Rush Hour
C.A. MacConnell
5/30/2018
5/27/2018
5/26/2018
Morning Coffee, Attica
Only black,
Brazilian
brew
back then --
Jesus,
bring me the grandfather
clock.
I was wound up with her.
And now, the baby's not a baby.
I am one
of the last
of the few
with an out
date.
Now, instant, I'd kill for you,
you fucker.
It doesn't matter if it's Tuesday.
Waiting for the cleaner,
the weak, lying, prick from the south,
I bolt upright
and consider
the country.
In brave time,
six years,
I'll buy a blue-grey,
six-toed,
one-eyed
beast named
Bandeira,
make him a home-bed.
I do what I can.
I hang on the bars.
Yesterday, I traded a joint
for the hot.
Mop man,
slide the bag
of scalding water
under the hell door.
I'm sure you understand the quick
pour.
When the dogs aren't looking,
maybe I could make a deal
with a visitor
and fit inside one sister's
old, wet,
unbleached
pocket.
C.A. MacConnell
Brazilian
brew
back then --
Jesus,
bring me the grandfather
clock.
I was wound up with her.
And now, the baby's not a baby.
I am one
of the last
of the few
with an out
date.
Now, instant, I'd kill for you,
you fucker.
It doesn't matter if it's Tuesday.
Waiting for the cleaner,
the weak, lying, prick from the south,
I bolt upright
and consider
the country.
In brave time,
six years,
I'll buy a blue-grey,
six-toed,
one-eyed
beast named
Bandeira,
make him a home-bed.
I do what I can.
I hang on the bars.
Yesterday, I traded a joint
for the hot.
Mop man,
slide the bag
of scalding water
under the hell door.
I'm sure you understand the quick
pour.
When the dogs aren't looking,
maybe I could make a deal
with a visitor
and fit inside one sister's
old, wet,
unbleached
pocket.
C.A. MacConnell
5/25/2018
5/24/2018
Photo: Covington Alley
Covington Alley
Covington, KY
Well, as I write to you, I'm exactly 71 pages into the revisions on Book Three. It's around 300 pages long. :) This shot has to do with the story...it inspired me for a whole plot line, as well as a sequel. I'm joking. I just like the picture, actually. Ha. 😁😘💓💃👅
Love to you,
C.A. MacConnell
Love to you,
C.A. MacConnell
Love, a Curious Thing
Last night, I had a dream that I was riding an immaculate, white horse in a show, jumping him around. The jumps were huge and brightly colored, and the horse was a stranger to me; that is, I'd never met him in real life (I was a horse trainer for many years in reality). But in the dream, I was alone in the ring, practicing, and it was a struggle every step of the way. The horse was extremely fancy and expensive, and yet we didn't click very well, but I carried on. Then the scene switched, and I was riding a bay horse, Johnny, one that I once knew and trained, and both he and I were covered in mud. I was getting ready to ride him in the show like that -- all muddy -- when I looked down at my muddy boots, shrugged, and woke up.
I woke with a smile, thinking of Johnny. I miss him from time to time. A trainer is supposed to maintain a sort of distance, and I usually did, but I admit that with him, I became somewhat attached. He could sure be cranky with some people, but he was attached to me as well. In fact, many were afraid of him; he was huge and quite intimidating in his stall.
By nature, like many wild animals, to ward off insects and scratch their backs, horses like to roll in the grass, or preferably, the mud. For them, it's an instinctual move. Back when I rode hunter/jumpers, we spent hours brushing the horses and giving them baths, especially if a show was coming up. But when I think back, the whole deal is rather hilarious, because we were literally fighting against nature every day. In nature, they get dirty on purpose, and then the rain washes them clean.
In nature, everything just works out.
An expensive, immaculate, white show horse, or a muddy, cranky Johnny? I loved Johnny for his flaws. I'd pick him any day.
Love is a curious thing, even when it comes to animals. Some people get to us, and they may be full of life and "muddy," and they never seem to leave our hearts. Others who seem to be "pristine show horses" might fade away.
It's all about the insides, nature, and the soul, in my belief. In nature, everything just works out.
C.A. MacConnell
I woke with a smile, thinking of Johnny. I miss him from time to time. A trainer is supposed to maintain a sort of distance, and I usually did, but I admit that with him, I became somewhat attached. He could sure be cranky with some people, but he was attached to me as well. In fact, many were afraid of him; he was huge and quite intimidating in his stall.
By nature, like many wild animals, to ward off insects and scratch their backs, horses like to roll in the grass, or preferably, the mud. For them, it's an instinctual move. Back when I rode hunter/jumpers, we spent hours brushing the horses and giving them baths, especially if a show was coming up. But when I think back, the whole deal is rather hilarious, because we were literally fighting against nature every day. In nature, they get dirty on purpose, and then the rain washes them clean.
In nature, everything just works out.
An expensive, immaculate, white show horse, or a muddy, cranky Johnny? I loved Johnny for his flaws. I'd pick him any day.
