C.A. MacConnell
12/31/2019
12/28/2019
12/27/2019
12/22/2019
12/21/2019
The Gruesome Raccoon
A few years back, I was teaching a group riding lesson to three kids.
We were in the indoor ring, because it was winter and suddenly, Flakey
and Cliff, two of the schoolhorses, started to act shifty. Flakey was
definitely twitchy and nervous. Now, Flakey was a nervous type, but I knew him like he was my brother,
and he was acting stranger than usual. Cliff was slightly moving his
big body a little more than normal, which was an effort for Cliff, so
that was odd to me as well. And Buddy, the pony, just stood there, which
was typical of Buddy. Nothing ever got to him, so he was a star
schoolhorse (minus running out of the ring door a few times), but I
really couldn't count on Buddy for any alerts.
Then Flakey backed up, pointing his nose up and down, blowing air through his nostrils.
I thought, Maybe a storm's coming. Maybe the vet's here. Maybe there's a truck coming -- shavings guy or the hay guys. Something of the sort. But then I looked up...and there, dangling from the rafters, was a bear-sized, nonathletic, clumsy-as-hell raccoon. Quickly, I told the students to back up the horses so that the raccoon didn't fall on them. Of course, I assumed that the raccoon wouldn't fall, but I felt like I had to be safe, just in case. Well, the raccoon did indeed fall. And it fell right in the middle of the ring. And the frenzied thing landed in a shuddering lump.
Flakey stomped and pawed at the ground. Cliff moved his big body around. Buddy did nothing.
Then the raccoon stood up on his hind legs.
I figured I could just wave my arms around and scare it away. I thought, Yeah, if that raccoon's bear-sized, I have to act like a bigger bear. Genius. Well, the closer I got, the bigger that raccoon stood up, and I swear that a creepy smile spread across its face. And then I realized that it was probably a rabid raccoon, or that it had been poisoned, so the animal was not even close to being in its right mind, and then the terrible truth became clear: this raccoon wasn't afraid of me at all. So I stood in front of the horses, "protecting them," but I also realized that I had absolutely no idea what I was doing.
The raccoon smiled at me, standing taller and taller.
Perhaps it was chuckling, drooling, spitting up poison. At any moment, I thought that it would put on a top hat, some tap shoes, grab a cane, and start dancing around the ring. I'd seen a few raccoons in my day, and I knew they could be somewhat creepy, but this was the most ghoulish raccoon that I had ever seen. And then the creature did do a weird, menacing dance across the ring, and in the process, it came closer and closer to me, until it was only a few feet away.
At one point, I thought it might jump right on top of me. After all, it seemed to have taken a real liking to me, as if mauling my face might be a good idea. I looked back at Flakey.
Big-eyed, I swore Flakey was saying, What the hell do we do?
There was nothing I could do. I could tell the kids to dismount, but I figured they were safer up high. I mean, I sure as hell wasn't safe on the ground. So I just stared at the dancing, sinister, rabid raccoon, stood there, and did nothing. I knew I was powerless.
The standoff lasted about ten minutes, but it felt like three hours. Finally, the beast jerk-walked to the ring door and made its way outside. But before it left the ring, it turned around and looked at me with those glowing, red eyes, slowly crawling away in a lump of gruesome, half-dead, zombie-ish, hair-raising, poisonous, slug-like alien goo, as if it were Jabba the Hutt's dreadful cousin.
I realized that this riding lesson was for me, the teacher. I thought, Sometimes, if I kick back and wait, and follow my instincts, the situation fixes itself, and I don't have to do anything at all. Then I calmly smiled, looked at my wide-eyed students, and asked, "Okay, now whose turn is it?"
C.A. MacConnell
Then Flakey backed up, pointing his nose up and down, blowing air through his nostrils.
I thought, Maybe a storm's coming. Maybe the vet's here. Maybe there's a truck coming -- shavings guy or the hay guys. Something of the sort. But then I looked up...and there, dangling from the rafters, was a bear-sized, nonathletic, clumsy-as-hell raccoon. Quickly, I told the students to back up the horses so that the raccoon didn't fall on them. Of course, I assumed that the raccoon wouldn't fall, but I felt like I had to be safe, just in case. Well, the raccoon did indeed fall. And it fell right in the middle of the ring. And the frenzied thing landed in a shuddering lump.
