A comedy piece for you. I am currently laughing out loud in my apartment at 6am. Love, C.A.
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in 1998-9, I worked at a health food store in Virginia. It was a
privately owned, high maintenance, cultish, superbly organized place,
and I have no idea how I got the job because I had no experience, and I
was newly sober, and I wasn’t feeling well in the head at all I might
add, which made it a true adventure, since I suddenly morphed into a
wild hippie – not shaving, all natural everything, very high
maintenance. Anyway, being the extremist that I was, I got so obsessed
with ingredients that it took me all fucking day to shop. Suddenly, when
it came to food and cleaners and detergent, I had to be 100% pure.
Sure, I have always had trouble with the “happy medium” idea, but at
that time, it was extreme. And then I created an entire recycling center
inside my one bedroom apartment. I had so much recycling that I had
room for nothing else in the apartment except for an egg crate cushion,
one chair, and a small desk. That’s it. Anyway, I got so obsessed and
spent so much time studying labels while shopping that even though I
became an absolute expert, I got fired.
probably got fired because one day at work I asked my coworker this:
“Hey, do you know of some kind of aromatherapy that helps out with crazy
racing thoughts? My mind is in fuckin’ overdrive!” That’s right, I
really said that. In front of customers. So my coworker just looked at
me weirdly, shook her head, and picked up the phone, and in case you
were wondering, yes, the call was about me.
short adventure at the health food store, I became so excited and
intrigued when I met this medicine woman who only had one name, like
Madonna. She was rad, and she loved my “quirky” personality, so she
introduced me to her secret society of “Free Dance.” On Friday nights, a
group of strangers got together at some vacant house, and she turned
some music on, and we “danced out” the way we felt. Like therapeutic
movement, only there was no real therapist there. Just a bunch of wild
hippies dancing out feelings. We were ultra-serious about it at the
time, but thinking back, I’m sure it looked like a circus. Actually, it
was fun as hell…for most of us…
See, there was this one
chick who was kinda down I guess, because she spent the whole dance
night curled up in a little ball on the floor. That was her dance – some
kind of never-ending, weird, slow-mo somersault. Every single week, she
curled up in this ball, so I’m not sure if the Free Dance was helping
her. My dance was pretty intriguing. Kind of a mix between some
stoned-out hippie crossed with a hip hop act crossed with a kangaroo
crossed with a spider crossed with someone who just got electrocuted.
Really, my Free Dance was no different than my regular dancing, to tell
Maybe I’ll start a Free Dance class around
here. You know, get a boom box and some old used CDs, and find some
warehouse. I might be the only one attending. Just me, some Dead Can
Dance, a candle, some incense, hells yeah. I’d write more, but I have to
Free Dance to the kitchen. I may return, I may not.
Hi there. 👀👄💗💪Been cooking up some ideas for some new fiction. I have some ideas, starts, musings for some short stories, books, and the like. Probably a new book. Book 4. I think of good ideas reading random things -- the news, old stories, and even old excerpts I've written. Sometimes I get ideas from poems. Right now, just gathering info. Will focus soon. That's how it works...I take walks, read up, feel like a mess, and then suddenly, I focus, and it comes together. Ha. Like magic.
Well, it comes together with a lot of painstaking hard work + magic.
Still working on getting book 3 out there. It's a process, aye. But I won't give up! Wish me luck. Time to rest. I've been a bit under the weather. Just wanted to give an update and wish you well. Hope you like today's poem.
-- C.A. MacConnell
So clean the buckets
Maybe ride the finest
that boy's 100-K
Fix what's black
and make it
or watch someone else
get the leg up;
the cowboy you never were
and never will be.
Teach this and that kid
how to win.
Or head down the drive
and lose every single one
The cat lives or dies.
Look, Mac the dog smiles
And then the barking.
Above all, keep-moving.
And just when true-
to break the back of work,
perhaps he never even knew
who you were,
but like God, now he hears
and he's with you
when you clock-out.
So walk in silence
Songs are poems, poems are songs. Ray Lamontagne is a master at the craft, in my opinion. Rich with concrete imagery. :) Love it when it comes from real life, from the gut. -- C.A. MacConnell
Hand me a bandage. Earlier, I cut myself;
we are forever blending into some couch.
You are made of smog, smoke, fog, steam.
You are dust. You are an intangible buffet,
a cirrus cloud, a vast scab, a gorgeous vapor.
Your shoulders are static rather than bone.
Something hangs between us – a fight never
fought, a loss never lost, and the irresistible,
makeup screw. To our mad, silent lives --
from the dirtiest laundry to the lightest
sheets. Sometimes, I see your shavings.
Cutting the quiet in two, sound is our knife.
I see our small house, white paint peeling
on the left, the heart side. I see you call
the painter. I see me call the gutter man.
I see our swing, our kitchen, our late night
dinner -- orange, fake fish on green plates,
no napkin, bare clean kitchen, the scent of it.
The table, the imperfect circle. And no matter
how the meal ends -- empty or full, imagined
or real -- even if I could, even if I should,
I wouldn't take anything back. Hand me
a bandage. I see us sit down at the same
time, sinking into high-backed, black, plastic
chairs, praying and laughing and digging in,
whether or not people need to eat
Halloween is coming, in case you didn't know. Now, around this time of year, Mom makes this candy corn + nuts mix that is irresistible. I can't even start on it, because no matter what, if I do decide to dig in, without fail, I can't put it down. I miss entire conversations, forget why I'm there, forget what I have to do for the rest of the day. Sometimes I forget my name and lose all sense of self. Perhaps I need treatment, a doctor, therapy, an emotional support dog. But it gets worse...