Love is a curious thing, even when it comes to animals. Some people get to us, and they may be full of life and "muddy," and they never seem to leave our hearts. Others who seem to be "pristine show horses" might fade away.
It's all about the insides, nature, and the soul, in my belief. In nature, everything just works out.
C.A. MacConnell
5/23/2018
Looking for a Miracle
It's tricky. With it being Mental Health Awareness Month, I feel driven to write something brilliant, but when I dig into the issue, as I have in the past, it puts me through the emotional wringer. Part of me wants to be the advocate; the other part of me just wants to write about hawks and have peace. But today, I'm the advocate it seems. I feel personally obligated to delve into the issue. Why?
Because it often seems like no one else wants to advocate for those suffering from brain disorders.
Sure, on the surface, when they hear about tragedies throughout the nation, people will say things like, "We need better treatment" or "How sad" or "What a tragedy; he must've been mentally ill." But rarely do people understand the extremely complex, "let's-push-it-under-the-rug" nature of the beast.
I have attended fundraising walks for cancer and diabetes and arthritis. The crowds have been enormous, and the money is flowing. I have also attended walks for those with mental illness. The crowds are hardly even crowds. A handful of lost people wandering around. It's as if everyone's thinking, Where's the support? Am I alone? Many times, yes.
Oftentimes, my mom will kindly say this: "Maybe they will find a cure for all these mental illnesses." To which I softly respond, "No they won't, Mom, because no one's looking."
First of all, no one's looking because there's the issue of societal stigma -- deadly and rampant. TV shows, movies, everyday life, on and on. Every single day, I hear people misuse or downplay the words "schizophrenic," "suicide," "bipolar," or "depression." They don't use the words to describe a disease; they use them to jokingly describe their mood that day, or they use them in flippant ways, such as in movie titles. It is baffling to me that this is still acceptable. Would large film studios allow this title: Stage 4 Lymphoma Friends. Or how about this? Diabetes Complications Squad. No, they wouldn't, because that would be ridiculous, right? And yet it's OK to use the word "suicide" lightly, when suicide is a symptom of brain disorders?
When we stigmatize these words and use them in colloquial conversation, movie titles, TV titles, and the like, it belittles mental illness. It tells the world this: these illnesses are not important, not real, and something we can brush aside.
And we wonder why in this nation, right here, right now, suicide is one leading cause of death in teens. Suicide causes more deaths in teens than car accidents. And we wonder why there are mass school shootings and suicides. "Suicides among young people continue to be a serious problem. Suicide is the second leading cause of death for children, adolescents, and young adults age 5-to-24-year-olds." (American Academy of Child and Adolescent Psychiatry, 2017)
Second, there's the lack of care...or care that is even more destructive than the actual illnesses. Did you know that 75% of those incarcerated have severe mental health issues? And here's how they deal with it. Here's one example: A schizophrenic man was punished by receiving a "special" shower...that is, it was so hot, the prison guards boiled him. He did not survive. ("The 'Insane' Way Our Prison System Handles the Mentally Ill," New York Times, 2018) This is just one example of many terrible cases. That is our version of care? The abuse feeds off a terrible cycle. And yet, when there is reform and treatment, there is hope. Take a look at this:
Most interesting perhaps is the case of Steve Leifman, a Florida judge who runs a jail diversion program with a simple premise: When a person with a mental illness is arrested for a nonviolent misdemeanor, he or she can be steered toward treatment rather than criminal court. The vast majority opt for treatment, where they are connected with housing and other services. Recidivism is low, patients get the support they need, and the prison system saves significant funds. Leifman says that over the last decade he has managed to steer some 4,000 people out of the criminal justice system. (New York Times, 2018)
Which means that mental health care, reform, and addressing the issue properly long-term will actually save money and save lives? Yes.
Third, there's the fear present within too-small, ill-equipped mental health organizations, and their lack of advocacy for those who are suffering. A while back, I contacted the National Alliance on Mental Illness* when I saw the onslaught of offensive movies and movie titles. Their response: "We can't do anything. We're just a group of moms, and we are so small." The woman I talked to sounded scared, indifferent, and distracted. As well as completely ignorant of the issues. At my local chapter, they were more understanding and wanted to "talk about it," but they too didn't want to post my writings or say anything publicly.
So I'm writing it now, and I'm sharing it now, because even national mental health organizations are too afraid to print my writings or touch on the depth of the issues.
Because there's a deep-seated shame and fear that exists. Because every day, people with brain disorders fight against an overall societal trap -- guilt, shame, indifference, intolerance, and abuse.
And my hope is that in the future, when I go on a fundraising walk for mental illness, there will be a cheering, supportive, loving crowd, one that is ready to fight against stigma, fight for proper treatment, and lead the way to curing these killers. Because the final symptom for depression, anxiety, bipolar disorder, and schizophrenia, among others, is suicide. It is a symptom, and it certainly should never, ever be used lightly.