Flakey stomped and pawed at the ground. Cliff moved his big body around. Buddy did nothing.
Then the raccoon stood up on his hind legs.
I figured I could just wave my arms around and scare it away. I thought, Yeah, if that raccoon's bear-sized, I have to act like a bigger bear. Genius. Well, the closer I got, the bigger that raccoon stood up, and I swear that a creepy smile spread across its face. And then I realized that it was probably a rabid raccoon, or that it had been poisoned, so the animal was not even close to being in its right mind, and then the terrible truth became clear: this raccoon wasn't afraid of me at all. So I stood in front of the horses, "protecting them," but I also realized that I had absolutely no idea what I was doing.
The raccoon smiled at me, standing taller and taller.
Perhaps it was chuckling, drooling, spitting up poison. At any moment, I thought that it would put on a top hat, some tap shoes, grab a cane, and start dancing around the ring. I'd seen a few raccoons in my day, and I knew they could be somewhat creepy, but this was the most ghoulish raccoon that I had ever seen. And then the creature did do a weird, menacing dance across the ring, and in the process, it came closer and closer to me, until it was only a few feet away.
At one point, I thought it might jump right on top of me. After all, it seemed to have taken a real liking to me, as if mauling my face might be a good idea. I looked back at Flakey.
Big-eyed, I swore Flakey was saying, What the hell do we do?
There was nothing I could do. I could tell the kids to dismount, but I figured they were safer up high. I mean, I sure as hell wasn't safe on the ground. So I just stared at the dancing, sinister, rabid raccoon, stood there, and did nothing. I knew I was powerless.
The standoff lasted about ten minutes, but it felt like three hours. Finally, the beast jerk-walked to the ring door and made its way outside. But before it left the ring, it turned around and looked at me with those glowing, red eyes, slowly crawling away in a lump of gruesome, half-dead, zombie-ish, hair-raising, poisonous, slug-like alien goo, as if it were Jabba the Hutt's dreadful cousin.
I realized that this riding lesson was for me, the teacher. I thought, Sometimes, if I kick back and wait, and follow my instincts, the situation fixes itself, and I don't have to do anything at all. Then I calmly smiled, looked at my wide-eyed students, and asked, "Okay, now whose turn is it?"
C.A. MacConnell
12/14/2019
Don't tell anyone...
...but THE HOUSE OF ANCHOR is my favorite. Find it here.
Click link for a startling description!
Genius,
C.A. MacConnell
12/13/2019
12/12/2019
12/11/2019
12/10/2019
The Origins of Santa (For Adults Only)
In ancient times, in a land far, far away, somewhere cold all of the
time, otherwise known as "nipply," somewhere white where snowmen ruled
the earth and could creepily talk and sing like Burl Ives, there was
born a male child with a bowlful of jelly (Beefeater Gin). It wasn’t a
virgin birth at all. Actually, Grandma Claus got around. Anyway, out of
the womb, the male child came laughing and singing. Of course he was
laughing and singing. He was full of gin. They meant to name him
"Santana," because they believed him to be musically inclined, but it
came out "Santa" by accident.
Santa's first word was “cookie.” His second words were, “Do boys still like Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles? I think they do, so let me create some out of toothpicks like MacGyver would.” By the time the male child was 10, his hair was all white, and he had a beard, so everyone at school made fun of him at first, but then they were really nice, because they figured out that Santa could buy them alcohol, since he looked so old. So he laughed with his bowlful of jelly (Scotch) and went to many parties and looked at the women snow angels and exclaimed, “Ho, ho, ho!” All of the women got mad and beat him up until his cheeks were rosy, which was kind of scary and kind of fun and made puberty interesting.
Back then, Santa wore red and green tie-dyed shirts and sold “presents” at school for a living, hiding cash and extra “toys” inside the gap between his Hanes crew socks and his big black combat boots. His Claus parents were worried, so they locked Santa in the wood shop to punish him for being so sneaky. No one in the cold land had ever sold "presents" before. Santa had no idea what to do, so he smoked his last joint, and then he became extremely creative. Right then and there, he picked up a hammer and made a fifty foot doll house. Then he thought, What the fuck am I going to do with this fifty foot dollhouse? It's so cold around here, all anybody wants are space heaters from Wall-Mart, and the market is ridiculously terrible these days with this economy. His parents became very, very mad at him for cussing, so they made him give the dollhouse to a pretty girl in the next village, a girl who later became his wife, Mrs. Claus, but she's a person we won’t mention anymore because she’s never mentioned much because she’s just there to make Santa eat. In fact, lets just “X” out the previous sentence all together. Actually, lately, women are making a comeback, so lets keep her in but don't tell her.
