Bird House
C.A. MacConnell
9/16/2015
9/09/2015
9/08/2015
Loaded: Tackling Hitchcock and Fellini
Hollins University. Original Bradley Hall, Creative Writing Grad Center, the place of much genius work, and the location of many strange occurrences, including unwanted "photography exhibits," shots taken at parties the night before, and the temporary home of a lost professor -- a live chicken.
Loaded: Tackling Hitchcock and Fellini
During the first semester in grad school, I was partying so much that I pretty much lost touch with reality and at some point, I had to write this long term paper on Hitchcock, one that counted for half of the grade for the entire semester. Sure, it was a big deal, so I repeatedly got loaded and watched Hitchcock’s Marnie, and I was all ready to sit down and concentrate on the writing but instead, I got totally loaded again. Overall, it was the worst paper I’ve ever written.
I wrote something crazy, head-splitting, and pseudo-deep about tracing the color yellow throughout the film. The entire paper was about yellow. That’s right -- every single word had a reference to yellow. There’s only so much one can say about yellow, and it was over ten pages long -- including footnotes and references -- and this genius work would have been hilarious to anyone who wasn't inside my fucked up head. At the time, I thought I was the deepest, yellowest person on the planet. I was the sun, an egg yolk, the yellow slide at the pool. I was a yellow Frisbee, a yellow sun visor, yellow hair. I was a banana, a lemon, a rubber ducky. And on and on.
But interestingly enough, the paper was so bad and so funny that I got an A-. I lucked out because my professor thought it was hilarious. That must’ve been what saved me, because it was horrible, and I made twisted symbolic connections that made no sense really. Like an acid trip within a paper. Really, the paper should’ve been called, “Get Comfy Because For Ten Pages, I Will Be Talking Out of My Asshole.”
Ten pages of nothing but yellow. I was so obsessed…it just got deeper and deeper and deeper. First, I wrote about yellow objects, then shades of yellow, then about dialogue that was a reference to yellow. I made numerous, super deep connections to the sun and butter and everything yellow, and none of it had anything at all to do with the movie, but the title of it was, “Tracing the Color Yellow Through Hitchcock’s Marnie.” I would’ve given me an A+, just because it was so terrifying and funny, but I guess I was lucky to get the A-.
My professor must’ve roared when he read the thing. The best part was that he wrote a two-page long, deep, yellow commentary on the back of the paper, and his critique was even better than the paper. Even funnier, considering this man is a highly esteemed, well known, award-winning, published author, and he’s considered a genius by many, and yet he took the time to write a two-page ridiculous commentary on my ridiculous paper.
Once, for the same professor, I wrote a research (extensively researched) paper on Fellini’s La Strada, and I started it off like this: “Are you a woman or an artichoke?” It was a reference to a quote in the film, but the way it read, it seemed like I was asking the professor that question. Of course, I went on and on about artichokes. Pages about nothing other than artichokes. I thought I might fail Fellini, but I got an “A,” amazingly enough.
I’m lucky I made it through grad school. Hell, I’m lucky to be alive. Back then, I was running on booze and coffee, not much else. Maybe a yellow cookie here and there. Here’s to all things yellow and strange plants pulling me through.
Ah, look at the progress. Are you a woman or an artichoke?
C.A. MacConnell
9/04/2015
9/03/2015
9/01/2015
8/28/2015
8/21/2015
8/20/2015
8/06/2015
7/17/2015
Flash Fiction: Call...On...Him
Wrote this just now, on the spot. :) Love, C.A.
Call...On...Him
flash fiction
Pepper shifted in her hard seat. Her ass hurt. Her braids itched. She needed new extensions. The facility's meeting room chairs were always rough -- the metal, fold-up kind that didn't give, but they were perfect for stacking. Pepper looked across the room, staring at the wall. Startled, she saw a tall, dark shape. She squinted, trying to make out the face. She'd never seen the strange man before. Some kind of misfit cowboy, an urban camper. A misplaced mountain man. Seemed white, but he was so muddy, she wasn't sure about his true roots.