I'm looking for a change in the view, the course of action, and especially in our attitudes and the words we use, because we need this change in order to have the support that other diseases already have in place. I'm looking for this change to save lives before the next mass shooting or suicide occurs. I'm looking for a miracle.
C.A. MacConnell
P.S. Feel free to share on FB or a link on Twitter, in honor of Mental Health Awareness Month.
*A first version named the organization the "National Association on Mental Illness." The correct name is "National Alliance on Mental Illness." The author apologizes for the typo. Although NAMI does indeed do very sound work, they are understaffed and underfunded, just as most mental health organizations are. Thank you.
Because it often seems like no one else wants to advocate for those suffering from brain disorders.
Sure, on the surface, when they hear about tragedies throughout the nation, people will say things like, "We need better treatment" or "How sad" or "What a tragedy; he must've been mentally ill." But rarely do people understand the extremely complex, "let's-push-it-under-the-rug" nature of the beast.
I have attended fundraising walks for cancer and diabetes and arthritis. The crowds have been enormous, and the money is flowing. I have also attended walks for those with mental illness. The crowds are hardly even crowds. A handful of lost people wandering around. It's as if everyone's thinking, Where's the support? Am I alone? Many times, yes.
Oftentimes, my mom will kindly say this: "Maybe they will find a cure for all these mental illnesses." To which I softly respond, "No they won't, Mom, because no one's looking."
First of all, no one's looking because there's the issue of societal stigma -- deadly and rampant. TV shows, movies, everyday life, on and on. Every single day, I hear people misuse or downplay the words "schizophrenic," "suicide," "bipolar," or "depression." They don't use the words to describe a disease; they use them to jokingly describe their mood that day, or they use them in flippant ways, such as in movie titles. It is baffling to me that this is still acceptable. Would large film studios allow this title: Stage 4 Lymphoma Friends. Or how about this? Diabetes Complications Squad. No, they wouldn't, because that would be ridiculous, right? And yet it's OK to use the word "suicide" lightly, when suicide is a symptom of brain disorders?
When we stigmatize these words and use them in colloquial conversation, movie titles, TV titles, and the like, it belittles mental illness. It tells the world this: these illnesses are not important, not real, and something we can brush aside.
And we wonder why in this nation, right here, right now, suicide is one leading cause of death in teens. Suicide causes more deaths in teens than car accidents. And we wonder why there are mass school shootings and suicides. "Suicides among young people continue to be a serious problem. Suicide is the second leading cause of death for children, adolescents, and young adults age 5-to-24-year-olds." (American Academy of Child and Adolescent Psychiatry, 2017)
Second, there's the lack of care...or care that is even more destructive than the actual illnesses. Did you know that 75% of those incarcerated have severe mental health issues? And here's how they deal with it. Here's one example: A schizophrenic man was punished by receiving a "special" shower...that is, it was so hot, the prison guards boiled him. He did not survive. ("The 'Insane' Way Our Prison System Handles the Mentally Ill," New York Times, 2018) This is just one example of many terrible cases. That is our version of care? The abuse feeds off a terrible cycle. And yet, when there is reform and treatment, there is hope. Take a look at this:
Most interesting perhaps is the case of Steve Leifman, a Florida judge who runs a jail diversion program with a simple premise: When a person with a mental illness is arrested for a nonviolent misdemeanor, he or she can be steered toward treatment rather than criminal court. The vast majority opt for treatment, where they are connected with housing and other services. Recidivism is low, patients get the support they need, and the prison system saves significant funds. Leifman says that over the last decade he has managed to steer some 4,000 people out of the criminal justice system. (New York Times, 2018)
Which means that mental health care, reform, and addressing the issue properly long-term will actually save money and save lives? Yes.
Third, there's the fear present within too-small, ill-equipped mental health organizations, and their lack of advocacy for those who are suffering. A while back, I contacted the National Alliance on Mental Illness* when I saw the onslaught of offensive movies and movie titles. Their response: "We can't do anything. We're just a group of moms, and we are so small." The woman I talked to sounded scared, indifferent, and distracted. As well as completely ignorant of the issues. At my local chapter, they were more understanding and wanted to "talk about it," but they too didn't want to post my writings or say anything publicly.
So I'm writing it now, and I'm sharing it now, because even national mental health organizations are too afraid to print my writings or touch on the depth of the issues.
Because there's a deep-seated shame and fear that exists. Because every day, people with brain disorders fight against an overall societal trap -- guilt, shame, indifference, intolerance, and abuse.
And my hope is that in the future, when I go on a fundraising walk for mental illness, there will be a cheering, supportive, loving crowd, one that is ready to fight against stigma, fight for proper treatment, and lead the way to curing these killers. Because the final symptom for depression, anxiety, bipolar disorder, and schizophrenia, among others, is suicide. It is a symptom, and it certainly should never, ever be used lightly.
I'm looking for a change in the view, the course of action, and especially in our attitudes and the words we use, because we need this change in order to have the support that other diseases already have in place. I'm looking for this change to save lives before the next mass shooting or suicide occurs. I'm looking for a miracle.