Anyway, Santa liked the idea of giving girls presents so much that he couldn’t stop, because Santa had that kind of personality. Then when he ran out of girls, he realized that some boys were all right too. He only liked “good” boys and girls, ones who were quiet and followed the rules. Santa’s parents were worried for a while, but he made them an outdoor sauna in his wood shop, so they got all quiet and spent the days in the sauna, getting pruny and relaxing.
Then Santa popped some acid and began making mass quantities of brilliant toys in his wood shop, and suddenly, there were so many toys that he needed serious help. At rehab, Santa found some big-eared troublemakers -- a gang of Elves who were new in town, connected with the Old Town Williamsburg mob, and having rumbles all the time. Santa suggested to the Elves that it might be healing for them to come check out his presents at the wood shop. So they did. Like Santa, the Elves got addicted to the presents, so they had to work for Santa to continue their habit. It worked out beautifully. Side note: there was a lot of cookie eating, but one of the Elves was a dentist, so it was no problem.
Everybody was eating a lot of late night pizza, straight mayo and Doritos, and getting chubby, so they all needed exercise, so Santa told the Elves they needed to help him deliver presents on foot to the entire world on one night of the year, which was some super amazing exercise. Santa picked December 24th, Christmas Eve, because Jesus appeared to him in a peyote-induced dream and told him to do that, and he figured he’d better listen.
So at first, all of the Elves and Santa carried mass amounts of toys all over the Earth. Wearing long hair and tie-dyes, they traveled by foot, and they really had to hurry to make it through the oceans in one night. But they made it. Some houses were hard to break into, so they just shoved Santa down the chimney, and they could usually escape alarm systems that way, but sometimes they would run into wild animals and cobwebs and soot. Every now and then, Santa left presents, and then he took some things, such as flat screen TVs, pool tables, jewelry, and sometimes, Chia pets and fruitcakes. He would then wrap these goods up and deliver them to a neighbor, where he would then “accidentally” pick up more expensive things and pass them on to the next neighbor. Ingenious. But sometimes he kept the small stuff that was worth a lot of money. But he didn’t tell the Elves. He didn’t want them to worry. It worked really well. Side note: Santa invented recycling.
Not only did he not get arrested, but everywhere in the lands, people were leaving him milk and cookies, which was perfect, because on Christmas Eve trips, he and the Elves always had a wicked case of the munchies. Grandma and Grandpa Claus were so proud of Santa, they gave him a red and white suit, a red and white hat, a black belt, a carton of cigarettes and a noogie.
When Grandma and Grandpa Claus mysteriously died young in an accident involving carefully placed icicles, Santa happily came into some cash. He decided he needed to invest. So he went down the lane, and he got a great deal on a souped-up magic sleigh from the out-of-business car dealership sale, but then Santa had no way to pull the sleigh. Even though it was magic, it still needed help, because the dealership lied about the steering issues. Aha, Santa repeatedly saw dead deer while he was walking around, because people were building too many houses and making the deer lose their homes, which made Santa sad. So he decided to recruit some of the extra deer to try and pull his sleigh.
At first, the deer didn’t want to. They wanted to run and play and jump and be deer, but Santa slipped them some choice deer food one day, which involved hormones and steroids, and the deer started smiling more and decided to become a team led by Rudolph, the town deer drunk with the red nose.
From then on, Santa rode in his souped-up magic sleigh with deer pulling his way, and together, they all delivered presents to all the good girls and boys on the night of December 24th. Sometimes, Santa still visits local Christmas Lands and Malls and Churches, making guest appearances, where he always wears his red suit, his white beard, his hat, his black belt and boots, sometimes glasses, and where good boys and girls sit on his lap and sometimes urinate on him. No worries, when this happens, Santa looks out at the long line waiting to see him, finding a woman with a nice rack, looks right at her, laughs with his bowlful of jelly (Absolut Vodka) and says, “Ho, ho, ho,” then later shows her the magic Santaland House.
