Photo: Hawk.

Red-tailed Hawk

Cincinnati, OH

C.A. MacConnell

Milk Carton

Black Horse

Camp Dennison, OH

Milk Carton

Proof of life:
Tangled hair, twisted throw.
The animal and I,
We wake.

Strange captor calls from the
Family.

Now, stretching. True, I'm no brow-beauty.
Some other missing girl will
Bring the ransom
Home.
She'll be a longer living wall fly.
Some say she'll stick.

Ground coffee, look here, I make the black
Law. I admit, it's a little

Strong.

Call the shepherds. They know
Blood.
Find the sign,
The lost shoe,
The search team, the one
Phone call,
The right or wrong
Words. Relatives know how to make a
Deal. Someone finds a bad sock,

A trace.

Hero, empty or full, don't forget the suit
case.

C.A. MacConnell

Photo: Integrity

Integrity

Ault Park

C.A. MacConnell

Survivors, the Voice

Shoe Repair

Milford, OH

When you know who you are; when your mission is clear and you burn with the inner fire of unbreakable will; no cold can touch your heart; no deluge can dampen your purpose. You know that you are alive.

-- Chief Seattle, Duwamish

Survivors, the Voice

For a long time, I've felt that my mission is to travel and give talks. When I'm speaking in front of others, sharing my story, sharing my experience, trying to help and educate, I feel alive.

I write these books with that mission in mind. Each day, I hope and pray that I'll be able to go on a book tour -- large or small -- and give talks all over the nation. In the past, I gave advocacy talks all over the region, and it was so rewarding.

Meet people, connect with them, share life stories, yes.

I feel that what I've been through is tragic, joyful, miraculous, and unique. But isn't everyone's story a miracle, really? Some journeys are more tumultuous than others -- sure -- but we all have a voice.

When it comes to expression from the heart, there's no coach. No pep talk. But when I tell someone that at 24-5 years old, I had to relearn how to write and read due to a debilitating, catatonic depression, it can be a powerful tale that creates wonder and hope. Because here I am now, writing to you, writing books.

So what do I have to lose? Nothing at all. I keep trying. And if you're going through a rough spot, remember...as they say...don't give up before the miracle happens.

How can you use your unique, miraculous voice today? I will if you will.

That is my dream, and I'm sticking to it.

C.A. MacConnell

Photo: East Fork.

East Fork Lake

Cincinnati, OH

Sharing some Love,

 

Photo: Niagara Falls

Niagara Falls

C.A. MacConnell

The Viewing Room

Abby

The Viewing Room

Lips locked shut, you ride by the windows, staring inside. Your eyes -- blank
and round, like plastic. You are quick, moving down the ring side, your body

shifting in time to your horse's tail. Maybe you look to see why I'm resting
when there's work to be done -- bodies to groom, legs to bandage, whiskers

to clip. Maybe you look to see how I sit -- legs crossed, eating a small, packed
dinner way past the time. Maybe you want me to smile back through the thick,

shatterproof panes. Not the slightest grin spreads across your face. No gait breaks
in your horse's stride. You lean down to study the neck, and the green gelding

gives in, dips his nose down, and loosens the grip of his teeth on the bit. You spin
in smaller circles, turning your head, watching me rise. I place my fingers flat

against the cold glass, fixing my palm in a still, frozen wave, my skin blending
with window. I press the surface. I imagine pushing through, but I bring the hand

back down, swallowing the last of my late night meal, accidentally biting my lip.
Before closing, you halt and look in again. Maybe you see me lower my head,

chin against chest, hands folded in that look of feeling full. I breathe and rise.
Lifted, I slide up and out of my seat in the viewing room, giving it up.

C.A. MacConnell

Photo.

?
Film, Nikon

Northern Ohio

C.A. MacConnell

This Woman's Vision

Juliet, Pyramid Hill Sculpture Park

This Woman's Vision

In grade school, I knew a part-albino girl who was legally blind. When she tried to read, she leaned over the desk and pressed her face right against the paper, straining to see each and every letter. Most of the time, she was virtually silent because undoubtedly, much of her energy was spent struggling to see. On the playground, she sat on a log, slowly peeled an orange, and stared off into the distance. Every single day, she sat there alone. Here and there, someone would reach out to her, but she only responded in whispers. She wasn't that shy; she just couldn't see who was speaking to her. In class, even if I approached her and stood nearly touching her, she couldn't tell who I was until she heard my voice. Back then, whenever I looked at her, I often wondered what it would be like to grow up knowing the world through voices and shapes.