C.A. MacConnell
P.S. Feel free to share on FB or a link on Twitter, in honor of Mental Health Awareness Month.
*A first version named the organization the "National Association on Mental Illness." The correct name is "National Alliance on Mental Illness." The author apologizes for the typo. Although NAMI does indeed do very sound work, they are understaffed and underfunded, just as most mental health organizations are. Thank you.
5/22/2018
5/20/2018
Photo: Red-tailed Hawk + a Li'l Note.
Red-tailed Hawk
Lunken Airport
Hi there. When I feel anxious, insecure, or overwhelmed, I find that if I tell myself to stop, it just gets worse. Sometimes I allow myself some morning "worry time," and I'll journal about it, think about my worries, and just let myself go -- be neurotic, whatever. But when the worry time is up, it's up. If I start up worrying again throughout the day, I think to myself...Nope, not worry time...I'll think about this later.
Distraction then proves to be the better solution. Ask someone else how he/she is doing. Move, move, move. Listen to a podcast. Watch something engaging. Read, if you can.
Be a warrior. A warrior lives in the present. And a warrior is wise, like the hawk, seeing the bigger picture, not reacting until the time and place is right. Keen vision, so to speak.
Just sharing something I've been trying lately. Thought it may help someone.
I've been wanting a new back tat for a long time. Possibly a septum piercing. We shall see. Time to get to work!
Love to you,
💪💓 Pray.
C.A. MacConnell
Distraction then proves to be the better solution. Ask someone else how he/she is doing. Move, move, move. Listen to a podcast. Watch something engaging. Read, if you can.
Be a warrior. A warrior lives in the present. And a warrior is wise, like the hawk, seeing the bigger picture, not reacting until the time and place is right. Keen vision, so to speak.
Just sharing something I've been trying lately. Thought it may help someone.
I've been wanting a new back tat for a long time. Possibly a septum piercing. We shall see. Time to get to work!
Love to you,
💪💓 Pray.
C.A. MacConnell
5/19/2018
5/18/2018
There is More.
So this morning, I was watching the trees blow in the wind, and I thought, Where does this all go? I envisioned a place full of light, a place that as a human, I could never understand.
I suppose that sometimes my musings drift all over the place, but whenever I think about these matters, one thing is always constant, and that's this: I never feel as if death is the ultimate end, final, and then there's nothing; every time I wonder, I have a feeling that there is more.
What about the mystery between two music notes? Shakespeare called this divine, because there is no way to explain the connection there. No way at all. People can play music all day long, great music, genius music, but there's no real explanation of what lies between two notes. What about love? What about the feeling of knowing someone from the past? Hey, that person looks familiar. We've all had that, right? And what about great art. Great art holds a divine mystery as well. The meaning could never be "proven," because each person sees it in a different light, even the creator, especially the creator.
Which means that creating is a divine enterprise.
Which means that regardless of where this all goes, I better get to work.
C.A. MacConnell
I suppose that sometimes my musings drift all over the place, but whenever I think about these matters, one thing is always constant, and that's this: I never feel as if death is the ultimate end, final, and then there's nothing; every time I wonder, I have a feeling that there is more.
What about the mystery between two music notes? Shakespeare called this divine, because there is no way to explain the connection there. No way at all. People can play music all day long, great music, genius music, but there's no real explanation of what lies between two notes. What about love? What about the feeling of knowing someone from the past? Hey, that person looks familiar. We've all had that, right? And what about great art. Great art holds a divine mystery as well. The meaning could never be "proven," because each person sees it in a different light, even the creator, especially the creator.
Which means that creating is a divine enterprise.
Which means that regardless of where this all goes, I better get to work.
C.A. MacConnell
5/17/2018
5/16/2018
A Snapshot
In the morning, and in the evening before sleep (for those who sleep), my mind begins to...well...work overtime. Maybe more than your average bear, I'm not sure. I start thinking about all of my insecurities, my setbacks, and all of my worries. More often than not, fear and doubt creep in. And sometimes, I'll think this: I have to change everything -- my hair, my body, my living space, and on and on.
As if changing the outsides would somehow alter my insides.
I get overwhelmed at the idea of changing everything.
When I look at many Facebook or Twitter pages, what do I see? Happy people, beautiful people, couples at dinner with an engagement ring, fresh, clean children playing in the spring shade, people winning awards, people singing to crowds, people celebrating, people being happy people. Not sure if I've ever seen a picture of someone crying. Wait, I think I have, but it's incredibly rare. Ha, I posted one of myself crying once. How about a shot of someone anxious, alone, at home, wondering what to do that night after a fresh breakup -- have never seen that.
As we all know, these social media sites are a mere snapshot of life. Mostly, they touch the surface, then scroll away. It is what it is. These pictures and short lines don't tell the real, whole story. How could they?
Oftentimes, looking at them makes me feel inadequate, fearful, and sometimes jealous, I admit. Other times, I may see a glimpse of the real person within the eye; I may have a sudden feeling of what the entire picture may include, so to speak. I suppose in the past, I connected with a few people this way, on the net, but it could never be the same as it would be in the flesh. Right, obviously. Right?