In the back corner of the room, the cowboy leaned against the pale, clean wall. Tall, dirty, bearded, and black-haired, the man grimaced in pain, occasionally looking down at his thickly bandaged left foot.
Pepper glanced around at her coworkers, but no one budged, and the staff work meeting continued as usual -- worksheets and bagels and such. She figured that the cowboy sneaked in the back door somehow; it happened sometimes, since the far end of the rehab center faced an alley. From time to time, in the early evenings, when Pepper opened the sticky back door to take the garbage out, Pepper saw multiple shadows scatter -- pushers, users, hustlers, and kids. Maybe the cowboy needed a place to rest. Maybe he was looking for a cookie, some coffee, a doctor. Maybe he bandaged that foot on his own. Maybe he needed medicine. Maybe he was on too much medicine. Maybe he was mixing medicines. Maybe he was just simply looking for people, for bodies.
The cowboy's face contorted. His lip moved sideways, jerking to the left. Then right. Sliding up and down against the wall, the cowboy half-screamed.
Pepper sat on the edge of her seat, watching his face, wondering if he were going to fall, or more than likely, crash.
No one in the meeting moved. They talked about schedules, patients. The usual kidders kidded each other. As was their custom, they raised their hands and took turns. For ten years, the meetings had been conducted the same way. Regina ate a blueberry muffin. Joe ate a Nutter Butter.
Pepper watched the cowboy. Her throat hurt.
The cowboy grabbed his right arm with his left, forcing it up. Clearly, from across the room, this stranger wanted to talk, to put his two cents in.
Pepper stood up, quietly walking over to the CEO of the rehab center. She touched the president's arm and whispered, "That man over there. He wants to talk."
Turning pink, the president held up her hand and shook her head "No." She fixed a wrinkle in her navy skirt. She ran a hand along each button on her silk blouse. "Who's next?" she asked the crowded room.
Pepper whispered, "He has a right to talk. He's in the meeting too."
The president whispered back, "He's not a patient or staff. He shouldn't even be in here. Don't know how he got in."
Pepper remembered back fifteen years earlier. She thought about the time when the musician, J.J., stood on the front steps of the facility for weeks. Waiting for an open room, he even slept outside the door. She thought about the day when she went to tell J.J. there was finally an open bed, how he turned blue in front of her, dying right there on the bottom step.
Quickly, Pepper winced and walked across the room, making her way over to the cowboy. Face to face with him, her nose almost touched his.
He swayed, rocked, and struggled to stand.
Pepper looked at his arms. She saw multiple sores, and she'd seen abscesses before. She'd become a therapist for a reason -- to help those who knew what it was like to take a fucking blow. She'd been there, back in the day. Opiates. Detox. Any minute, he might have a seizure. All the time, it happens here. She'd been there and at any time, if she chose to, she could go back.
The cowboy was filthy, but blue, blue, blue, the eyes.
Pepper grabbed his arm, holding him up. In a voice loud enough for everyone in the meeting to hear, she asked, "You need detox? You in detox? You need me to call 911? We're not a detox center. We're more of a therapeutic place, but I can get you in there. I can pull strings, get you right in."
Behind Pepper, the work meeting continued on as usual.
The cowboy leaned in closer, nearly falling on her. "I'm in pain. Just my foot. Someone ran me over."
"I see that, but you need detox too," she said, staring at his marked-up arms.
"I'm okay. I'll just stand here a little while. I just want to talk."
Pepper studied his eyes. Glassy, but it was the "okay" kind of film. He was high as hell, sure, but she'd been around long enough to know he'd live that day. She returned to her seat.
Again, the cowboy raised his dirty hand, seemingly wanting to add words to the meeting's discussion.
Pepper looked over at the President and mouthed, "Call...on...him."
The president ignored her and announced to the crowd, "Okay, everyone, now on to the next topic in your packet -- 'How to best work with others.'"
Regina ate a blueberry muffin. Joe ate a Nutter Butter.