Years later, I had to take my cat to the vet, and my regular vet was booked, so I drove across town to see another one. When we arrived, they shuffled us into Room 2, and we waited for the assistant to come in. Minutes later, a beautiful, pale-skinned woman with snowy, waist-length, thick, blond hair entered the room. Her eyes were round and perfect, a see-through blue, and she stood tall, holding a clip board. On her left hand -- a huge wedding ring, a shiny diamond made for a classy lady. And she did indeed appear classy and smart. When she smiled, her entire face glowed. And so did her hands. She was absolutely stunning.

And then I smiled, realizing that it was the same girl who was nearly blind in grade school. I was floored. There she was, looking right at me, not missing a beat, working at saving animals' lives. As we talked about the cat, I assumed that somewhere along the line, she'd had eye surgery, and her vision had been restored. She seemed thriving, happy, outgoing, and ever so free, but since she had never been able to truly see me in grade school, she didn't recognize me at all.

But then there was this moment -- she blinked hard, shutting her eyes, listening to me speak, and I could tell that all at once, she knew my voice. Lighting up, she smiled brightly, opened her eyes, and took some notes, wishing me on my way.

As I drove home, the vision of her stayed with me, building a presence somewhere in my heart and mind. Here was that shy, lonely girl I once knew. Now, she was suddenly transformed into a sharp, confident, glowing woman. I felt my chest fill up at the thought of the change. I thanked the universe for my sight, for her sight, and for the passage of time, which can sometimes show how miracles develop, grow, and radiate outward.

Back in the day, such a quiet girl, one who would seem to slip through the cracks. But in the end, sometimes it's the quietest ones who shine the most. Sometimes, behind the scenes, without barely even a whisper, without the faintest desire to be seen, without any need for recognition, one humble person can save lives.

C.A. MacConnell

Photo: Sharon Wood Harbor.

Sharon Woods Harbor

Sharonville, OH

C.A. MacConnell

It All Just Works Out

It All Just Works Out

When strange things happen -- like loss or expense or both -- why does it seem like these occurrences always happen at once, as if a steamroller of setbacks takes over one's life?

Like the spider, from time to time, I may get taken away by the wind or the strike of someone's hand. But the spider always rebuilds. Always.

Constantly, people lose, struggle, and rebuild.

This month, I lost a job for reasons out of my hands really, the A/C in my car broke, I needed a new cabin air filter and wipers, I had to have hours of ($$$$$$) dental work (with no insurance and no money in my account), I had a gazillion interviews (wearing the same exact outfit, my only interview outfit, to each one), my toilet broke, and I had to have a whole new one installed, I lost you and you and you, my friend went in the ICU, and on and on. Maybe small-ish things, but it seemed like they kept adding up, and I admit, my anxiety latched right on to the tangled pattern of mishaps, and I was on fire with the fear.

To the fear, I say, fuck you. (Call me Melody Beattie on speed, ha. I love her writing, actually).

Anyway, sure, some of this process was messy for me. Yeah, I wore a uniform of men's shirts and Adidas pants...hell, I always dress like that. But a wise woman I know always says, "It all just works out, one way or another; it just works out." This statement repeatedly comes from a woman who has dealt with horrific grief; some years back, she lost her son to murder.

Amazing, the comebacks people have. When I think of others and see the damn heart-wrenching happenings they all experience in their tricky lives, and then I see the strength they show when fighting their way through the grief and hardship maze, I realize that my wise friend is right. Things may not work out how I planned or hoped, but they do, indeed, work out, and if I allow it, a web of peace and love rolls right on back in.

Peace out,
C.A. MacConnell

Photo: Skater, Devou Park

Skater

Devou Park

Hope you're happy, joyful, and free, and maybe even a little frisky, like me.