Wait a minute...back when I was eighteen, I met my soon-to-be boyfriend on AOL, and I told him I loved him before we even met. And then I met him, and I did love him, as fully as I could at the time. The connection was there online, and it was there in person.
There was no change in the heart.
Hm, so this morning, after tunneling through my insecurities and thinking about outer appearances, I'm thinking about how we all have one thing in common -- humanity. Of course, we all share some of the same pains, joys, setbacks, loves, deaths, addictions, and all of the things that make us who we are. And who we are is the true miracle, because no one, no one could have the exact same experience of you...or me. No one. But whether online or in person, when we share our honest stories, it cements us together.
But I'm not slamming the fun of it. Go ahead, share "happy people" pictures, regardless of what's going on, why not? Sometimes it's just plain entertaining.
But if I'm struggling some morning or some evening, I have to remember that when I see the outsides of others, it is a mere snapshot of what lies deep inside. Indeed, it seems to me that we are all trudging along, and in my opinion, searching for one pure, nonjudgmental thing -- love.
C.A. MacConnell
As if changing the outsides would somehow alter my insides.
I get overwhelmed at the idea of changing everything.
When I look at many Facebook or Twitter pages, what do I see? Happy people, beautiful people, couples at dinner with an engagement ring, fresh, clean children playing in the spring shade, people winning awards, people singing to crowds, people celebrating, people being happy people. Not sure if I've ever seen a picture of someone crying. Wait, I think I have, but it's incredibly rare. Ha, I posted one of myself crying once. How about a shot of someone anxious, alone, at home, wondering what to do that night after a fresh breakup -- have never seen that.
As we all know, these social media sites are a mere snapshot of life. Mostly, they touch the surface, then scroll away. It is what it is. These pictures and short lines don't tell the real, whole story. How could they?
Oftentimes, looking at them makes me feel inadequate, fearful, and sometimes jealous, I admit. Other times, I may see a glimpse of the real person within the eye; I may have a sudden feeling of what the entire picture may include, so to speak. I suppose in the past, I connected with a few people this way, on the net, but it could never be the same as it would be in the flesh. Right, obviously. Right?
Wait a minute...back when I was eighteen, I met my soon-to-be boyfriend on AOL, and I told him I loved him before we even met. And then I met him, and I did love him, as fully as I could at the time. The connection was there online, and it was there in person.
There was no change in the heart.
Hm, so this morning, after tunneling through my insecurities and thinking about outer appearances, I'm thinking about how we all have one thing in common -- humanity. Of course, we all share some of the same pains, joys, setbacks, loves, deaths, addictions, and all of the things that make us who we are. And who we are is the true miracle, because no one, no one could have the exact same experience of you...or me. No one. But whether online or in person, when we share our honest stories, it cements us together.
But I'm not slamming the fun of it. Go ahead, share "happy people" pictures, regardless of what's going on, why not? Sometimes it's just plain entertaining.
But if I'm struggling some morning or some evening, I have to remember that when I see the outsides of others, it is a mere snapshot of what lies deep inside. Indeed, it seems to me that we are all trudging along, and in my opinion, searching for one pure, nonjudgmental thing -- love.
C.A. MacConnell
5/14/2018
Rollin!
Roanoke Star
Roanoke, VA
I will tell you one detail, a little clue: it's set in Roanoke, Virginia.
Love,
C.A. MacConnell
The Viewing Room
The Viewing Room
Lips locked shut, you ride by the windows, staring inside. Your eyes -- blank
and round, like plastic. You are quick, moving down the ring side, your body
shifting in time to your horse's tail. Maybe you look to see why I'm resting
when there's work to be done -- bodies to groom, legs to bandage, whiskers
to clip. Maybe you look to see how I sit -- legs crossed, eating a small, packed
dinner way past the time. Maybe you want me to smile back through the thick,
shatterproof panes. Not the slightest grin spreads across your face. No gait breaks
in your horse's stride. You lean down to study the neck, and the green gelding
gives in, dips his nose down, and loosens the grip of his teeth on the bit. You spin
in smaller circles, turning your head, watching me rise. I place my fingers flat
against the cold glass, fixing my palm in a still, frozen wave, my skin blending
with window. I press the surface. I imagine pushing through, but I bring the hand
back down, swallowing the last of my late night meal, accidentally biting my lip.
Before closing, you halt and look in again. Maybe you see me lower my head,
chin against chest, hands folded in that look of feeling full. I breathe and rise.
Lifted, I slide up and out of my seat in the viewing room, giving it up.
C.A. MacConnell
5/12/2018
Photo: Play
"It is not time or opportunity that is to determine intimacy;-- it is disposition alone. Seven years would be insufficient to make some people acquainted with each other, and seven days are more than enough for others." - Jane Austen
C.A. MacConnell
Play
Glenwood Gardens
C.A. MacConnell
Miracles Happen.