C.A. MacConnell
Call...On...Him
flash fiction
Pepper shifted in her hard seat. Her ass hurt. Her braids itched. She needed new extensions. The facility's meeting room chairs were always rough -- the metal, fold-up kind that didn't give, but they were perfect for stacking. Pepper looked across the room, staring at the wall. Startled, she saw a tall, dark shape. She squinted, trying to make out the face. She'd never seen the strange man before. Some kind of misfit cowboy, an urban camper. A misplaced mountain man. Seemed white, but he was so muddy, she wasn't sure about his true roots.
In the back corner of the room, the cowboy leaned against the pale, clean wall. Tall, dirty, bearded, and black-haired, the man grimaced in pain, occasionally looking down at his thickly bandaged left foot.
Pepper glanced around at her coworkers, but no one budged, and the staff work meeting continued as usual -- worksheets and bagels and such. She figured that the cowboy sneaked in the back door somehow; it happened sometimes, since the far end of the rehab center faced an alley. From time to time, in the early evenings, when Pepper opened the sticky back door to take the garbage out, Pepper saw multiple shadows scatter -- pushers, users, hustlers, and kids. Maybe the cowboy needed a place to rest. Maybe he was looking for a cookie, some coffee, a doctor. Maybe he bandaged that foot on his own. Maybe he needed medicine. Maybe he was on too much medicine. Maybe he was mixing medicines. Maybe he was just simply looking for people, for bodies.
The cowboy's face contorted. His lip moved sideways, jerking to the left. Then right. Sliding up and down against the wall, the cowboy half-screamed.
Pepper sat on the edge of her seat, watching his face, wondering if he were going to fall, or more than likely, crash.
No one in the meeting moved. They talked about schedules, patients. The usual kidders kidded each other. As was their custom, they raised their hands and took turns. For ten years, the meetings had been conducted the same way. Regina ate a blueberry muffin. Joe ate a Nutter Butter.
Pepper watched the cowboy. Her throat hurt.
The cowboy grabbed his right arm with his left, forcing it up. Clearly, from across the room, this stranger wanted to talk, to put his two cents in.
Pepper stood up, quietly walking over to the CEO of the rehab center. She touched the president's arm and whispered, "That man over there. He wants to talk."
Turning pink, the president held up her hand and shook her head "No." She fixed a wrinkle in her navy skirt. She ran a hand along each button on her silk blouse. "Who's next?" she asked the crowded room.
Pepper whispered, "He has a right to talk. He's in the meeting too."
The president whispered back, "He's not a patient or staff. He shouldn't even be in here. Don't know how he got in."
Pepper remembered back fifteen years earlier. She thought about the time when the musician, J.J., stood on the front steps of the facility for weeks. Waiting for an open room, he even slept outside the door. She thought about the day when she went to tell J.J. there was finally an open bed, how he turned blue in front of her, dying right there on the bottom step.
Quickly, Pepper winced and walked across the room, making her way over to the cowboy. Face to face with him, her nose almost touched his.
He swayed, rocked, and struggled to stand.
Pepper looked at his arms. She saw multiple sores, and she'd seen abscesses before. She'd become a therapist for a reason -- to help those who knew what it was like to take a fucking blow. She'd been there, back in the day. Opiates. Detox. Any minute, he might have a seizure. All the time, it happens here. She'd been there and at any time, if she chose to, she could go back.
The cowboy was filthy, but blue, blue, blue, the eyes.
Pepper grabbed his arm, holding him up. In a voice loud enough for everyone in the meeting to hear, she asked, "You need detox? You in detox? You need me to call 911? We're not a detox center. We're more of a therapeutic place, but I can get you in there. I can pull strings, get you right in."
Behind Pepper, the work meeting continued on as usual.
The cowboy leaned in closer, nearly falling on her. "I'm in pain. Just my foot. Someone ran me over."
"I see that, but you need detox too," she said, staring at his marked-up arms.
"I'm okay. I'll just stand here a little while. I just want to talk."
Pepper studied his eyes. Glassy, but it was the "okay" kind of film. He was high as hell, sure, but she'd been around long enough to know he'd live that day. She returned to her seat.
Again, the cowboy raised his dirty hand, seemingly wanting to add words to the meeting's discussion.
Pepper looked over at the President and mouthed, "Call...on...him."
