Some secrets about the creation...originally, I met Joanna when I was in a band, and we were all at the Waffle House late night. We did share a few words. And then, I imagined what her story might be, and I combined some of my experience with it, and the poem took on a life (and character) of its own. This is often how I begin to develop characters...a combo of different folks, all wrapped in one, as well as a l'il of me buried in there. Hope you like it. Love, C.A.
Joanna at the Waffle House
Coffee or tea? You're lucky, see --
some nights, the blackest alleys
still reach for me. See, they want me
back. Mornings -- blinding, man,
And the bottle was the place
that I called home. When I woke,
sometimes I found strange blankets,
or maybe a brand new bruise.
Some girl was always askin' T-bird
who she fucked last night. Shit,
never talked to that kind. I traced
my way somewhere safe. Thick,
fast, mean love shook me loose,
like a wicked cough, like a wheeze,
making my chest push and pull
within the hours, when I felt
the noise of everything close.
Maybe it was even you. Hell,
I remember the slick, nasty streets --
the muggers, and the dope boys,
and the Lusty Lady strippers.
Outside smokin', they wore nothing
but red robes. I remember the punk
kids, the snapping, the slapping,
and the cracking. Everywhere,
smiles held gaping holes. Back
there, in the box, a baby. You need
more time? You're lucky, see.
Some nights, the blackest alleys
still reach for me, 'cause back there,
in the box, that baby was mine.
Maybe it was even you.
C.A. MacConnell
6/30/2019
6/29/2019
Sideburn
From the archives, today. An interesting little piece. Hope you like it! <3
Sideburn
It is thick, thick,
then narrow,
then thicker.
A full-grown,
deep-angled,
tricky, wild,
steep stairwell
leading down
from floor two,
your ear,
stepping
all the way
to your jawline,
the landing.
Flatly, no,
shockingly,
it ends.
But in the white
space between
your hair
and cheek,
my finger becomes
the imaginary
razor, testing
the shaved line,
lingering
on the edge,
feeling the way
your smooth, hot,
strange skin
so easily leads
back into the hall,
back into the rough.
C.A. MacConnell
Sideburn
It is thick, thick,
then narrow,
then thicker.
A full-grown,
deep-angled,
tricky, wild,
steep stairwell
leading down
from floor two,
your ear,
stepping
all the way
to your jawline,
the landing.
Flatly, no,
shockingly,
it ends.
But in the white
space between
your hair
and cheek,
my finger becomes
the imaginary
razor, testing
the shaved line,
lingering
on the edge,
feeling the way
your smooth, hot,
strange skin
so easily leads
back into the hall,
back into the rough.
C.A. MacConnell
6/28/2019
Photo: The Architect
The Architect
"'So to reveal myself, that was a big hurdle -- not only to be the center of attention, but saying, Look at what I've created. Do you like it? As
you know, everyone has an opinion. But I've been through a lot in my
life, and I have a thick skin. I learned to trust my gut early on. I
knew that I was on the right track writing songs and performing, knew
that it was going to open up for me. I trusted myself.'"
-- artist Ray Lamontagne, from an article by Eric Snider, Tampa Bay Creative Loafing, April 2009.
Today's Truth: Trust yourself.
C.A. MacConnell
-- artist Ray Lamontagne, from an article by Eric Snider, Tampa Bay Creative Loafing, April 2009.
Today's Truth: Trust yourself.
C.A. MacConnell
6/27/2019
6/26/2019
Photos: Rare Sun, Saying Hello!
Lately, we have had more thunderstorms than I have ever seen in this town. And more to come! I've always felt connected to storms, and I can't help but think something exciting is coming.
But for today, I'm enjoying the rare sun. Now back to work on BOOK THREE, design aspect. <3 to you,
C.A. MacConnell
6/20/2019
6/17/2019
Photo: Nineties.
Nineties
Clifton, OH, Color film, Nikon.
Clifton, OH, Color film, Nikon.
THE HOUSE OF ANCHOR is a fast-paced, intense, literary mystery set in Seattle in the nineties. Sometimes dangerous and often humorous, this novel is a deep, epic adventure packed with vivid dialogue. The slick use of voice is fresh, addictive, and engaging; it'll stick with you. It digs deep into skateboarding, hostels, grunge, and addiction, and it's real and raw, with a street edge, but it also shows the voice of recovery.*
Every day, people message me, email me, and tell me in person how engaging it was, that they couldn't put it down, and that is so rewarding.
If you haven't already, I hope that you can join me on this epic adventure!
C.A. MacConnell
*Note: story contains strong language.
6/09/2019
The Body: It Carries Us Whole.
I admit that I like to perform – to speak or read in front of crowds.
I find that these types of experiences energize me but ironically, I
also have a strong internal critic that's a real bear. Every day, I
fight it, and I’m sure everyone experiences this negative dialogue to an
extent -- some worse than others. When it gets bad, I call people,
walk, move, move, move. Riding horses used to help me a great deal.
Baths, meditating, being with animals, being with nature, helping
others, enjoying art, sex, laughter, acting like a goofball -- all of
these things provide temporary relief.
Or I write to you and you and especially you.
As it is for so many, facing the self-esteem issue has been a long road for me. As a kid, I had no real solution for my severe depression. Desperately, my mind sought an outlet, and my brain latched on to my self-esteem, my physical self, and my ability to achieve, and there was (and is) a real, constant beating.