When I least expect it, miracles happen. Sometimes they arrive in a strange way, coming from something that happens outside of me. For instance, back when I was around ten years old, I took a riding lesson at a small farm (with a lady named Mrs. Griffin), and I needed to buy a helmet. So Mom drove me out to a larger farm, a place called Red Fox Stables, to purchase the hat. Well, I ended up riding at Red Fox for the next eight years, and I spent every day there and later, I worked there as a professional. Truly, I found a home in the people, the animals, and the land. I will never forget this influence on my life. All because of that helmet. And later, I named my first book GRIFFIN FARM after that first place I rode.
But sometimes, miracles and inspirations come directly from the inside. Think about hunches, small clues, dreams, and the imagination. Back when I was looking at colleges, I had a strong vision. I saw myself in the mountains, down South. I didn't know much about any of any schools down there, but I somehow knew that I'd end up in Virginia, close to the mountains. And indeed, I ended up at Hollins University, nestled in the Roanoke Valley, surrounded by the Blue Ridge Mountains.
And then there's more. Miracles can come out of nowhere. Perhaps I am simply in the right place at the right time. Lovers can appear this way. Sometimes, new jobs and opportunities I never imagined seem to appear out of dust. For example, in 2005, I won the Mercantile Library Fiction Contest. That led to a trip to Santa Barbara, where I happened upon a skate park. Then there was a feature in CityBeat, which led to working at CityBeat for eight years, which led to meeting a whole slew of bands, artists, and the like. This string of miracles went on and on. And that experience at the skate park was one source of info for my second book, THE HOUSE OF ANCHOR. There were many, many sources of info, but this was a springboard.
Without even trying, children understand this notion of miracles. Watch them. See how amazed one girl is by the sight of a caterpillar. See how one boy believes his Batman t-shirt actually makes him Batman. Why not hang on to this childish expectation of wonder? Speaking of which, everyone has a passionate opinion of the greatest Batman. I plead the fifth, but I do have a favorite. And mine is right, ha.
So this morning, expect a miracle, inside and out. Why not. Yesterday, I wrote this in my journal: Why not me? Thinking negatively has never helped me in the past, so why not assume that today, I will be in the right place at the right time. Why not look forward to divine intervention. Why not assume that something greater than me is pulling for me...and for you...and that a welcome surprise could fall out of the air.
Why not you? Why not me?
C.A. MacConnell
5/11/2018
The Turnaround
When winter’s first snow tongue
licked the highway white,I wasn’t careful.
Instead, I sped up,
checking the time.
Next came Damien Rice.
Around eight, I took the funny,
wrong exit. Out there,
the phone didn’t blink.
No strange service could reach,
and I wondered if some god
was grinning. Maybe,
if I took enough detours,
this slippery trip would never be over.
Maybe I could find you
on the curious way back,
and we could wear our stupid hats.
From the thin road side,
maybe I could see you
walking toward me --
bundled in black,
holding two hot drinks,
raising them up,
sipping the side
of one cup’s stubborn drip,
soon waving me down
at the turnaround.
C.A. MacConnell
5/10/2018
5/08/2018
5/07/2018
Look again. He's always there.
Here's a poem for you this evening. Hope you had a peaceful day. Be easy on yourself, and I will do the same. :) The first line is the title in this one. Love, C.A.
the thinnest man in the sun.
Keeping time,
he throws crumbs
to any bird.
It’s true, he says.
For as long as I live, for as long
as you live,
I’ll be dusting feathers
from my jacket.
When it rains, he sells watches.
No insurance for the buyer,
but ten dollars
is all it takes
to slide one on the wrist.
That’s how Billy made it
through the winter.
C.A. MacConnell
5/04/2018
The Good Knives
The Good Knives
When I was little, there were these weird people called "traveling salesmen" who appeared every now and again in the neighborhood. Now, of course they're long gone, but back in the day, we'd let any old Scott or Tim or possible murderer into our house. Encyclopedia Brittanica? Mom and Dad bought the whole set. Tupperware? Bring it on. We didn't even discriminate against the guy selling Cutco Knives. That's right -- he was selling knives, and one night, Mom opened the door for him like he was her best friend. Soon, I think he was.
Hunched in a corner of the den, I watched the transaction go down. I always thought it was fun when something interrupted dinner.
The salesman laid out the butcher knives, the steak knives, the machetes, the swords, and the various types of scissors. I'm sure there were some nun-chucks, axes, daggers, and crossbows in his bag.
Mom listened intently as he described their possible cutting, dicing, and slicing techniques.
Wide-eyed, I thought, What do we need more knives for? But the salesman wore a suit, and he smelled like Polo cologne, so I figured he was the real deal.
Then the salesman pulled out the Cutco scissors. He began to demonstrate how the scissors were so sharp, they could cut a penny in half. And they could -- that serrated edge cut right through any old penny.
Mom shouted at Dad, "Honey, come look at this! These scissors cut a penny!" Then to me, "Can you believe this?"