The president ignored her and announced to the crowd, "Okay, everyone, now on to the next topic in your packet -- 'How to best work with others.'"
Regina ate a blueberry muffin. Joe ate a Nutter Butter.
C.A. MacConnell
7/02/2015
Last Two Tickets
In August of 2009, I came across a sobering NPR article that read, "For two-and-a-half days, about 800 doctors, nurses, dentists, and optometrists treated 2,700 uninsured and underinsured people, most from Appalachia. No one was asked for an insurance card. There were no co-pays. And there were no bills." The effort was organized through a Tennessee-based group, Remote Area Medical (RAM), and the help was offered at the county fairgrounds in Wise, Virginia. The medical team treated approximately 1600 people on Friday alone.
This part really choked me up:
"'You got the last two tickets!' the guard said. 'For eyes.'
'The last two tickets?' the driver responded. She seemed stunned by the prospect, and she was speechless, at first.
'Ma’am,' the guard said, as the driver simply stared ahead. 'Ma’am,' she said again as another guard joined in. 'Ma’am, we’re trying to tell you what you got.'
Finally, the driver spoke. 'I want to give the two eye [tickets] back because somebody may need them more than me.'"
Amazing selflessness. Put a lump in my throat. In the spirit of giving. In the spirit of gratitude for available help. In the spirit of gratitude for all within us and all around us that is beautiful.
C.A. MacConnell
This part really choked me up:
"'You got the last two tickets!' the guard said. 'For eyes.'
'The last two tickets?' the driver responded. She seemed stunned by the prospect, and she was speechless, at first.
'Ma’am,' the guard said, as the driver simply stared ahead. 'Ma’am,' she said again as another guard joined in. 'Ma’am, we’re trying to tell you what you got.'
Finally, the driver spoke. 'I want to give the two eye [tickets] back because somebody may need them more than me.'"
Amazing selflessness. Put a lump in my throat. In the spirit of giving. In the spirit of gratitude for available help. In the spirit of gratitude for all within us and all around us that is beautiful.
C.A. MacConnell
6/28/2015
F'n Rad Painter.
Back in the 90s, I used to get completely shitfaced on whatever, and then I'd pull out my art supplies and paint all kinds of crazy-ass, horrific pictures. I used spray paint, acrylics, oils, whatever the fuck I grabbed. I thought I was Picasso or some art god, and I worried I might have to take off an ear or a toe to prove it.
Well, around that time, near Christmas, on one of my manic, booze-induced art sprees, I painted gruesome pictures for everyone in the family, as well as for some others who I barely knew. At the time, I was so fucked up that to me, they appeared to be absolute genius. I even framed and wrapped the monsters, and when I handed them over to my lucky recipients, my face was a proud, beaming beacon of light (mixed with downers and uppers).
One particular drawing was supposed to be an utterly unique portrayal of a certain musician; however, I drew his mouth so close to the microphone, it looked like he was blowing....you get the drift. Deep, let me tell you.
A few months back, Mom whipped out one of my old paintings (yes, she had it in the basement). It was supposed to be a painting of her, but it sort of resembled a dead Gidget doll (the Sally Field version), and it was about at the five year old level, but it was much creepier than any kid could do.
In the family, I am now a supreme legend as the worst painter/drawer they have ever seen. I even tried taking classes, and after a while the teachers just shook their heads and left me alone. I heard things such as this:
"Lighten up, MacConnell."
and
"Hm, why don't you just go with that. I'll be back."
And he never came back.
Here is my one actual masterpiece:
Yes, that's right. This one is the best of the bunch, the cream of the crop. If anyone wants his/her portait done, I'm open for biz. I know one person that might jump at that chance. He's seen some of my award-winning, genius work.
C.A. MacConnell
Well, around that time, near Christmas, on one of my manic, booze-induced art sprees, I painted gruesome pictures for everyone in the family, as well as for some others who I barely knew. At the time, I was so fucked up that to me, they appeared to be absolute genius. I even framed and wrapped the monsters, and when I handed them over to my lucky recipients, my face was a proud, beaming beacon of light (mixed with downers and uppers).
