews, asks the minimum fare without even haggling, and comes back to get them at a scheduled time at no extra charge, and the tuktuk driver who butters them up with disingenuous chatter, then veers into a blind alley and pulls a gun? (A tuktuk is a three-wheeled golf cart shaped like a giant red egg, powered by a lawnmower engine and blazoned with Jesus slogans, used as a car-for-hire for local transportation.) How do the Catholics and the Protestants get along with the Mayan traditionalists? How do the Mayan traditionalists get along with a more secular, idealistic younger generation? How does Guatemala look to somebody who moves to South Dakota to start a family, then has to come back and spend years away from them trying to secure a visa? And how does any of it develop into an integrated, educated, well-informed indigenous population, still in possession of its cultural identity, yet capable of joining forces to foster positive change, say, to effect a representative government under an indigenous president, like in Bolivia, or take advantage of digital media to foster political change, like in Egypt and Morocco?

The picture I have isn’t full enough, not nearly. I need to go back again, and again after that.

And the answer I have come upon for how to write fiction about a place and a culture I love too much to disrespect? Complexity.

Writing fiction about anything is an exercise in simplification. Words are never enough to encompass anything, the confines of narrative, of storytelling, even less so. The only way to honest about it, with yourself and with your readers, is to admit you don’t have the answers, and to try, to the best of your ability, to demonstrate why. I think the fiction that best succeeds at this (no coincidence, the kind of fiction I love most), is the kind that leaves things open. Borges, Asturias.

A king in the jaws of a jaguar-crocodile, North face of Zoomorph P, Quiriguá, Izabal, Guatemala

   Altars, Art, Guatemala, HM, Precolombians, Religion, Writings | No Comments »

It is an ancient Mariner

December 23rd, 2010

A Gustave Doré woodcut for Rime of the Ancient Mariner: Death and Life-in-Death game for the Mariner’s soul.

The first issue of Fantastique Unfettered comes out today, featuring my story “The Driftwood Chair”, a tale of nautical tragedy, hallucinatory demon ghosties and star-crossed beach flirting, set in Cape Cod, and much influenced by Coleridge’s Ancient Mariner. I wrote it at Odyssey in 2005 as a kind of good-natured challenge with PD Cacek, got some phenomenal criticism from my fellow classmates and Steve and Melanie Tem, then sat on it obsessively revising and revising for the succeeding five years. You know, the usual story. There was way more Mariner in the original draft… but the feel of it (and an easter egg reference or two) is still there in spades. I love this story. Hopefully you will too.

O the Mariner is so awesome, it’s really hard to pick out just one quote.

Her lips were red, her looks were free,
Her locks were yellow as gold:
Her skin was as white as leprosy,
The Nightmare Life-in-Death was she,
Who thicks man’s blood with cold.

If you’ve never read it, do so now. In fact, if you’ve only got time for one, skip “The Driftwood Chair” and just read the Ancient Mariner. Of course, if you’ve got time for two….

   HM, Horror, Odyssey, Writings | 4 Comments »

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