Well, the other day, I was listening to the radio, and I heard a writer talk about her body view. She told the story of when she visited a California nudist place and at this particular one, when she ventured into the sauna and glanced at the other women, she thought that they all had nearly "flawless" bodies, in terms of society's stereotypical external standards. From the Midwest, the writer had given birth to two children, and she knew she was fuller figured than any of the women there. At first, she felt like she didn't fit in at all, but then she thought about how each supposed "flaw" on her body actually represented a piece of her life story.
True, she wasn't living in a perfectly healthy way, but she had the following sudden internal revelation: if she hated her body, she also hated all of the experiences through which her body had carried her. As the heat sank in, she thought back over her life; she began to honor the ways that her body told her beautiful tale. Maybe she hadn't had time to tone up like she wanted to, but that was because she was present to raise her children and watch them grow. She hadn't always treated her body well, but it still continued to perform for her. Without retaliation or resentment, her body had selflessly continued to give back. It represented who she was, and she realized that she had to love this outside shell in order to honor her whole being. If she were going to feel complete, she knew she had to forgive herself and love the physical form that had carried her on her journey thus far.
Listening, I thought about the ways that I've daily picked apart my body. But these strong arms, strong legs, and good balance kept me safe while riding horses for many years. And later, this body carried me through yoga. My body has carried me through great trauma, as well as great healing. With this body, I have given talks to thousands of people. With these arms, I have hugged many people and animals. Maybe my voice or smile helped someone laugh. Maybe I helped to save a life. The woman’s words echoed in my mind. If she hated her body, she also hated all of the experiences through which her body had carried her. I was reminded that my body is a vessel that represents the richness present in my life and with this physical self, I have felt and expressed love, and isn’t that why we are here?
C.A. MacConnell
Or I write to you and you and especially you.
As it is for so many, facing the self-esteem issue has been a long road for me. As a kid, I had no real solution for my severe depression. Desperately, my mind sought an outlet, and my brain latched on to my self-esteem, my physical self, and my ability to achieve, and there was (and is) a real, constant beating.
Well, the other day, I was listening to the radio, and I heard a writer talk about her body view. She told the story of when she visited a California nudist place and at this particular one, when she ventured into the sauna and glanced at the other women, she thought that they all had nearly "flawless" bodies, in terms of society's stereotypical external standards. From the Midwest, the writer had given birth to two children, and she knew she was fuller figured than any of the women there. At first, she felt like she didn't fit in at all, but then she thought about how each supposed "flaw" on her body actually represented a piece of her life story.
True, she wasn't living in a perfectly healthy way, but she had the following sudden internal revelation: if she hated her body, she also hated all of the experiences through which her body had carried her. As the heat sank in, she thought back over her life; she began to honor the ways that her body told her beautiful tale. Maybe she hadn't had time to tone up like she wanted to, but that was because she was present to raise her children and watch them grow. She hadn't always treated her body well, but it still continued to perform for her. Without retaliation or resentment, her body had selflessly continued to give back. It represented who she was, and she realized that she had to love this outside shell in order to honor her whole being. If she were going to feel complete, she knew she had to forgive herself and love the physical form that had carried her on her journey thus far.
Listening, I thought about the ways that I've daily picked apart my body. But these strong arms, strong legs, and good balance kept me safe while riding horses for many years. And later, this body carried me through yoga. My body has carried me through great trauma, as well as great healing. With this body, I have given talks to thousands of people. With these arms, I have hugged many people and animals. Maybe my voice or smile helped someone laugh. Maybe I helped to save a life. The woman’s words echoed in my mind. If she hated her body, she also hated all of the experiences through which her body had carried her. I was reminded that my body is a vessel that represents the richness present in my life and with this physical self, I have felt and expressed love, and isn’t that why we are here?
C.A. MacConnell
6/08/2019
6/07/2019
6/03/2019
Short Story: Jesus, Jimmy
Hope you're reading THE HOUSE OF ANCHOR!
Here is a fiction sample for you.-- C.A. Mac
Jesus, Jimmy
-- orig. published in Analecta 25: the Art and Literary Journal of the University of Texas at Austin
All right. There were some fights. Food scattered all over the kitchen, a fork mark on the side of Dad's neck. She had thrown it at him. She liked to throw things. When I walked into the kitchen, I ducked.
Bang, bang, bang on the wall. That was how she got my attention. "Moe! Get up, Moe! You shouldn't be sleeping all day!"
"I work the night shift!" I yelled back. Something like that.
Bang, bang, bang on the wall. "You shouldn't be sleeping all day!"
And there was my hand through a glass door because she pushed me into it. Then her calling the cops on me for attacking. Which I didn't, but there was blood there, and it was my fault like it was always my fault. Then it was me choosing between juvey hall and the psych ward. Then me choosing again.
So I hung out at Jimmy's basement mostly. We did ridiculous things like drink cases of Milwaukee's Best and smoke stuff and knock down walls. And sometimes, Jimmy got his guns out to show off to me. How Jimmy never ended up in jail, it's a wonder. He liked guns and guns like Jimmy. One time, we built a bonfire out in Jimmy's backyard. Jimmy burned things like books and chairs while I played my Dad's guitar in the basement. Through the sliding glass door, I watched Jimmy dance around the fire shooting his gun. Flash got me stoned. We called him that because he used to be all athletic and run real fast. He used to do everything fast -- walk fast, drive fast, pick up women fast. Stuff changes though. He made us crack up and turned into the dealer for us. There was money in it. When he was stoned, Flash cooked up these plans to save the world, then forgot them in a flash. He was a dreamer. We all were, like how we thought we could ace tests without studying at all. I always did okay, but there was the time when Jimmy saw my score and wrote "Eat shit" on my test. Then he dropped his pants. Boy, we both had to call our moms from school on that one. It was nuts.