One particular drawing was supposed to be an utterly unique portrayal of a certain musician; however, I drew his mouth so close to the microphone, it looked like he was blowing....you get the drift. Deep, let me tell you.
A few months back, Mom whipped out one of my old paintings (yes, she had it in the basement). It was supposed to be a painting of her, but it sort of resembled a dead Gidget doll (the Sally Field version), and it was about at the five year old level, but it was much creepier than any kid could do.
In the family, I am now a supreme legend as the worst painter/drawer they have ever seen. I even tried taking classes, and after a while the teachers just shook their heads and left me alone. I heard things such as this:
"Lighten up, MacConnell."
and
"Hm, why don't you just go with that. I'll be back."
And he never came back.
Here is my one actual masterpiece:
Yes, that's right. This one is the best of the bunch, the cream of the crop. If anyone wants his/her portait done, I'm open for biz. I know one person that might jump at that chance. He's seen some of my award-winning, genius work.
C.A. MacConnell
5/02/2015
Under the Covers
Near Short Vine, me and Susan chill and smoke up
at the toothless cat’s McMillan dive.
Wimpy, cool kids beg below the window.
I see them through the zoo bars.
You know, faces all cut up.
We know no heat or Dr. Seuss is coming.
The puppy is sick, and the cat is gone.
Me, loaded, Susan, on snow, we shiver together,
no more than shaky, sick,
whatever twigs. We share a White
Castle. On the wet futon, we wrap up
in Street Barbie’s leftover, wet, thin, gray blankets,
keeping watch on the scratched, black floor.
Everywhere, burns. Everywhere, pick-up-sticks
and GI Joe’s Hep C. The room moves with roaches.
Susan is seeing Care Bears. To stay warm,
I eat her pussy. Cheeks sink in -- our sleepy hollow.
When I give up, she throws up.
We hurt, hugging lightly, and love isn't working,
but it’s still on the brain.
Better, I half-sleep. You know, Platoon.
Susan stands tall, writing on the wall
with fluorescent paints, yelling at the ceiling,
calling it, Mother.
Eyes like cartoon girls, she raises her right arm,
holding up the neon yellow pen. Connect-the-dots
is tough -- her sores are moving again. Shrugging,
Susan smiles and says, If you leave, I just might
kill myself. She draws me that freaky Rainbow Brite girl.
I tell her to tone it the fuck down.
Susan wants to go to prom.
I’m in.
The puppy is sick, and the cat is gone.
C.A. MacConnell
at the toothless cat’s McMillan dive.
Wimpy, cool kids beg below the window.
I see them through the zoo bars.
You know, faces all cut up.
We know no heat or Dr. Seuss is coming.
The puppy is sick, and the cat is gone.
Me, loaded, Susan, on snow, we shiver together,
no more than shaky, sick,
whatever twigs. We share a White
Castle. On the wet futon, we wrap up
in Street Barbie’s leftover, wet, thin, gray blankets,
keeping watch on the scratched, black floor.
Everywhere, burns. Everywhere, pick-up-sticks
and GI Joe’s Hep C. The room moves with roaches.
Susan is seeing Care Bears. To stay warm,
I eat her pussy. Cheeks sink in -- our sleepy hollow.
When I give up, she throws up.
We hurt, hugging lightly, and love isn't working,
but it’s still on the brain.
Better, I half-sleep. You know, Platoon.
Susan stands tall, writing on the wall
with fluorescent paints, yelling at the ceiling,
calling it, Mother.
Eyes like cartoon girls, she raises her right arm,
holding up the neon yellow pen. Connect-the-dots
is tough -- her sores are moving again. Shrugging,
Susan smiles and says, If you leave, I just might
kill myself. She draws me that freaky Rainbow Brite girl.
I tell her to tone it the fuck down.
Susan wants to go to prom.
I’m in.
The puppy is sick, and the cat is gone.
C.A. MacConnell
4/22/2015
We Were Going Up
A while back, I was in the elevator at a clinic, and there was this dark-haired kid who soon joined me. He was in a wheel chair, and his mom was pushing him, tucking him into the last empty space in the back. She seemed nervous about brushing against people. Well, everyone was edgy as hell. Isn't that always true about elevators? There's some kind of unspoken "Don't touch me or I'll kill you" rule.