C.A. MacConnell

Spanish Moss

Spanish Moss

Marrero, LA

All of our writings have their roots in poetry. -- C.A. MacConnell

Spanish Moss

No gutter man.
The day we met,
swimming straight out of the bayou,
you shone.
Back then,
wearing a hand-me-down sweater
with thread
made from Spanish moss,
your lights came
straight from sun and iris.
And now,
inside the wait,
I am the perfect
shade of you.

C.A. MacConnell

Flashback.

Me + Kylin, RIP buddy.

When to Wait

The Path

Glenwood Gardens

When to Wait

So I was on my way down to the gas station to hit up the 50 cent vacuum. I thought I had plenty of time, since I wasn't due at a work meeting for an hour or so. Well, I believed everything was all in order, and when I pulled into the gas station lot, I expected everything to go as smoothly as caramel syrup. Delicious. But then I noticed that a suspicious-looking girl was already parked next to the vacuum. I could hear the vacuum running, but she wasn't using it yet, which was strange.

Oh man, she was taking her time pulling out each floor mat one by one. Slowly, ever so slowly. Picture an injured turtle.

I decided to analyze her floor mats to size up my competition. They were filthy, covered in what looked to be straw. That's right, straw, like she had just fucked a scarecrow in that Chevy. I shrugged, figuring she'd be done soon.

Oh no, after the first five minute vacuum, she put in two more quarters for another round, scrubbing and scrubbing the floor mats.

Leaning back in the front seat of my car, I checked the time. Still okay, but it was getting a little tighter. Turning my head, I watched a few cars head into the car wash, wishing I was on my way through like them.

But Chevy girl was still going at it. Every now and then, she looked my way with her "day-after-walk-of-shame" enormous sunglasses on, but even then, she didn't hurry. That's right, she was picking off pieces of straw one by one while the vacuum was running. Maybe she was still a little loopy from the night before, I dunno, but it sure seemed like she was trying to clean up something dirtier than I could imagine. Actually, I could imagine it, but I'm not sharing.

Finally, she finished.

I hopped out of the car and asked, "You done?"

She looked up and said, "Yep, thanks!" Her face held a deep reddish hue, like blueberry tea.

Thanks? Thanks for what? For waiting and not complaining? Hell, she was there first. But I could tell that she felt bad for taking so damn long. From the look of her shredded, muddy jeans versus her makeup and shirt, which were still half-put together, I could tell she'd had a rough Saturday night or something. And I could also tell that her cleaning was more than cleaning. It was to cover up some other mess. I knew that "next day after the war" look. Just my guess. Or maybe she just got back from a four-hour long church service and had a roll in the straw with a preacher.

So I quickly finished vacuuming, and then I headed over to the car wash. I put the code in, and everything seemed to be running smoothly, but after "press the start button" began blinking, the screen went blank, and it read this:  "Sorry, the car wash is temporarily unavailable." Now, the problem was, I had already paid, I had already driven in halfway, and weirdly, I had just watched three cars glide right on through, no problem. So I backed out of the wash, which was tricky, and I went inside to ask them what the hell.

I explained my situation to the worker. He didn't know what to do, so he found another worker. He knew what to do, so he went outside and worked his magic, resetting the car wash, and I pulled in a second time. This whole process, between the vacuuming and the washing, took about an hour.

Then I had about fifteen minutes to get to my meeting. Thinking I was a smart go-getter, I decided to take the highway to cut out time. Right when I got on the highway, all cars came to a complete dead stop. I sat in traffic for about 45 minutes, barely moving. The whole scenario was strange -- it was a Sunday evening, sunny, and the traffic should've been light. Not so. Backed up for miles. It was getting later and later. The meeting had already started, so I just inched along the highway, listening to talk radio.

When I finally crept up to the scene of the accident, I saw a fire truck, a slew of police cars, and when I looked over on the side of the road, I could see a car resting in the woods. The entire top of the vehicle had been pried off to get the person (or people) out, and the car had obviously flipped over several times. I wondered about whoever was inside. I wondered if anyone was alive. I swallowed hard. Of course in my lifetime I've seen wrecks before. I've seen bad wrecks. But for some reason, this one -- that lone, empty, destroyed white car in the woods -- really terrified me. What grabbed at my heart was the eerie scene's stillness. There was no sign of life. And it terrified me because I suddenly realized that if it weren't for the slow vacuum girl, the malfunctioning car wash, and my long waits at the gas station, one of the people that they pried out of the wreckage could've been me.