See, if I don't dig in, the whole time I'm visiting Mom, I still know that damn mix is there. I'm aware of the colors, the jar, the placement of the mix on the counter. I can see the carefully arranged yellow/white/orange corns in the jar loving on the nuts, screaming out to me, Chris, Chris, please eat us until you feel like you just got run over by a herd of My Little Ponies who are out for blood sugar.
I used to have the same problem at my Mimi's. She had this jelly bean machine, see. Not only were there jelly beans, but it was also a toy/game contraption, which made it all the more inviting. That was torture, let me tell you.
Most of the time, I'm all right with candy. I mean, I'll have some at the movies or whatever. But when it comes to Mom's nut mix, and when it came to Mimi's jelly bean machine, I have/had no control whatsoever. I could eat that shit night and day. I think there's some kind of addictive ingredient that neither one of them ever revealed.
Moral of the story: sometimes its best to just give in to it.
Howdy. Been working too much. Ah. Some things that come to mind at the moment:
1. I think I'd like to marry someone. I suppose I'd like to hang out with the person first. I would also like to have a tiny house behind the house (large or small) of the person I marry, and we'll just live in our own places and meet at one house or the other whenever we want to have a hot rendezvous. I would also like my tiny house to have working plumbing. 2. The sequel to "It" should be "Not It." That shark movie was terrifying. 3. Diet Cola is every bit as good as Diet Coke. In the Midwest, we call it "pop," not "soda." If you judge me for drinking pop, I'll say something like, "Hows that fuckin' massive burger you scarfed down earlier?" or "I'm sure you're a perfect person; that must be fun." Hahaha. 4. I feel sad for pumpkins this time of year. 5. I love raptors, Good 'n Plentys, and Quest bars, as well as ducks, Argo the dog, and you.
When you know who you are; when your mission is clear and you burn with the inner fire of unbreakable will; no cold can touch your heart; no deluge can dampen your purpose. You know that you are alive.
-- Chief Seattle, Duwamish
Survivors, the Voice
For a long time, I've felt that my mission is to travel and give talks. When I'm in front of others, sharing my story, sharing experience, trying to help and educate, I feel alive. I write these books with that mission in mind. Each day, I hope and pray that I'll be able to let go of side jobs and go on a book tour -- large or small -- and give talks all over the nation.
Meet people, connect with them, share life stories, yes. I feel that what I've been through is tragic, joyful, miraculous, and unique, and my story could be used for so much good if I just had more of an opportunity to reach out. I long for that. Daily.
It's interesting. So I just finished writing my third book, and I feel as I always do when I finish one -- quite downhearted and lost. Why? Well, I start thinking things like, What am I doing? Will this ever happen? Will this ever pay off so that I can just do what I love, have a small house and a dog...and feel safe? Is this what I should be doing to get there? I start to doubt my mission. I feel frustrated and alone. I feel absolutely stuck. There's no coach here. No pep talk. No audience.
And then I think, Why not? Why not keep trying? What do I have to lose?
Nothing at all.
I'm not looking to be famous. I'm looking to live comfortably, feel safe, feel loved, and do what I love...and if the route/plan changes on the way to get there, then so be it. Because all survivors have a voice, and that voice can change the lives of millions. And then some.
Hey there. Dayum, I haven't posted a recent pic in a long while. The above photo was taken of me yesterday. This is what I really look like...no photoshop, yeah. Double trouble, that's right. Shows how I felt after finishing up BOOK THREE; I just sent it out to the big dogs for the first time.
Right on. That truly rocks.
I feel hopeful, relieved, anxious, strong, impatient, and grateful. Something like this -- 😅😲🙌💪💪💋 Rather terrified is the norm, ha, regardless of what I'm doing. I'm sure someone out there can relate. If not, then I'm a strange human. Or perhaps, I'm not even human.👻
So BOOK THREE is under consideration. Wish me luck! I'll need it. Just following the next steps.
If you would still like to buy GRIFFIN FARM, my debut novel, go here. If you already read, please leave a review on Amazon!
If you would still like to buy THE HOUSE OF ANCHOR, my sophomore work, go here. Right now, it's on sale! If you already read, again, please leave a review on Amazon!
Remember...for each book sold...a donation will be made to The Prospect House, a Cincinnati-based, grass-roots, drug and alcohol treatment center for men. Because of you, I've been able to give steady monthly donations since March. Let's keep it going!
If you'd like to check out a multitude of free poetry, fiction, and photos, just look all over this blog!
And please send me an email if you have questions, comments, or if you need help with any writing work. I'm available for hire -- editing, copywriting, direct mail, you name it. To contact me directly, see my Bio. I have a master's in Writing, as well over 20 years of experience, all genres.
Thanks for reading. Thanks for supporting my art. And thanks for being a part of my journey.
Hope your day involves dark chocolate. With love, hope, and gratitude, I wish you well. Actually, for some reason, I'm thinking about that robot, Number 5, from that Short Circuit movie, as well as Ally Sheedy, who I always adored. Why am I thinking of that? I have no fucking idea.