While we burned things, Jimmy's mom slept upstairs. Either that or she went out with her boyfriend to Blueberry Hill for a drink, which usually turned out to be ten drinks. Her boyfriend was an electrician, and that came in handy when Jimmy drank too much and broke lamps. Me and Jimmy were just glad we had a place to hang out and do ridiculous things and not get yelled at. Jimmy's mom had a bad back and she was crazy too, quiet crazy. She took drugs for it, the kind that make you all loopy like you're half-dead.
Bang, bang, bang on the wall. "Moe, you bring me some hangers." And when I forgot, "Boy, I can see your titties when you wear that tank top." Mom said that 'cause I was big for fifteen. I was pretty built freshman year, but I kind of let myself go after that. Me and Flash were big and silly. Jimmy was bigger and sillier. Jimmy's mom was quiet crazy. My mom was loud crazy. That's why me and Jimmy hung out and knocked down walls.
--
I'm getting out today, which is a good thing because I'm playing my guitar tonight in the jazz band competition at school. All I've thought about for the past two weeks while I've been in the psych ward is how the hell I was going to get enough practicing done. They told me to think about all this past stuff, and I've thought about it, and I've written at least five new tunes about how Mom told me we were going to the doctor to get my ingrown toenails removed. Instead, she started chain smoking and drove me here, threw me in the loony bin. Not so bad, really. When you're fifteen, and in the loony bin, and your mom's loud crazy, it's kind of nice to get away for a while.
I got Dad's guitar with me. They don't let me keep it in my room because they're afraid somebody might steal it. They keep it behind the counter until I ask for it. It's not so bad here. Quiet. Kind of like a vacation.
So we go to meetings where we talk about how we feel, and I tell them I don't know why I'm here, that I'm just here, that Mom's loud crazy and I got no problems. Those whitecoats just nod and smile, looking at me all sad, the way Jimmy's mom looks when she does come down from her room, which is a one-in-a-million thing. The girls here talk and cry a lot. The boys here listen to me play tunes and beat on things when we're allowed to make noise. While I strum, I miss Jimmy and Flash, and I wonder how they're holding up. And I feel bad 'cause I know they don't like too much time without me. They need me to keep them from doing stuff that's really stupid, like stealing picnic tables from the neighbors. But that's another ridiculous story.
All right. So all week long I've been ignoring that guy with the sleep disorder. He kept banging on the wall the way my Mom did, all loud, trying to get my attention. I've been ignoring the pill suicide girls and the kid whose mom deserted his family on his birthday. I played my part in the psycho drama, the part of one of the suicide kid's abusive older brothers. That was some fun. All week long, they kept coming to me, and I listened to their stories and tried to help, but there's just no helping some people. Besides, I had to practice for the jazz band competition. Jimmy and Flash were looking forward to it. We had ridiculous plans for after the competition, whether or not I played well. They promised me that when I used my one phone call on them.
So I sit here with Dad's guitar and wait for her. When she pulls up in her AMC Eagle, yelling, "Moe!" out the window, waving her cigarette at me, I just sit and sulk.
"Get in," she says.
I get in because I got to get to school fast for the competition. I can’t drive yet and Flash is the only one with the car, but his is on blocks in Jimmy’s backyard because of the night we got all drunk on wine coolers and had the munchies. We went to Kentucky Fried Chicken and ate straight off the all-you-can-eat bar. When we got back, Flash ran straight into the side of Jimmy’s house. That was after we trashed the Cedar Ridge apartment complex across the street. Jimmy had to get a new brush after that because he left his floating in the pool there. Slipped out of his back pocket.
Dad’s guitar sits in the backseat behind me, same way it sat the day after he had his first heart attack, which was the same day Mom asked him for the divorce. It was the same day that gunfire and explosions went on in Jimmy’s backyard, and we stole a birdbath from his neighbor. A week later, Jimmy’s mom smoked in the basement, ashed in the birdbath and said, “Where’d this birdbath come from?” And Jimmy said back, “Moe’s mom gave it to us.” Jimmy’s mom smiled and went up to her room with a bottle of Wild Turkey and got all quiet.
Mom rolls up her window and lights one smoke off of another. “How you doing?” she asks me, stretching her neck like a bird so she can see over the dash. Mom is skinny and wrinkly. Makes me wonder how I turned out so big.
“How do you think I’m doing?” I say back. I feel like playing some blues. Maybe Muddy Waters. Miles Davis. Yeah, Jimmy and Flash would like that.
“Moe, we got to hurry. You got the jazz band, and I got people coming to see you,” she says.
I always thought it was funny that I had to play my electric with no amp because she was always telling me to shut up, but when people came over, she wanted to show me off.
“Yeah,” I say. She doesn’t talk anymore, and I’m glad because I’m trying to remember chords in my head. I move my fingers to make sure they still work.
When we get to Wilson High, my school, Mom drops me off at the door, and I rub my hands together because they’re cold, and it’s hard to play when they’re cold. Jimmy and Flash are there and they pat me on the back. Jimmy is stoned for sure and Flash is too I think, but sometimes it’s hard to tell with Flash since he wears glasses and when he takes them off, his eyes are just slits all of the time.
Jimmy pats me on the back again, and we walk back behind the school, where I smoke a blunt with them. We huddle together like three big bears.