So the elevator was packed, which always makes me nervous, because I, for one, hate the idea of brushing up against someone. Man. It's not really the actual touch that's bad -- it's the anticipation of the possible touch that's bad. The terrible wait for the inevitable accidental shirt sleeve hitting my coat. Shiver.
Anyway, we were going up. Well, we were supposed to be. See, right after we were all set, and all of our correct buttons had been pressed by Suit Man, and we were packed in there like candy in a dish, this blond lady squished her body inside and yelled, "Can you press 'floor one' for me?"
Suit Man growled and pressed the button for her.
With that, the kid in the wheel chair shrugged, looked at Blond Lady right in the eye and said, "Fuck you." Then he started cracking up.
I laughed too. Shit, we all wanted to say it. He was just the only one brave enough to bust out with the choice words. We were jam packed, someone smelled like ass, the weather had been horrible, and for sure, no one was visiting the clinic for any reason that was remotely enjoyable, and here was this woman squeezing her ass on our ride, looking to go down, when we were going up. So yeah, we all wanted to say it.
The kid looked at her and said it again. "Fuck you." Then he really started howling.
I did too. My nose started running. I looked around. A few others had some muffled chuckles going on, but the kid and I were really letting loose.
Then the kid's mom said to him, "Stop it. That's not nice."
From his wheelchair, the kid shrugged again and stared up at me, beaming.
I held up my thumb at him, beaming back at my partner in crime.
When we finally made it to our floor, number four, the kid and I slid on into the waiting room at the same time.
Then I saw the back of his head. A thin scar, a bald patch, stretched from the crown of his head all the way to his neck. Either brain surgery or trauma, I wasn't sure. But what struck me was that there we were, seeing docs for whatever random issues (and obviously he had some serious issues going on), but in that moment in the elevator, none of the physical bullshit really mattered. Our separate lives didn't matter. Our separate problems didn't matter. What mattered was one brave jokester (ironically, the most physically impaired one there), and one shared laugh. Perhaps our laugh was at Blond Lady's expense but hell, sister, we were going up.
When I feel my gut, my heart, my soul tell me what's right, regardless of the crowd, I gotta leave a few behind, join people like this kid, and head for the laughter and the light. See, I want to live my life fully, love, and focus on my dreams, not stay stuck in my head. Change is all around me. Onward and upward,
C.A. MacConnell
So the elevator was packed, which always makes me nervous, because I, for one, hate the idea of brushing up against someone. Man. It's not really the actual touch that's bad -- it's the anticipation of the possible touch that's bad. The terrible wait for the inevitable accidental shirt sleeve hitting my coat. Shiver.
Anyway, we were going up. Well, we were supposed to be. See, right after we were all set, and all of our correct buttons had been pressed by Suit Man, and we were packed in there like candy in a dish, this blond lady squished her body inside and yelled, "Can you press 'floor one' for me?"
Suit Man growled and pressed the button for her.
With that, the kid in the wheel chair shrugged, looked at Blond Lady right in the eye and said, "Fuck you." Then he started cracking up.
I laughed too. Shit, we all wanted to say it. He was just the only one brave enough to bust out with the choice words. We were jam packed, someone smelled like ass, the weather had been horrible, and for sure, no one was visiting the clinic for any reason that was remotely enjoyable, and here was this woman squeezing her ass on our ride, looking to go down, when we were going up. So yeah, we all wanted to say it.
The kid looked at her and said it again. "Fuck you." Then he really started howling.
I did too. My nose started running. I looked around. A few others had some muffled chuckles going on, but the kid and I were really letting loose.
Then the kid's mom said to him, "Stop it. That's not nice."
From his wheelchair, the kid shrugged again and stared up at me, beaming.
I held up my thumb at him, beaming back at my partner in crime.
When we finally made it to our floor, number four, the kid and I slid on into the waiting room at the same time.