I shivered a little, driving on, thinking about angels. I made it to the tail end of the meeting, and I realized that my time is now. As for the setbacks, the happenings that seemed like delays? Perhaps they saved my life. We've all heard people say, "Live each day as if it's your last." Aye, swallow it all, bite at the beauty, and allow the universe to show you when to lean back and wait.

C.A. MacConnell

Being True: Hit or Miss

 The Catch

Juilfs Park

 Being True:  Hit or Miss

The other day at this park, a tiny little girl practiced her batting skills. She couldn't have been more than four years old. Holding that bat, she pursed her lips in utter determination, and this kid was damn good. She only missed when her Dad threw a bad pitch, but even if it wasn't her fault, she still furiously dug her Velcro tennis shoe into the pale dirt when she thought she had "messed up." She didn't cry. Oh no, she grinned, stomped, planted her feet back into position, and waited for the next softball, which was almost as big as her little head. Next came her older sister's turn at bat. Taller, more lanky, and seemingly easily distracted, older sis missed almost every pitch. Air, whiff, foul, she didn't care at all. Her Dad laughed and told her to keep trying, and she did, but she kept right on missing. Big sis seemed much more concerned with fixing the tongue on her cool sneakers. When Dad threw another pitch, big sis reached to pet the dog. The obvious differences between the two girls was amusing.

But the scene was fascinating -- even when the older one repeatedly missed, they all cheered. And when the younger one killed that ball, they cheered her on too. There was no difference in the way that the parents reacted to the girls. Swing and hit, roar of applause. Swing and miss, roar of applause. Seemed that they were honestly thrilled to be hanging out together, enjoying the sun, and playing in the moment. What mattered to them was not the perfect pitch, the grand slam, the win, or even the game at all. What mattered was the support, the camaraderie, and the present time together.

To me, they showed a unique, rare display of true love; that is, they were encouraging each other to be their true selves, rather than putting "conditions" on love. Awesome. I wanted to join in and cheer for all of them. What it said to me:  Hit or miss, I love you. Animals love this way. Animals love us this way. They are speaking to us all.

C.A. MacConnell

Photo: Hoping

Hoping

Lunken Airport

If a little spider web can create something this beautiful, then so can all of us.

Peace out,

C.A. MacConnell

Come Down

Howdy. Here's a dreamy, intense piece I wrote a while back. You can check out some of my fiction samples here. And of course, my novels, GRIFFIN FARM and THE HOUSE OF ANCHOR, are available NOW!

-- fiction, revised, first version was published in CityBeat Magazine's 'Living Out Loud' column

Come Down

I woke to these sounds -- workmen, storm sirens, and the wind testing my window, the steady rattle, the fight of thin panes against the frame. Below, men hammered, and across the room, my window spoke; it moaned, squeaked, and knocked, trapped inside the wall of my cramped efficiency. Screenless and stubborn, it was stuck shut.

I glanced through the glass, looking down below, but few people walked into the alley. I sat for hours, trying to write, looking for bodies and stories. Besides the workmen, no one appeared, and they never glanced my way. Only relentless pounding and storming. At war with sound, I stared at the computer. Nothing. For a long time, a blank trip, my fingers suspended over keys, hanging there.

At dusk, when I peered out the window again, someone entered the alley. Hands in his pockets, he stared at his feet. Then he looked up. His hair, brown, was a mess. He was small, thin. His blue sweater burned a neon blur through the shadows. His jeans were the borrowed kind, gray. He squinted to see me.

The window moved, seemed to sing. I eased closer. Bang, knock, went the workmen. Crack, smash, went the storm.

Come down, the stranger mouthed at me. Shrugging, he smiled, and his thick lips spread; his face was all teeth.

I pressed my forehead against the glass.

He waited, wet and mute.

I thought about practical things -- feed cats, clean, try to write. But the window shook, and when I touched it, it whisper-screamed. Or maybe I did.

In a blue-gray turn, pivoting on one foot, he left. Just like that.

The workmen sawed trees, demolished skyscrapers, and blew up my world. I forgot to sleep or eat. I reminded myself to blink. My hearing heightened. The hammering shook the walls. I wondered if they'd cave in, collapse. But I wouldn't leave. I watched.