“Was it a shithole?” Jimmy asks me, pulling that new brush out of his back pocket. He got the new one the time when we were fucked up and Flash was running around Food Lion yelling, “I’m available for any fourteen-year-old chicks,” while Jimmy was busy stealing pot pies, and while I was busy keeping track of them.
Jimmy brushes his greasy hair back so that it’s all slick.
“Yeah, man. The people in there were so crazy, made me think I’m pretty normal.” I take the brush from Jimmy and get slick too. Got to hold up my image. I’m a slick, fast blues man. I feel my goatee. It hasn’t grown much.
“Did you meet any women?” Flash asks me, pulling a flask from his pants, taking a swig, then passing it to me. He doesn’t slick his hair ’cause it’s not worth it — his hair’s so curly the brush just gets stuck there. But he pushes his glasses up on his nose even though they’re already pushed up there. Habit.
“One. She liked to hear me play, but the nurses watched us close. Made me leave the door open. Treated me like I was some kind of nutcase,” I say.
“Too bad,” Flash says, “Hey man, you can stay at my place if stuff with your mom is tiring you.” He takes another swig and goes, “Geez, ahhh,” then smacks his lips. Something like that.
“Yeah, like your mom wants another kid running around. She’s already got ten,” I say. I think about it though. Whenever I went to Flash’s house, his dad would cook me gourmet things like eggplant Parmesan. There was just something about his house. No matter what, me and Jimmy could walk in there looking and smelling like bums, but Flash’s house always smelled good. And Flash did too. My house smelled like smoke. Jimmy’s did too, only not cigarette smoke — his house smelled like smoke from burning things because Jimmy just liked to burn things.
I pick up Dad’s guitar and go around the school to the backstage, where I get ready, and where Jimmy and Flash say to me, “Don’t kill yourself,” which means good luck. Jimmy brushes my hair where it’s sticking up and Flash puts a pack of smokes in the pockets of my jeans. I pull them up. They’re a bit loose. That’s what happens when Mom puts you in the psych ward. You get loose jeans. Doesn’t matter, though, ’cause I’m big and Flash’s dad’ll cook me up something soon, like he did the last time I was in there — cooked me up some roast duck with wine sauce, which is something.
When I walk into the rehearsal room, the kids are already warmed up. They all stare at me, like they are thinking, There’s that big Moe, who was sent to the psych center. He must be nuts. But they keep on warming up, and as I tune my guitar, my hands feel bigger and bigger. My body feels bigger and bigger. And Dad’s guitar feels ridiculously heavy. I feel sweat coming down my head, messing up my hair where Jimmy brushed it. But I am strong, strong like Dad. I am a fighter, like Jimmy when he threw that kid into a mirror at his house and glass went everywhere. “Shit,” Jimmy said. “Bad luck.”
“Ready. The crowd’s waiting.” Mr. Slosher says that. He’s the gym teacher, but he’s also the music teacher. In gym class, he laughs when he calls my name for attendance. “Oh, it’s Tuesday. Moe must be here.” I only go to school on Tuesdays and Thursdays because that’s band practice days. Always get an “A” in gym though. Mr. Slosher likes me ’cause I play a mean guitar. He says I know how to improvise.
We follow him because he’s got the suit on — me, the keyboard player, the bassist, and the drummer. One big bear and three little kids. We follow Slosher the way Mom follows me around the house, watching me, waving her cigarette like an extra finger, saying, “Moe, why you always look at me like that?”
Slosher opens the curtains for us, and the four of us go out on stage, waiting for the good part. I breathe deep and think of Jimi Hendrix. I look at Charles, the bass player, and nod. And he nods back. I feel all loopy and daydream about his dark face fading into Jimmy’s pale one. I picture Jimmy standing next to me on stage, saying, “Look at my new gun, Moe. We’re gonna tear some shit up tonight.” And I look at the skinny, angry drummer, wishing it were Flash beating on them, saying, “Come over. My dad made some linguine.” But when the curtains open, and I look out at the parents, all I see is Mom’s face, wrinkly and smiling. She even claps.
I stare at her while I play Dad’s guitar. I’m not thinking about what I’m playing, but somehow, my fingers move because Slosher says I know how to improvise. I keep staring at Mom and thinking of songs in my head, songs about people just like me and Flash and Jimmy, people that do ridiculous things. When it’s over, and the crowd’s making some noise, I think I see Dad out there too, smoking a cigarette in the back of the auditorium because he has to smoke in order to cough and get stuff out of his lungs. And that is the stupid thing about all of it. Not that he has to cough, but that he’s not there at all.
When they give me the plaque for "Most Valuable Jazz Band Member," all I can think about is how good it is going to look on that wall, that wall that Mom always bangs on. And as she takes me home, all I think about is where the plaque should go, somewhere between my poster of Jimi and the one of B.B. King. So, when I ask Mom for nails, she says, "Moe, we can't be ruining the walls."
But I do it anyway. I search through Dad's old work shed and find a big one and pound it in. Bang, bang, bang on the wall. I hang that plaque there, and when she comes in and throws things and takes that plaque away, I duck and keep hitting the wall. Bang, bang, bang. I hit it until there's a hole there, then walk over to Jimmy's to cool off. I'll get that plaque back. Something like that.
Me, Jimmy, and Flash hang out at Jimmy's and play pool. Jimmy is good and liquored up by the time I get over there to tell him about the plaque.