The End
C.A. MacConnell
Santa's first word was “cookie.” His second words were, “Do boys still like Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles? I think they do, so let me create some out of toothpicks like MacGyver would.” By the time the male child was 10, his hair was all white, and he had a beard, so everyone at school made fun of him at first, but then they were really nice, because they figured out that Santa could buy them alcohol, since he looked so old. So he laughed with his bowlful of jelly (Scotch) and went to many parties and looked at the women snow angels and exclaimed, “Ho, ho, ho!” All of the women got mad and beat him up until his cheeks were rosy, which was kind of scary and kind of fun and made puberty interesting.
Back then, Santa wore red and green tie-dyed shirts and sold “presents” at school for a living, hiding cash and extra “toys” inside the gap between his Hanes crew socks and his big black combat boots. His Claus parents were worried, so they locked Santa in the wood shop to punish him for being so sneaky. No one in the cold land had ever sold "presents" before. Santa had no idea what to do, so he smoked his last joint, and then he became extremely creative. Right then and there, he picked up a hammer and made a fifty foot doll house. Then he thought, What the fuck am I going to do with this fifty foot dollhouse? It's so cold around here, all anybody wants are space heaters from Wall-Mart, and the market is ridiculously terrible these days with this economy. His parents became very, very mad at him for cussing, so they made him give the dollhouse to a pretty girl in the next village, a girl who later became his wife, Mrs. Claus, but she's a person we won’t mention anymore because she’s never mentioned much because she’s just there to make Santa eat. In fact, lets just “X” out the previous sentence all together. Actually, lately, women are making a comeback, so lets keep her in but don't tell her.
Anyway, Santa liked the idea of giving girls presents so much that he couldn’t stop, because Santa had that kind of personality. Then when he ran out of girls, he realized that some boys were all right too. He only liked “good” boys and girls, ones who were quiet and followed the rules. Santa’s parents were worried for a while, but he made them an outdoor sauna in his wood shop, so they got all quiet and spent the days in the sauna, getting pruny and relaxing.
Then Santa popped some acid and began making mass quantities of brilliant toys in his wood shop, and suddenly, there were so many toys that he needed serious help. At rehab, Santa found some big-eared troublemakers -- a gang of Elves who were new in town, connected with the Old Town Williamsburg mob, and having rumbles all the time. Santa suggested to the Elves that it might be healing for them to come check out his presents at the wood shop. So they did. Like Santa, the Elves got addicted to the presents, so they had to work for Santa to continue their habit. It worked out beautifully. Side note: there was a lot of cookie eating, but one of the Elves was a dentist, so it was no problem.
Everybody was eating a lot of late night pizza, straight mayo and Doritos, and getting chubby, so they all needed exercise, so Santa told the Elves they needed to help him deliver presents on foot to the entire world on one night of the year, which was some super amazing exercise. Santa picked December 24th, Christmas Eve, because Jesus appeared to him in a peyote-induced dream and told him to do that, and he figured he’d better listen.
So at first, all of the Elves and Santa carried mass amounts of toys all over the Earth. Wearing long hair and tie-dyes, they traveled by foot, and they really had to hurry to make it through the oceans in one night. But they made it. Some houses were hard to break into, so they just shoved Santa down the chimney, and they could usually escape alarm systems that way, but sometimes they would run into wild animals and cobwebs and soot. Every now and then, Santa left presents, and then he took some things, such as flat screen TVs, pool tables, jewelry, and sometimes, Chia pets and fruitcakes. He would then wrap these goods up and deliver them to a neighbor, where he would then “accidentally” pick up more expensive things and pass them on to the next neighbor. Ingenious. But sometimes he kept the small stuff that was worth a lot of money. But he didn’t tell the Elves. He didn’t want them to worry. It worked really well. Side note: Santa invented recycling.
Not only did he not get arrested, but everywhere in the lands, people were leaving him milk and cookies, which was perfect, because on Christmas Eve trips, he and the Elves always had a wicked case of the munchies. Grandma and Grandpa Claus were so proud of Santa, they gave him a red and white suit, a red and white hat, a black belt, a carton of cigarettes and a noogie.