"I can't believe it, Mom. Never saw anything cut a penny in half!" I yelled, agreeing wholeheartedly.
With his skeptical face on, Dad slid into the room. "What's this racket all about?"
Smiling like a wild clown, the salesman did another demo of the penny cutting.
Dad gasped. "Never saw that before! Unbelievable. Those things cut a penny right in half! Where's Matt? Get him in here."
Matt, my brother, wasn't around, so I was the sole recipient of the day's magic, and I admit that I was pleased about it.
Mom promptly purchased the scissors, and then she added about five knives on to her bill. She seemed excited, maybe even sweaty.
The salesman seemed excited, maybe even sweaty.
But as the salesman was leaving, reality set in, and a horrible thought about the scissors occurred to me. I waited a few minutes until Dad was gone, and then I tentatively asked Mom this very pointed question: "Why and when would anyone ever need to cut a penny in half?"
Holding her knife set, Mom scrunched her eyebrows, shrugged, and whispered, "You never know." Then she looked around, and I could tell she was listening for Dad's footsteps above her. We did that all the time -- just stared up at the ceiling to make sure he was up there. Then Mom chuckled and winked, "At least I finally got my good knives."
C.A. MacConnell
5/03/2018
5/02/2018
That First Moment
My hunch is that I can pretty much tell how a relationship's gonna go if I take a look at how the first moment occurs, or how the first date ends. For instance...if he leaves for work in the morning, he's always going to be the one leaving for work. If he doesn't want to go, he'll hang on for dear life the whole time. If he's unsure about the kiss, he'll be unsure about everything for the rest of the relationship.
Think about it...from the very first moment you meet someone, be it in a soulful, loving, or friendly relationship, when you study the actions, you pretty much know how it's going to go.
Some girl smothers you in a hug. She's always going to be the smothering type.
Some guy hugs you weakly. He'll always be half in.
Some girl gets a phone call from someone else. There will always be someone else.
From that first date, or that first moment, if you think about it, the future is clear.
The key is this: can you accept this person as he/she is today, right now? Can you accept the things you cannot change? Can you allow these truths to be what they are? And if you can, what will you do?
And then I turn it back on myself, and I think, I can pretty much tell how I feel about someone from that first moment. Am I wary? Do I hesitate or fall into it? Do I fall into it too much? Usually, from day one, I already know how it's going to go in the future. I just ignore my gut.
I can trust my gut.
Something to think about on your travels today.
Love,
C.A. MacConnell
Think about it...from the very first moment you meet someone, be it in a soulful, loving, or friendly relationship, when you study the actions, you pretty much know how it's going to go.
Some girl smothers you in a hug. She's always going to be the smothering type.
Some guy hugs you weakly. He'll always be half in.
Some girl gets a phone call from someone else. There will always be someone else.
From that first date, or that first moment, if you think about it, the future is clear.
The key is this: can you accept this person as he/she is today, right now? Can you accept the things you cannot change? Can you allow these truths to be what they are? And if you can, what will you do?
And then I turn it back on myself, and I think, I can pretty much tell how I feel about someone from that first moment. Am I wary? Do I hesitate or fall into it? Do I fall into it too much? Usually, from day one, I already know how it's going to go in the future. I just ignore my gut.
I can trust my gut.
Something to think about on your travels today.
Love,
C.A. MacConnell
5/01/2018
From the Show Horse
Sitting here with a mask on, mostly naked, ha. Hope you have a magical day. I intend to magically meet my true love...I believe in it, I do. Always have. Or at least make a killer cup of coffee, which is fine by me as well. This one's from the point of view of a Hunter/Jumper show horse. Love, C.A.
From the Show Horse
Reaching. Stretching. My neck. For hay, for grain.
I get the green hay, which is better.
My field friend, J.J., gets the yellow.
Last night, out with the boys, I heard that the white mare, Lily,
is having a baby. No,
it wasn't me. They won't let me near her,
but she's lucky. The big man feeds her
the sweet feed kind, which is like dessert,
so she'll probably gain...
a couple hundred. At her old home, her real name
was Emmi Snow, but nobody liked it
except for me.
It's sweaty in the barn, but we go outside after breakfast.
On the way, some don't have manners,
because they're mad at
inside. I don't mind. I know it's not
forever. When my shoulders lock up, I kick the stall wall,
and I chew on the wood. I can't stop chewing some days.
All the dark-haired ones tell me fast, soft words
that it's gonna be all right. The funniest man with the hat
cleans my dirty. I think he came from
somewhere. Then he stops and turns into smoke.
Then he rides on loud machines and gives me
an extra soft bed, and maybe his apple core, which is
happiness. But on the quiet day after two days of busy,
sometimes he doesn't show up.
And when he comes back, I think he might die,
but he gets better.
I thought I was going outside, but here comes my girl.