"That ain't right," he says, sitting on top of the pool table. It doesn't matter if we do that. The table has all sorts of dents and slants in it.
"Yeah," I say, drinking Jimmy's Mom's Wild Turkey.
"That just ain't right," Jimmy says, hitting his fist on the table, knocking the eight ball with the side of his big hand.
"Boys, we need to have a little meeting," Flash says, pulling bud out of his jacket.
The three of us move to a holey couch, sink in it, smoke and get all quiet until Flash says, "Man, you're gonna be all famous on stage someday and none of this shit will matter."
"Let me see your guns, Jimmy," I say to him.
Jimmy's red eyes open, and he jumps up to get them, but he only makes it to the pool table. He lies down on it and gets all sleepy.
Flash puts his arm around me. He feels warm and smells like some food I can't put my finger on. "You're gonna be all famous, and I'll be the cook for your band." He takes his glasses off and starts cleaning them on his sweatshirt. The glasses are clean, but he cleans them anyway. Habit.
"Yeah," I say. "I'm gonna make some noise." I pick up Dad's guitar by the neck and begin to strum the blues, staring at the birdbath. Flash gives me a noogie and fills up the big bong. Jimmy talks in his sleep. I play until I can't move my fingers. Then I shake them and play some more until I'm sweating, sweating like I'm on stage with thousands of people staring at me, yelling my name, smiling, smoking their cigarettes, letting me hang up my plaque. Me and Flash get stoned off our rockers and laugh at Jimmy who wakes up when his Mom comes down the stairs when she gets back from Blueberry Hill and thinks she better check on him for once.
"Let me see your guns, Jimmy," I say because it's too quiet, crazy quiet.
"Mom, does your boyfriend stick his dick in light sockets?" he asks her. And she shakes her head and walks to the upstairs, which I have never seen. She doesn't talk back to Jimmy because Jimmy has guns. She just stares like a crowd stares before the music begins when Mr. Slosher says, "You ready?"
Jimmy laughs all loud crazy then starts nodding off again, spread-eagled on the pool table. Flash goes over, pokes his shoulder 'cause he's worried Jimmy might choke on his puke or something ridiculous like that. Sometimes, it's hard to wake Jimmy unless you stick forks in his mouth. And then he'll just wake up and puke in the birdbath.
I keep yelling, "Let me see your guns," and Flash keeps poking him, until Jimmy wakes up and punches him in the mouth. "Let me sleep," he says.
"Jesus, Jimmy, it's me," Flash says to him, wiping his mouth, which probably hurts and will hurt more tomorrow. The whole scene will stick in his mind like a bad tune.
Jimmy opens his eyes up some more, rubs them, and says, "Sorry man." Flash and I know he means it 'cause he messes his hair up when he says it, and that means he's telling the truth. Sometimes the truth is messy that way. Then Jimmy slurs, "Hey, Moe, me and Flash'll help you get that plaque back, even if I have to beat the shit out of your old lady. She probably stuffed it under your dad's old clothes in the basement or something," right before he passes out for real, when there's no waking him.
"All right," I say. And sometimes it was.
-- C.A. MacConnell
Here is a fiction sample for you.-- C.A. Mac
Jesus, Jimmy
-- orig. published in Analecta 25: the Art and Literary Journal of the University of Texas at Austin
All right. There were some fights. Food scattered all over the kitchen, a fork mark on the side of Dad's neck. She had thrown it at him. She liked to throw things. When I walked into the kitchen, I ducked.
Bang, bang, bang on the wall. That was how she got my attention. "Moe! Get up, Moe! You shouldn't be sleeping all day!"
"I work the night shift!" I yelled back. Something like that.
Bang, bang, bang on the wall. "You shouldn't be sleeping all day!"
And there was my hand through a glass door because she pushed me into it. Then her calling the cops on me for attacking. Which I didn't, but there was blood there, and it was my fault like it was always my fault. Then it was me choosing between juvey hall and the psych ward. Then me choosing again.
So I hung out at Jimmy's basement mostly. We did ridiculous things like drink cases of Milwaukee's Best and smoke stuff and knock down walls. And sometimes, Jimmy got his guns out to show off to me. How Jimmy never ended up in jail, it's a wonder. He liked guns and guns like Jimmy. One time, we built a bonfire out in Jimmy's backyard. Jimmy burned things like books and chairs while I played my Dad's guitar in the basement. Through the sliding glass door, I watched Jimmy dance around the fire shooting his gun. Flash got me stoned. We called him that because he used to be all athletic and run real fast. He used to do everything fast -- walk fast, drive fast, pick up women fast. Stuff changes though. He made us crack up and turned into the dealer for us. There was money in it. When he was stoned, Flash cooked up these plans to save the world, then forgot them in a flash. He was a dreamer. We all were, like how we thought we could ace tests without studying at all. I always did okay, but there was the time when Jimmy saw my score and wrote "Eat shit" on my test. Then he dropped his pants. Boy, we both had to call our moms from school on that one. It was nuts.
While we burned things, Jimmy's mom slept upstairs. Either that or she went out with her boyfriend to Blueberry Hill for a drink, which usually turned out to be ten drinks. Her boyfriend was an electrician, and that came in handy when Jimmy drank too much and broke lamps. Me and Jimmy were just glad we had a place to hang out and do ridiculous things and not get yelled at. Jimmy's mom had a bad back and she was crazy too, quiet crazy. She took drugs for it, the kind that make you all loopy like you're half-dead.