When Grandma and Grandpa Claus mysteriously died young in an accident involving carefully placed icicles, Santa happily came into some cash. He decided he needed to invest. So he went down the lane, and he got a great deal on a souped-up magic sleigh from the out-of-business car dealership sale, but then Santa had no way to pull the sleigh. Even though it was magic, it still needed help, because the dealership lied about the steering issues. Aha, Santa repeatedly saw dead deer while he was walking around, because people were building too many houses and making the deer lose their homes, which made Santa sad. So he decided to recruit some of the extra deer to try and pull his sleigh.
At first, the deer didn’t want to. They wanted to run and play and jump and be deer, but Santa slipped them some choice deer food one day, which involved hormones and steroids, and the deer started smiling more and decided to become a team led by Rudolph, the town deer drunk with the red nose.
From then on, Santa rode in his souped-up magic sleigh with deer pulling his way, and together, they all delivered presents to all the good girls and boys on the night of December 24th. Sometimes, Santa still visits local Christmas Lands and Malls and Churches, making guest appearances, where he always wears his red suit, his white beard, his hat, his black belt and boots, sometimes glasses, and where good boys and girls sit on his lap and sometimes urinate on him. No worries, when this happens, Santa looks out at the long line waiting to see him, finding a woman with a nice rack, looks right at her, laughs with his bowlful of jelly (Absolut Vodka) and says, “Ho, ho, ho,” then later shows her the magic Santaland House.
The End
C.A. MacConnell
12/08/2019
11/30/2019
11/29/2019
The Purple-haired Girl
Sweat makes sense, but I know the animals
Are free,
So why am I the
Help.
Meanwhile.
Find some tight clothes for the
Family.
I am speaking to thousands.
My forehead presses
Against yours, as if we are
Two cats.
-- C.A. MacConnell
Are free,
So why am I the
Help.
Meanwhile.
Find some tight clothes for the
Family.
I am speaking to thousands.
My forehead presses
Against yours, as if we are
Two cats.
-- C.A. MacConnell
11/28/2019
11/25/2019
11/24/2019
11/23/2019
11/21/2019
11/13/2019
11/12/2019
From the Lion.
from the point of view of the Lion...
From the Lion
Hm, yes, I have leftover
cheetah. Gnawing on the closer thigh.
Maz, the oldest, steals the right.
Sometimes, I let her.
I took cheetah by the vein
this afternoon. He was a slick, pale friend, an albino,
so rare,
but I was empty, and his paw was dragging,
so I saw it as a sign
to hit the neck.
He didn't go down easy.
I roll my eyes, checking. Hm, all of the ladies
are still mine. And the snake...
he's nothing to lose sleep about.
Hazel could take his head off with one
swipe. She probably will if he slides
too close to her Five.
Tomorrow, we're planning on antelope,
and the nap will be fine.
Man. Lately, a blue one stands
on his hind legs, holding a bad stick,
and he's been hunting me.
He thinks he is blending,
but I can smell him through the
leaves,
thirty trees back.
He's not one of us.
He's hairless, but for the head and chin.
I hear from Maz
that Stick Man wants to wear my teeth --
hang them from his chest --
for no reason at all, just because.
Hm, yes, today, in my free time,
I will peel him
apart like a gutted mango.
My tongue won't like him,
but I'll juice him slowly
when he moves the leaf
near the ladies and the kids and the rock.
I love one lady. Salta's eyes, gold
and black, hold sunrise and nighttime.
She has Four, and most days,
they're sucking anyone's tit.
Hm, soon, they will find mice.
And when they pass double hot years,
I'll tell them
to find another stretch, green or yellow,
to call home,
but if they don't listen,
I'll bury them, just because.
I hear something -- a wing.
Tomorrow, change of plans. Lunch will be birds.
Salta's hiding by the stones.
I stay away. Now is not the time.
She would fight me to the death,
even though they're mine.
And she might win. Hm,
I love her.
Now I see dirty Bubba sliding through the grass.
He wants to be king. He'll kill
the little ones. I prepare for a teeth
gnashing. If I win, he will be no more.
If he wins, I will become a dry tree,
or a green blade, or a stone,
so my father told me. In case the Stick Man wonders,
we kill, we eat, we sleep, we are reborn,
and then we go back
to the dust, just because.
Bubba turns away.
Maybe his ears hurt. The sky is talking.
Maybe he isn't in the mood.
I lick my paws clean, just because.
Hazel and Maz are yawning,
and Salta is growling, all pretty teeth.
Number Three kid looks like me.
I guess I have to go take care of this.
The snake is hugging him.