I lick some salt from the block and
stand tall. Keep going. For her. Today in the barn,
she leads me again. I’d follow her anyhow,
but she uses the rope. I breathe on her neck,
placing my hooves down; the right front stings a little
from the shoe man, but I won't tell her. I take it easy
on the right, tight side. Man, the work. But seeing her,
I come alive, feeling her fingers stroke and brush my black
mane. Mom had that shade too. One day, they put her
on the small barn with wheels, and she never came back.
J.J. always tells me they sent her to a rest farm, but he looks
backwards when he says it. I know she went to the
killers. I'm big, though. I'm five now.
Yesterday, the skinny vet came. I like that one. His hands
are soft, but bony and gentle. I don't like the fat one, or the one
who does my shoes. I admit I tried to kick him once.
My back has almost healed from the jumping crash,
but on rainy days,
my girl brushes me longer
than she should, just to be sure. I guess she knows
I'm still achy. I guess she knows that I was
trying, that the wreck wasn't my fault. Suddenly it hits me –
the sharpest air. Storm’s coming. I hear 32 hooves
shift at once. The oldest one and the sick one call out
warnings, always a dead giveaway. My girl cleans me,
and I know she thinks I'm handsome. Then she sweeps
the aisle, making cloudy dust. Each moment my body
is awake, I move for her. Even when I can’t feel my muzzle,
when it’s too cold to sneeze, I move for her. Later, if I stay in,
when the barn is dark, I spend minutes,
hours rocking
in the stall. Can’t sleep, can’t see, and if I lie down,
she might worry with morning. I listen to her breath,
letting it lift me, balancing steadily, without the wall.
I guess I love her, enough to know I don’t love another,
enough to recall the one who jerked me around. Later,
they'll give me a snack.
Hey, yesterday, she packed up
my bridle, her saddle, and her shiny, heavy tool box,
then gave me a bath, and the tall man cleaned my teeth.
My chewing is gonna be worse now. Looks like
we’re going somewhere. This must be what people feel like.
C.A. MacConnell
From the Show Horse
Reaching. Stretching. My neck. For hay, for grain.
I get the green hay, which is better.
My field friend, J.J., gets the yellow.
Last night, out with the boys, I heard that the white mare, Lily,
is having a baby. No,
it wasn't me. They won't let me near her,
but she's lucky. The big man feeds her
the sweet feed kind, which is like dessert,
so she'll probably gain...
a couple hundred. At her old home, her real name
was Emmi Snow, but nobody liked it
except for me.
It's sweaty in the barn, but we go outside after breakfast.
On the way, some don't have manners,
because they're mad at
inside. I don't mind. I know it's not
forever. When my shoulders lock up, I kick the stall wall,
and I chew on the wood. I can't stop chewing some days.
All the dark-haired ones tell me fast, soft words
that it's gonna be all right. The funniest man with the hat
cleans my dirty. I think he came from
somewhere. Then he stops and turns into smoke.
Then he rides on loud machines and gives me
an extra soft bed, and maybe his apple core, which is
happiness. But on the quiet day after two days of busy,
sometimes he doesn't show up.
And when he comes back, I think he might die,
but he gets better.
I thought I was going outside, but here comes my girl.
I lick some salt from the block and
stand tall. Keep going. For her. Today in the barn,
she leads me again. I’d follow her anyhow,
but she uses the rope. I breathe on her neck,
placing my hooves down; the right front stings a little
from the shoe man, but I won't tell her. I take it easy
on the right, tight side. Man, the work. But seeing her,
I come alive, feeling her fingers stroke and brush my black
mane. Mom had that shade too. One day, they put her
on the small barn with wheels, and she never came back.
J.J. always tells me they sent her to a rest farm, but he looks
backwards when he says it. I know she went to the
killers. I'm big, though. I'm five now.
Yesterday, the skinny vet came. I like that one. His hands
are soft, but bony and gentle. I don't like the fat one, or the one
who does my shoes. I admit I tried to kick him once.
My back has almost healed from the jumping crash,
but on rainy days,
my girl brushes me longer
than she should, just to be sure. I guess she knows
I'm still achy. I guess she knows that I was
trying, that the wreck wasn't my fault. Suddenly it hits me –
the sharpest air. Storm’s coming. I hear 32 hooves
shift at once. The oldest one and the sick one call out
warnings, always a dead giveaway. My girl cleans me,
and I know she thinks I'm handsome. Then she sweeps
the aisle, making cloudy dust. Each moment my body
is awake, I move for her. Even when I can’t feel my muzzle,
when it’s too cold to sneeze, I move for her. Later, if I stay in,
when the barn is dark, I spend minutes,
hours rocking
in the stall. Can’t sleep, can’t see, and if I lie down,
she might worry with morning. I listen to her breath,
letting it lift me, balancing steadily, without the wall.
I guess I love her, enough to know I don’t love another,
enough to recall the one who jerked me around. Later,
they'll give me a snack.
Hey, yesterday, she packed up
my bridle, her saddle, and her shiny, heavy tool box,
then gave me a bath, and the tall man cleaned my teeth.
My chewing is gonna be worse now. Looks like
we’re going somewhere. This must be what people feel like.
C.A. MacConnell