Bang, bang, bang on the wall. "Moe, you bring me some hangers." And when I forgot, "Boy, I can see your titties when you wear that tank top." Mom said that 'cause I was big for fifteen. I was pretty built freshman year, but I kind of let myself go after that. Me and Flash were big and silly. Jimmy was bigger and sillier. Jimmy's mom was quiet crazy. My mom was loud crazy. That's why me and Jimmy hung out and knocked down walls.
--
I'm getting out today, which is a good thing because I'm playing my guitar tonight in the jazz band competition at school. All I've thought about for the past two weeks while I've been in the psych ward is how the hell I was going to get enough practicing done. They told me to think about all this past stuff, and I've thought about it, and I've written at least five new tunes about how Mom told me we were going to the doctor to get my ingrown toenails removed. Instead, she started chain smoking and drove me here, threw me in the loony bin. Not so bad, really. When you're fifteen, and in the loony bin, and your mom's loud crazy, it's kind of nice to get away for a while.
I got Dad's guitar with me. They don't let me keep it in my room because they're afraid somebody might steal it. They keep it behind the counter until I ask for it. It's not so bad here. Quiet. Kind of like a vacation.
So we go to meetings where we talk about how we feel, and I tell them I don't know why I'm here, that I'm just here, that Mom's loud crazy and I got no problems. Those whitecoats just nod and smile, looking at me all sad, the way Jimmy's mom looks when she does come down from her room, which is a one-in-a-million thing. The girls here talk and cry a lot. The boys here listen to me play tunes and beat on things when we're allowed to make noise. While I strum, I miss Jimmy and Flash, and I wonder how they're holding up. And I feel bad 'cause I know they don't like too much time without me. They need me to keep them from doing stuff that's really stupid, like stealing picnic tables from the neighbors. But that's another ridiculous story.
All right. So all week long I've been ignoring that guy with the sleep disorder. He kept banging on the wall the way my Mom did, all loud, trying to get my attention. I've been ignoring the pill suicide girls and the kid whose mom deserted his family on his birthday. I played my part in the psycho drama, the part of one of the suicide kid's abusive older brothers. That was some fun. All week long, they kept coming to me, and I listened to their stories and tried to help, but there's just no helping some people. Besides, I had to practice for the jazz band competition. Jimmy and Flash were looking forward to it. We had ridiculous plans for after the competition, whether or not I played well. They promised me that when I used my one phone call on them.
So I sit here with Dad's guitar and wait for her. When she pulls up in her AMC Eagle, yelling, "Moe!" out the window, waving her cigarette at me, I just sit and sulk.
"Get in," she says.
I get in because I got to get to school fast for the competition. I can’t drive yet and Flash is the only one with the car, but his is on blocks in Jimmy’s backyard because of the night we got all drunk on wine coolers and had the munchies. We went to Kentucky Fried Chicken and ate straight off the all-you-can-eat bar. When we got back, Flash ran straight into the side of Jimmy’s house. That was after we trashed the Cedar Ridge apartment complex across the street. Jimmy had to get a new brush after that because he left his floating in the pool there. Slipped out of his back pocket.
Dad’s guitar sits in the backseat behind me, same way it sat the day after he had his first heart attack, which was the same day Mom asked him for the divorce. It was the same day that gunfire and explosions went on in Jimmy’s backyard, and we stole a birdbath from his neighbor. A week later, Jimmy’s mom smoked in the basement, ashed in the birdbath and said, “Where’d this birdbath come from?” And Jimmy said back, “Moe’s mom gave it to us.” Jimmy’s mom smiled and went up to her room with a bottle of Wild Turkey and got all quiet.
Mom rolls up her window and lights one smoke off of another. “How you doing?” she asks me, stretching her neck like a bird so she can see over the dash. Mom is skinny and wrinkly. Makes me wonder how I turned out so big.
“How do you think I’m doing?” I say back. I feel like playing some blues. Maybe Muddy Waters. Miles Davis. Yeah, Jimmy and Flash would like that.
“Moe, we got to hurry. You got the jazz band, and I got people coming to see you,” she says.
I always thought it was funny that I had to play my electric with no amp because she was always telling me to shut up, but when people came over, she wanted to show me off.
“Yeah,” I say. She doesn’t talk anymore, and I’m glad because I’m trying to remember chords in my head. I move my fingers to make sure they still work.
When we get to Wilson High, my school, Mom drops me off at the door, and I rub my hands together because they’re cold, and it’s hard to play when they’re cold. Jimmy and Flash are there and they pat me on the back. Jimmy is stoned for sure and Flash is too I think, but sometimes it’s hard to tell with Flash since he wears glasses and when he takes them off, his eyes are just slits all of the time.
Jimmy pats me on the back again, and we walk back behind the school, where I smoke a blunt with them. We huddle together like three big bears.
“Was it a shithole?” Jimmy asks me, pulling that new brush out of his back pocket. He got the new one the time when we were fucked up and Flash was running around Food Lion yelling, “I’m available for any fourteen-year-old chicks,” while Jimmy was busy stealing pot pies, and while I was busy keeping track of them.
Jimmy brushes his greasy hair back so that it’s all slick.
“Yeah, man. The people in there were so crazy, made me think I’m pretty normal.” I take the brush from Jimmy and get slick too. Got to hold up my image. I’m a slick, fast blues man. I feel my goatee. It hasn’t grown much.
“Did you meet any women?” Flash asks me, pulling a flask from his pants, taking a swig, then passing it to me. He doesn’t slick his hair ’cause it’s not worth it — his hair’s so curly the brush just gets stuck there. But he pushes his glasses up on his nose even though they’re already pushed up there. Habit.