C.A. MacConnell
From the Lion
Hm, yes, I have leftover
cheetah. Gnawing on the closer thigh.
Maz, the oldest, steals the right.
Sometimes, I let her.
I took cheetah by the vein
this afternoon. He was a slick, pale friend, an albino,
so rare,
but I was empty, and his paw was dragging,
so I saw it as a sign
to hit the neck.
He didn't go down easy.
I roll my eyes, checking. Hm, all of the ladies
are still mine. And the snake...
he's nothing to lose sleep about.
Hazel could take his head off with one
swipe. She probably will if he slides
too close to her Five.
Tomorrow, we're planning on antelope,
and the nap will be fine.
Man. Lately, a blue one stands
on his hind legs, holding a bad stick,
and he's been hunting me.
He thinks he is blending,
but I can smell him through the
leaves,
thirty trees back.
He's not one of us.
He's hairless, but for the head and chin.
I hear from Maz
that Stick Man wants to wear my teeth --
hang them from his chest --
for no reason at all, just because.
Hm, yes, today, in my free time,
I will peel him
apart like a gutted mango.
My tongue won't like him,
but I'll juice him slowly
when he moves the leaf
near the ladies and the kids and the rock.
I love one lady. Salta's eyes, gold
and black, hold sunrise and nighttime.
She has Four, and most days,
they're sucking anyone's tit.
Hm, soon, they will find mice.
And when they pass double hot years,
I'll tell them
to find another stretch, green or yellow,
to call home,
but if they don't listen,
I'll bury them, just because.
I hear something -- a wing.
Tomorrow, change of plans. Lunch will be birds.
Salta's hiding by the stones.
I stay away. Now is not the time.
She would fight me to the death,
even though they're mine.
And she might win. Hm,
I love her.
Now I see dirty Bubba sliding through the grass.
He wants to be king. He'll kill
the little ones. I prepare for a teeth
gnashing. If I win, he will be no more.
If he wins, I will become a dry tree,
or a green blade, or a stone,
so my father told me. In case the Stick Man wonders,
we kill, we eat, we sleep, we are reborn,
and then we go back
to the dust, just because.
Bubba turns away.
Maybe his ears hurt. The sky is talking.
Maybe he isn't in the mood.
I lick my paws clean, just because.
Hazel and Maz are yawning,
and Salta is growling, all pretty teeth.
Number Three kid looks like me.
I guess I have to go take care of this.
The snake is hugging him.
C.A. MacConnell
11/10/2019
True Love is a Marathon.
If you read a lot of memoirs, it quickly becomes clear that we all share one thing: humanity. No matter how famous or how hidden a person may be, we all have trauma. We all struggle to find hope. We all have family issues. We all have moments that seem to affect us for years...and for some...their entire lives.
I once read a famous sports figure's memoir, and I wrote him a letter. He responded, and we corresponded for some time; he really helped me to delve into and deal with some stigma issues that were concerning me in those years. This man had nearly died three times. He was so close to death, it was a damn miracle that he was alive, writing me. He was kind, strong, and to the point. He was a guiding light.
I once befriended a man who had been sent to death row and was later exonerated. For many years, we wrote letters and shared poetry. His experience was certainly far more devastating than mine, but I too had known what it was like to be trapped...I had been locked up in hospitals many times. I still struggle to this day with that fear of being trapped, but he helped me muscle through the worst of it.
I've written rock stars, and I've talked with many of them, listening to their stories, and I dated one. He could be sweet and smooth, and he could be a raging scary machine, just like anyone could be. I always wondered when his fury would be directed at me. A punch or something. It never happened, but it was always in the back of my mind. He was also extremely sensual, but he seemed highly insecure, and he was extremely dishonest. I loved him deeply, and he really broke me. I was weak, anxious, and neurotic. I lost myself in him. There was nothing fairy tale about it. We were two mismatched people, just like any two mismatched people, trying to cope with our lives and pasts, and the fame had nothing to do with it. As much as I was deeply hurt, I still miss him, and I hate to say it, but when I think about him, I still feel...well...not good enough.
It is what it is. Some things leave us with a pang of hurt that may never completely leave. People sometimes ask me who it was. Some drill me. I usually answer, Who cares?
I just read a public icon's memoir, and I really related, so I wrote him. I don't consider anyone's public persona or name as a reason not to reach out. So if the moment calls for it, I do.