Then I saw the back of his head. A thin scar, a bald patch, stretched from the crown of his head all the way to his neck. Either brain surgery or trauma, I wasn't sure. But what struck me was that there we were, seeing docs for whatever random issues (and obviously he had some serious issues going on), but in that moment in the elevator, none of the physical bullshit really mattered. Our separate lives didn't matter. Our separate problems didn't matter. What mattered was one brave jokester (ironically, the most physically impaired one there), and one shared laugh. Perhaps our laugh was at Blond Lady's expense but hell, sister, we were going up.
When I feel my gut, my heart, my soul tell me what's right, regardless of the crowd, I gotta leave a few behind, join people like this kid, and head for the laughter and the light. See, I want to live my life fully, love, and focus on my dreams, not stay stuck in my head. Change is all around me. Onward and upward,
C.A. MacConnell
3/11/2015
3/09/2015
Griffin Farm on Sale, Paperback and Ebook
The paperback is only $12.45 new, and it's a lovely creation if I do say so myself. The Kindle version will be a mere $5.95 later tomorrow...still processing at the moment. I wrote, edited, and designed the whole sucker myself, so I'm very proud of this novel. 100% little old me. Many years in the making, that's for sure.
Go here for more details on ordering. There's a full preview, including a few sample pages, so you can check it out (and get hooked! you will, I promise). Also included are reader reviews of the work.
Thanks to anyone who has read it, and if you did, I'd be extremely grateful if you would write a review for me on the site. So far, in person and on the net, the feedback has been magnificent.
Grateful for supporters of my art. Always.
Love, C.A.
2/28/2015
Horror Show: SPEECH 1
For the past ten years or so, I've done a lot of advocacy work, and I've given many talks in front of groups, both large and small. These days, I love being in front of people, speaking, and doing this work; it's probably my favorite thing to do. But what's strange is that all growing up, I was painfully shy, incredibly introverted, and I was absolutely terrified of public speaking. Terrified. I wanted nothing to do with it.
Unfortunately, in high school, I was horrified when I accidentally signed up for a public speaking class called, SPEECH 1. When I was choosing electives, I marked the box for SPEECH 1, but I meant to pick POTTERY 1. Everyone wanted to take POTTERY for obvious reasons -- it was in a different building, so we could walk slow and goof off on our way there, the teacher often had red eyes and said she had "something stuck in her eye," and we could make things like a penis vase without the nuns realizing it. Anyway, by the time I went to change my schedule, of course the hippieland of POTTERY was full, and all of the other electives were full, so there I was, stuck for an entire quarter in the horror show also known as SPEECH 1.
When it came time for our first speech, while madly preparing, my stomach had been in knots for weeks and for some reason, the teacher reminded me of a crazed parrot, which didn't help matters. The first assignment was similar to an acting class; we had to create a three-minute character sketch. Three whole minutes. That night, I guess I saw Jerry Springer on T.V., I dunno, but I picked him as my character. At the time, I think he had a mustache, or maybe I just felt his "inner mustache." So when it came time for the speech, I wore a big, thick, fake mustache.
I hobbled on up to the podium, literally shaking as I went. It started off all right, although I was sort of stuttering. Suddenly, about one minute into the speech, the mustache slid down and got half-stuck in my mouth. I reached up to fix it, but by then, a bunch of hairs were stuck in my mouth. I wasn't sure what to do, so I just did what was natural. I stopped the speech, and I started spitting and picking hairs off of my tongue. This lasted for about one entire minute.
The whole class was rolling. Everyone thought I was doing it on purpose, so I kept spitting out hairs and really owning the character. By the time I was done with my three minutes, they thought I was a genius.
Well, I made it through SPEECH 1, and I recall my final speech, a "persuasion" speech, was a fifteen minute rant on the anti-fur movement. The last line was this: "Fur isn't cool. It's cruel." We weren't allowed to dress up for that one, but I totally wanted to wear a bear suit.