“One. She liked to hear me play, but the nurses watched us close. Made me leave the door open. Treated me like I was some kind of nutcase,” I say.
“Too bad,” Flash says, “Hey man, you can stay at my place if stuff with your mom is tiring you.” He takes another swig and goes, “Geez, ahhh,” then smacks his lips. Something like that.
“Yeah, like your mom wants another kid running around. She’s already got ten,” I say. I think about it though. Whenever I went to Flash’s house, his dad would cook me gourmet things like eggplant Parmesan. There was just something about his house. No matter what, me and Jimmy could walk in there looking and smelling like bums, but Flash’s house always smelled good. And Flash did too. My house smelled like smoke. Jimmy’s did too, only not cigarette smoke — his house smelled like smoke from burning things because Jimmy just liked to burn things.
I pick up Dad’s guitar and go around the school to the backstage, where I get ready, and where Jimmy and Flash say to me, “Don’t kill yourself,” which means good luck. Jimmy brushes my hair where it’s sticking up and Flash puts a pack of smokes in the pockets of my jeans. I pull them up. They’re a bit loose. That’s what happens when Mom puts you in the psych ward. You get loose jeans. Doesn’t matter, though, ’cause I’m big and Flash’s dad’ll cook me up something soon, like he did the last time I was in there — cooked me up some roast duck with wine sauce, which is something.
When I walk into the rehearsal room, the kids are already warmed up. They all stare at me, like they are thinking, There’s that big Moe, who was sent to the psych center. He must be nuts. But they keep on warming up, and as I tune my guitar, my hands feel bigger and bigger. My body feels bigger and bigger. And Dad’s guitar feels ridiculously heavy. I feel sweat coming down my head, messing up my hair where Jimmy brushed it. But I am strong, strong like Dad. I am a fighter, like Jimmy when he threw that kid into a mirror at his house and glass went everywhere. “Shit,” Jimmy said. “Bad luck.”
“Ready. The crowd’s waiting.” Mr. Slosher says that. He’s the gym teacher, but he’s also the music teacher. In gym class, he laughs when he calls my name for attendance. “Oh, it’s Tuesday. Moe must be here.” I only go to school on Tuesdays and Thursdays because that’s band practice days. Always get an “A” in gym though. Mr. Slosher likes me ’cause I play a mean guitar. He says I know how to improvise.
We follow him because he’s got the suit on — me, the keyboard player, the bassist, and the drummer. One big bear and three little kids. We follow Slosher the way Mom follows me around the house, watching me, waving her cigarette like an extra finger, saying, “Moe, why you always look at me like that?”
Slosher opens the curtains for us, and the four of us go out on stage, waiting for the good part. I breathe deep and think of Jimi Hendrix. I look at Charles, the bass player, and nod. And he nods back. I feel all loopy and daydream about his dark face fading into Jimmy’s pale one. I picture Jimmy standing next to me on stage, saying, “Look at my new gun, Moe. We’re gonna tear some shit up tonight.” And I look at the skinny, angry drummer, wishing it were Flash beating on them, saying, “Come over. My dad made some linguine.” But when the curtains open, and I look out at the parents, all I see is Mom’s face, wrinkly and smiling. She even claps.
I stare at her while I play Dad’s guitar. I’m not thinking about what I’m playing, but somehow, my fingers move because Slosher says I know how to improvise. I keep staring at Mom and thinking of songs in my head, songs about people just like me and Flash and Jimmy, people that do ridiculous things. When it’s over, and the crowd’s making some noise, I think I see Dad out there too, smoking a cigarette in the back of the auditorium because he has to smoke in order to cough and get stuff out of his lungs. And that is the stupid thing about all of it. Not that he has to cough, but that he’s not there at all.
When they give me the plaque for "Most Valuable Jazz Band Member," all I can think about is how good it is going to look on that wall, that wall that Mom always bangs on. And as she takes me home, all I think about is where the plaque should go, somewhere between my poster of Jimi and the one of B.B. King. So, when I ask Mom for nails, she says, "Moe, we can't be ruining the walls."
But I do it anyway. I search through Dad's old work shed and find a big one and pound it in. Bang, bang, bang on the wall. I hang that plaque there, and when she comes in and throws things and takes that plaque away, I duck and keep hitting the wall. Bang, bang, bang. I hit it until there's a hole there, then walk over to Jimmy's to cool off. I'll get that plaque back. Something like that.
Me, Jimmy, and Flash hang out at Jimmy's and play pool. Jimmy is good and liquored up by the time I get over there to tell him about the plaque.
"That ain't right," he says, sitting on top of the pool table. It doesn't matter if we do that. The table has all sorts of dents and slants in it.
"Yeah," I say, drinking Jimmy's Mom's Wild Turkey.
"That just ain't right," Jimmy says, hitting his fist on the table, knocking the eight ball with the side of his big hand.
"Boys, we need to have a little meeting," Flash says, pulling bud out of his jacket.
The three of us move to a holey couch, sink in it, smoke and get all quiet until Flash says, "Man, you're gonna be all famous on stage someday and none of this shit will matter."
"Let me see your guns, Jimmy," I say to him.
Jimmy's red eyes open, and he jumps up to get them, but he only makes it to the pool table. He lies down on it and gets all sleepy.