So this morning, I'm thinking about all of these stories, connections, and intertwined lives. I'm thinking about the ways that I reacted and attempted to live on, for better or for worse. I'm thinking about how the outer images we portray have nothing to do with the way that we can connect on an intimate level.
Love takes time.
Love is a process.
And I believe in true love to this day, but I define it in a different way. Sometimes it means taking a walk and realizing that both of you are coming from completely different directions. Sometimes I have to walk away. Sometimes it means letting go. Sometimes it means connecting on the Internet, and for some, getting married and having kids. Sometimes it means taking many walks and realizing that your journey together has been truly amazing, and no one on the outside could possibly feel the great weight of this connection. It is yours, only yours.
Love -- between friends, coworkers, partners, and family -- is complicated and multi-faceted, and when we touch, it merely scratches the surface. Love takes true grit, tears, and commitment. And to me, true love is a marathon.
Let it unfold. Today may be the day you leave someone behind, or today may be the day someone clutches your heart forever; it is strange and beautiful, and it isn't for the faint of heart. And remember, above all, no matter where we come from and where we're going with who we love, you and I are hilarious.
C.A. MacConnell
I once read a famous sports figure's memoir, and I wrote him a letter. He responded, and we corresponded for some time; he really helped me to delve into and deal with some stigma issues that were concerning me in those years. This man had nearly died three times. He was so close to death, it was a damn miracle that he was alive, writing me. He was kind, strong, and to the point. He was a guiding light.
I once befriended a man who had been sent to death row and was later exonerated. For many years, we wrote letters and shared poetry. His experience was certainly far more devastating than mine, but I too had known what it was like to be trapped...I had been locked up in hospitals many times. I still struggle to this day with that fear of being trapped, but he helped me muscle through the worst of it.
I've written rock stars, and I've talked with many of them, listening to their stories, and I dated one. He could be sweet and smooth, and he could be a raging scary machine, just like anyone could be. I always wondered when his fury would be directed at me. A punch or something. It never happened, but it was always in the back of my mind. He was also extremely sensual, but he seemed highly insecure, and he was extremely dishonest. I loved him deeply, and he really broke me. I was weak, anxious, and neurotic. I lost myself in him. There was nothing fairy tale about it. We were two mismatched people, just like any two mismatched people, trying to cope with our lives and pasts, and the fame had nothing to do with it. As much as I was deeply hurt, I still miss him, and I hate to say it, but when I think about him, I still feel...well...not good enough.
It is what it is. Some things leave us with a pang of hurt that may never completely leave. People sometimes ask me who it was. Some drill me. I usually answer, Who cares?
I just read a public icon's memoir, and I really related, so I wrote him. I don't consider anyone's public persona or name as a reason not to reach out. So if the moment calls for it, I do.
So this morning, I'm thinking about all of these stories, connections, and intertwined lives. I'm thinking about the ways that I reacted and attempted to live on, for better or for worse. I'm thinking about how the outer images we portray have nothing to do with the way that we can connect on an intimate level.
Love takes time.
Love is a process.
And I believe in true love to this day, but I define it in a different way. Sometimes it means taking a walk and realizing that both of you are coming from completely different directions. Sometimes I have to walk away. Sometimes it means letting go. Sometimes it means connecting on the Internet, and for some, getting married and having kids. Sometimes it means taking many walks and realizing that your journey together has been truly amazing, and no one on the outside could possibly feel the great weight of this connection. It is yours, only yours.
Love -- between friends, coworkers, partners, and family -- is complicated and multi-faceted, and when we touch, it merely scratches the surface. Love takes true grit, tears, and commitment. And to me, true love is a marathon.
Let it unfold. Today may be the day you leave someone behind, or today may be the day someone clutches your heart forever; it is strange and beautiful, and it isn't for the faint of heart. And remember, above all, no matter where we come from and where we're going with who we love, you and I are hilarious.
C.A. MacConnell
11/05/2019
11/03/2019
What's in There.
With his fingers, one lonely man
made a perfect, nude, stone sculpture.
A single woman penned a lofty book,
one about a shy, misunderstood
monster, a recluse who was half
machine. How could we ever
forget. Others wrote elusive songs,
poems, naked stories, and yes,
bibles and speeches. Soliloquies.