Anyway, I made it out of SPEECH 1 alive, but I still didn't like speaking until I was at Hollins University for college. Poetry and fiction readings were weekly performances really, even if they didn't seem like it, and for sure, these events involved a lot of whiskey. After attending a slew of them, I realized that authors often used this weird tone that rose at the end of lines for emphasis, stuff like that. So I'd show up half-wasted, wearing all black (and black Chucks of course), and I'd really use my voice to hammer home "deep lines." I totally embraced that high brow madness. I ate it up.
Weird, the last time I gave a talk, which was two weeks ago, it came out damn raw and afterwards, I felt quite exposed. It's not always like that, but for some reason, I was in a mood. Speaking of moods, here's a picture of the cool, Vertigo-ish stairs in the Moody Student Center at Hollins University:
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Pretty rad. Hey, I'm giving a talk tonight actually. Wish me luck. Don't think I'll wear a fake mustache this time. I learned my lesson. A mustache is damn hard to pull off; however, just to be creative and embrace the memories, I may slip in some anti-fur propaganda.
C.A. MacConnell
P.S. Man, I should totally be an script editor on TV or a movie or some crap. I could iron that shit out, just sayin.
Unfortunately, in high school, I was horrified when I accidentally signed up for a public speaking class called, SPEECH 1. When I was choosing electives, I marked the box for SPEECH 1, but I meant to pick POTTERY 1. Everyone wanted to take POTTERY for obvious reasons -- it was in a different building, so we could walk slow and goof off on our way there, the teacher often had red eyes and said she had "something stuck in her eye," and we could make things like a penis vase without the nuns realizing it. Anyway, by the time I went to change my schedule, of course the hippieland of POTTERY was full, and all of the other electives were full, so there I was, stuck for an entire quarter in the horror show also known as SPEECH 1.
When it came time for our first speech, while madly preparing, my stomach had been in knots for weeks and for some reason, the teacher reminded me of a crazed parrot, which didn't help matters. The first assignment was similar to an acting class; we had to create a three-minute character sketch. Three whole minutes. That night, I guess I saw Jerry Springer on T.V., I dunno, but I picked him as my character. At the time, I think he had a mustache, or maybe I just felt his "inner mustache." So when it came time for the speech, I wore a big, thick, fake mustache.
I hobbled on up to the podium, literally shaking as I went. It started off all right, although I was sort of stuttering. Suddenly, about one minute into the speech, the mustache slid down and got half-stuck in my mouth. I reached up to fix it, but by then, a bunch of hairs were stuck in my mouth. I wasn't sure what to do, so I just did what was natural. I stopped the speech, and I started spitting and picking hairs off of my tongue. This lasted for about one entire minute.
The whole class was rolling. Everyone thought I was doing it on purpose, so I kept spitting out hairs and really owning the character. By the time I was done with my three minutes, they thought I was a genius.
Well, I made it through SPEECH 1, and I recall my final speech, a "persuasion" speech, was a fifteen minute rant on the anti-fur movement. The last line was this: "Fur isn't cool. It's cruel." We weren't allowed to dress up for that one, but I totally wanted to wear a bear suit.
Anyway, I made it out of SPEECH 1 alive, but I still didn't like speaking until I was at Hollins University for college. Poetry and fiction readings were weekly performances really, even if they didn't seem like it, and for sure, these events involved a lot of whiskey. After attending a slew of them, I realized that authors often used this weird tone that rose at the end of lines for emphasis, stuff like that. So I'd show up half-wasted, wearing all black (and black Chucks of course), and I'd really use my voice to hammer home "deep lines." I totally embraced that high brow madness. I ate it up.
Weird, the last time I gave a talk, which was two weeks ago, it came out damn raw and afterwards, I felt quite exposed. It's not always like that, but for some reason, I was in a mood. Speaking of moods, here's a picture of the cool, Vertigo-ish stairs in the Moody Student Center at Hollins University:
Pretty rad. Hey, I'm giving a talk tonight actually. Wish me luck. Don't think I'll wear a fake mustache this time. I learned my lesson. A mustache is damn hard to pull off; however, just to be creative and embrace the memories, I may slip in some anti-fur propaganda.
C.A. MacConnell
P.S. Man, I should totally be an script editor on TV or a movie or some crap. I could iron that shit out, just sayin.