Flash puts his arm around me. He feels warm and smells like some food I can't put my finger on. "You're gonna be all famous, and I'll be the cook for your band." He takes his glasses off and starts cleaning them on his sweatshirt. The glasses are clean, but he cleans them anyway. Habit.
"Yeah," I say. "I'm gonna make some noise." I pick up Dad's guitar by the neck and begin to strum the blues, staring at the birdbath. Flash gives me a noogie and fills up the big bong. Jimmy talks in his sleep. I play until I can't move my fingers. Then I shake them and play some more until I'm sweating, sweating like I'm on stage with thousands of people staring at me, yelling my name, smiling, smoking their cigarettes, letting me hang up my plaque. Me and Flash get stoned off our rockers and laugh at Jimmy who wakes up when his Mom comes down the stairs when she gets back from Blueberry Hill and thinks she better check on him for once.
"Let me see your guns, Jimmy," I say because it's too quiet, crazy quiet.
"Mom, does your boyfriend stick his dick in light sockets?" he asks her. And she shakes her head and walks to the upstairs, which I have never seen. She doesn't talk back to Jimmy because Jimmy has guns. She just stares like a crowd stares before the music begins when Mr. Slosher says, "You ready?"
Jimmy laughs all loud crazy then starts nodding off again, spread-eagled on the pool table. Flash goes over, pokes his shoulder 'cause he's worried Jimmy might choke on his puke or something ridiculous like that. Sometimes, it's hard to wake Jimmy unless you stick forks in his mouth. And then he'll just wake up and puke in the birdbath.
I keep yelling, "Let me see your guns," and Flash keeps poking him, until Jimmy wakes up and punches him in the mouth. "Let me sleep," he says.
"Jesus, Jimmy, it's me," Flash says to him, wiping his mouth, which probably hurts and will hurt more tomorrow. The whole scene will stick in his mind like a bad tune.
Jimmy opens his eyes up some more, rubs them, and says, "Sorry man." Flash and I know he means it 'cause he messes his hair up when he says it, and that means he's telling the truth. Sometimes the truth is messy that way. Then Jimmy slurs, "Hey, Moe, me and Flash'll help you get that plaque back, even if I have to beat the shit out of your old lady. She probably stuffed it under your dad's old clothes in the basement or something," right before he passes out for real, when there's no waking him.
"All right," I say. And sometimes it was.
-- C.A. MacConnell
6/02/2019
Hippie Living: Free Dance!
Howdy, a comedy piece for you, creative nonfiction, from the archives...
Hippie Living: Free Dance!
Back 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.
Actually, I 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.
After my 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 the truth.
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.
C.A. MacConnell
Hippie Living: Free Dance!
Back 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.
Actually, I 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.
After my 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 the truth.
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.
C.A. MacConnell
6/01/2019
From the Wolf
-- One of my faves. Hope you like this piece...it sends me somewhere. From the point of view of a Wolf. Love to you, C.A. Mac. ;)
From the Wolf
You are there to me, Mouth
You are here to me, Ear
You are Teeth and Paw
Tonight, where is Pack, I'm coming
Only the gaping
Hello silence
Then Pretty Wolf, somewhere else, West, calls out, yes,
You
Something Thin is running -- slow Old Deer heads south
We let Him live once, remember
I sing, testing Air, loving Wind,
Like Mother told me way back when, over Milk
Pretty, I hear your tone when You are
Home, at hunt, at play
Last week, we ripped up Rabbit
Seems like always, we have Howling
Then we're trapped in Quiet,
Like the too-long Tooth that never falls out,
When it tucks deep in Cheek,
Pressing there, making a Hurt,
A strange shape in Jaw, no matter how hard Brother plays,
Trying to knock it
Loose
Shiver myself dry, and I almost see your
Black Wet Nose
Whiskers, bring your Face home, here, with me
Man, the two-legged ones dug holes again
So I can't find Father
Pretty, Left Ear twitches for You
Lip curls, for above all, I am
Fierce, first
Neck hair feels stiff
Tell Uncle I smell coyotes
I make Prints
I mark Ground
You will find me if Gray Stray doesn't fight me first
We can have Sleep together
I hear You, but I can't see those
Eyes, perfect, like Moon, yours
Soon
You and me, shredding Meat.
C.A. MacConnell
From the Wolf
You are there to me, Mouth
You are here to me, Ear
You are Teeth and Paw
Tonight, where is Pack, I'm coming
Only the gaping
Hello silence
Then Pretty Wolf, somewhere else, West, calls out, yes,
You
Something Thin is running -- slow Old Deer heads south
We let Him live once, remember
I sing, testing Air, loving Wind,
Like Mother told me way back when, over Milk
Pretty, I hear your tone when You are
Home, at hunt, at play
Last week, we ripped up Rabbit
Seems like always, we have Howling
Then we're trapped in Quiet,
Like the too-long Tooth that never falls out,
When it tucks deep in Cheek,
Pressing there, making a Hurt,
A strange shape in Jaw, no matter how hard Brother plays,
Trying to knock it
Loose
Shiver myself dry, and I almost see your
Black Wet Nose
Whiskers, bring your Face home, here, with me
Man, the two-legged ones dug holes again
So I can't find Father
Pretty, Left Ear twitches for You
Lip curls, for above all, I am
Fierce, first
Neck hair feels stiff
Tell Uncle I smell coyotes
I make Prints
I mark Ground
You will find me if Gray Stray doesn't fight me first
We can have Sleep together
I hear You, but I can't see those
Eyes, perfect, like Moon, yours
Soon
You and me, shredding Meat.
C.A. MacConnell