Three nights later, he reappeared in the alley. Pulling his sweater tight around his middle, he mouthed, Come down.

The sky drooled rain on the roof, smothering the building and all inside.

Shifting in his shoes, he waited, drenched.

I thought about stripping him dry and clean. I thought about kissing something. For two years, I had been stuck inside blank pages. Here, I studied the glass cracks. I imagined the window breaking, my body falling, sucked out by the wind, a leech. The wind's pitch grew higher. Whale sounds. One floor down, I could fall into him gently. No suicide. 

He shrugged and left.

I guessed that was goodbye. I felt nausea beyond butterflies. I was good at forgetting. The queen of amnesia. I went out for smokes. Then, back in the building hallway, I felt a draft. I opened my apartment door. Someone. In there.

His back turned, he seemed at home, sitting on my floor. Then he whipped around, looking at me, startled, as if I were the intruder.

In our holding places, we were silent, divided by the broken glass scattered across my ground.

Expressionless, he stared with dark eyes, his seeing holes. For a moment, I thought I saw behind them into the nerves, the song of his scattered mind. There, I saw my own damaged mind. Two years, no touch. Nothing. Inside, trapped in the lone, rhythmic hammering. Deeply.

"You got in," I said.

He nodded. "Fire escape. Broke the window...with a rock," he said. His voice was airy, with slight pauses in between words. He smiled, nervously. "Sorry...you wouldn't...come down."

I moved closer, standing above him, hands on hips. I shook.

He grabbed my arm.

All skin was slippery.

I thought of practical things -- call cops, play dead, shout profanities, but my voice was throat-buried. With my free hand, I picked up a piece of glass. A weapon, just in case. I imagined cutting him. I imagined the way the blood would spread a thick slide across his hand as I freed myself. I imagined his generic, hurt expression.

No workmen chattered. No wind whistled. But outside air drifted through the space where the window used to be, and I felt the urge to kiss his small hand, the hand that broke it, the violent, flawless, nameless hand. I grabbed his damp, blue sweater and hung on, dropping the glass.

He reached toward my eyes. I guess to touch the lids. Yes.

Quiet.

Everywhere, hands.

His sweater, the blue shade, so elusive. If I tried hard enough, maybe I could see through the color straight into his chest, his throat, his brain, a brain that held this new draft, the broken glass, the story of two nameless beings touching shared, broken minds and broken space, one stranger lost in an alley, hammering through vacancy, shattering it, filling it. The story of lifting each other, inside and up.

God, I hope the room is still there when we come down.

-- C.A. MacConnell

Photos: Shawnee Lookout.

 Indian Burial Mound

Shawnee Lookout

Log Cabin

Shawnee Lookout

I've been thinking of this lovely place -- Shawnee Lookout -- tonight, so I hunted around for my pictures of it. Incredible energy here. Time to make a trip, it seems. This time, to see the leaves. Sometimes, I think the branches and the leaves listen. Sometimes, I think they whisper back.

I've also been thinking of this:  "Take another look at your life—where you live, your friends, your work—all your gifts. Maybe the view in your life is better than you think. God, renew my spirit. Help me look at my life with a fresh vision. If I don’t like what I see, help me look again." -- Melody Beattie. Read that yesterday, but I need it today as well. Thanks, Melody. :)

C.A. MacConnell

Back in the Bedroom

Back in the bedroom, she

Turns gray in the yellow
Light. Today,
Under cover, she is deeply
Buried.

Smoking, dying, getting

Off

The best
She can. Words come easy --
So
Real,

That was,

And wide open --

Here lies her starving heart.
Such a clean
Party --
Flat on the back,
And the nasty
Clock is stuck on the stupid beat of

One.

Post-
traumatic. Good enough.
Shaky hands,
Headache, please, fuck you.

Right now, someone tells her that all she needs
is air.
Right now, someone tells her that all she needs
is everything.

There is a place we call
Up there,
and a place we call
Down below, and somewhere in
Between,
Lives a human,
A canine,
Vicious desire,
And a small, empty

House
For sale.

Hold her hand when you take her
To the showing.
Make sure the lights are
On.
Make sure it is brick
Or stone.

C.A. MacConnell