Still today, each moment, the world
falls in love with Marilyn Monroe.
How we all want to somehow
describe what's in there. We wake,
and we feel the ache, the relentless
pull in the center of the blood.
And here I am, going at it again,
trying to express what lies inside
my deep, my heart, but like the rest,
I'll never quite reach. I'm sure you
already know.
C.A. MacConnell
made a perfect, nude, stone sculpture.
A single woman penned a lofty book,
one about a shy, misunderstood
monster, a recluse who was half
machine. How could we ever
forget. Others wrote elusive songs,
poems, naked stories, and yes,
bibles and speeches. Soliloquies.
Still today, each moment, the world
falls in love with Marilyn Monroe.
How we all want to somehow
describe what's in there. We wake,
and we feel the ache, the relentless
pull in the center of the blood.
And here I am, going at it again,
trying to express what lies inside
my deep, my heart, but like the rest,
I'll never quite reach. I'm sure you
already know.
C.A. MacConnell
11/02/2019
Blanket
Outside, the shy,
cold front
settles down
on our sky.
Inside, the air
turns thin
and mean.
We crawl under
covers,
tossing,
and God knows
we'll never stop
moving.
Your slight
hand
graces my collar
bone.
C.A. MacConnell
cold front
settles down
on our sky.
Inside, the air
turns thin
and mean.
We crawl under
covers,
tossing,
and God knows
we'll never stop
moving.
Your slight
hand
graces my collar
bone.
C.A. MacConnell
10/23/2019
Photo: Little Miami, and a Note to You.
Little Miami River
Cincinnati, OH
Ohhh. I just finished a little Stephen King novella. Now off to read some autobiographies. Doing some voice research for BOOK FOUR. Fun, fun, fun. Creation in the works! My mind is already grabbing a hold of this next project. :)
Life is good. I clean, walk, work, create, and muse about love. That's about it. Very simple, but good.
Not sure where all the hawks are this year...they usually return by this time. Strange. Perhaps soon. I hope. I love to scout for them. :)
Not sure where all the hawks are this year...they usually return by this time. Strange. Perhaps soon. I hope. I love to scout for them. :)
I have signed copies of STRANGE SKIN in my possession. My contact info is here. All books are available on Amazon as well. Extremely soon, they'll be available at some select stores, so I'll let you know when that happens. Rad.
Hope you liked the shot. Much love to you,
C.A. MacConnell
Hope you liked the shot. Much love to you,
C.A. MacConnell
10/21/2019
Photo: My Coworker
My Coworker
Been roasting up a storm. Took some Brazilian home for me too. :) Hope you are well. I have some copies of STRANGE SKIN right here, by my side, so email me at camacconnell at gmail dot com if you'd like a signed copy. Right on!
Thanks for so much amazing feedback, everyone.
Love,
C.A.
C.A.
10/20/2019
10/15/2019
10/13/2019
Love Poem
I need a guitar,
and a new tattoo.
I need a dollar
to buy a lotto ticket.
Winner winner chicken dinner.
I need a woman
to show me how to heal.
I need a man
with a tattered jacket,
and a trick up his sleeve.
I need a black Camaro
with Kentucky plates,
and a rooster, a dog, and a glove.
I need a mailbox that leans,
and a doctor
who knows how to fuck.
If I could go back,
I'd take up the drums,
just for the muscle.
I need a mighty voice, a piano,
and a damn safe spork.
I need a shovel, a white room,
a backpack,
and some noise.
I need new employment
in the sky.
My eye is twitching.
My ears are ringing.
My ears are burning.
My eyes are burning.
There is one person
I'd like to mention.
C.A. MacConnell
and a new tattoo.
I need a dollar
to buy a lotto ticket.
Winner winner chicken dinner.
I need a woman
to show me how to heal.
I need a man
with a tattered jacket,
and a trick up his sleeve.
I need a black Camaro
with Kentucky plates,
and a rooster, a dog, and a glove.
I need a mailbox that leans,
and a doctor
who knows how to fuck.
If I could go back,
I'd take up the drums,
just for the muscle.
I need a mighty voice, a piano,
and a damn safe spork.
I need a shovel, a white room,
a backpack,
and some noise.
I need new employment
in the sky.
My eye is twitching.
My ears are ringing.
My ears are burning.
My eyes are burning.
There is one person
I'd like to mention.
C.A. MacConnell