Photo: Once Raced Champions.

 

I'm hoping for surprise tofurkey. Love you,

C.A. MacConnell

Photo: Crow

C.A. MacConnell

Photo: Conservatory 2

C.A. MacConnell

Photo: Conservatory

C.A. MacConnell

Photo: Firehouse

C.A. MacConnell

Photo: Self

C.A. MacConnell

From the Lion.

 from the point of view of the Lion...

From the Lion

Hm, yes, I have leftover
cheetah. Gnawing on the closer thigh.
Maz, the oldest, steals the right.
Sometimes, I let her.
I took cheetah by the vein
this afternoon. He was a slick, pale friend, an albino,
so rare,
but I was empty, and his paw was dragging,
so I saw it as a sign
to hit the neck.
He didn't go down easy.
I roll my eyes, checking. Hm, all of the ladies
are still mine. And the snake...
he's nothing to lose sleep about.
Hazel could take his head off with one
swipe. She probably will if he slides
too close to her Five.
Tomorrow, we're planning on antelope,
and the nap will be fine.
Man. Lately, a blue one stands
on his hind legs, holding a bad stick,
and he's been hunting me.
He thinks he is blending,
but I can smell him through the
leaves,
thirty trees back.
He's not one of us.
He's hairless, but for the head and chin.
I hear from Maz
that Stick Man wants to wear my teeth --
hang them from his chest --
for no reason at all, just because.
Hm, yes, today, in my free time,
I will peel him
apart like a gutted mango.
My tongue won't like him,
but I'll juice him slowly
when he moves the leaf
near the ladies and the kids and the rock.
I love one lady. Salta's eyes, gold
and black, hold sunrise and nighttime.
She has Four, and most days,
they're sucking anyone's tit.
Hm, soon, they will find mice.
And when they pass double hot years,
I'll tell them
to find another stretch, green or yellow,
to call home,
but if they don't listen,
I'll bury them, just because.
I hear something -- a wing.
Tomorrow, change of plans. Lunch will be birds.
Salta's hiding by the stones.
I stay away. Now is not the time.
She would fight me to the death,
even though they're mine.
And she might win. Hm,
I love her.
Now I see dirty Bubba sliding through the grass.
He wants to be king. He'll kill
the little ones. I prepare for a teeth
gnashing. If I win, he will be no more.
If he wins, I will become a dry tree,
or a green blade, or a stone,
so my father told me. In case the Stick Man wonders,
we kill, we eat, we sleep, we are reborn,
and then we go back
to the dust, just because.
Bubba turns away.
Maybe his ears hurt. The sky is talking.
Maybe he isn't in the mood.
I lick my paws clean, just because.
Hazel and Maz are yawning,
and Salta is growling, all pretty teeth.
Number Three kid looks like me.
I guess I have to go take care of this.
The snake is hugging him.

C.A. MacConnell

True Love is a Marathon.

If you read a lot of memoirs, it quickly becomes clear that we all share one thing:  humanity. No matter how famous or how hidden a person may be, we all have trauma. We all struggle to find hope. We all have family issues. We all have moments that seem to affect us for years...and for some...their entire lives.

I once read a famous sports figure's memoir, and I wrote him a letter. He responded, and we corresponded for some time; he really helped me to delve into and deal with some stigma issues that were concerning me in those years. This man had nearly died three times. He was so close to death, it was a damn miracle that he was alive, writing me. He was kind, strong, and to the point. He was a guiding light.

I once befriended a man who had been sent to death row and was later exonerated. For many years, we wrote letters and shared poetry. His experience was certainly far more devastating than mine, but I too had known what it was like to be trapped...I had been locked up in hospitals many times. I still struggle to this day with that fear of being trapped, but he helped me muscle through the worst of it.

I've written rock stars, and I've talked with many of them, listening to their stories, and I dated one. He could be sweet and smooth, and he could be a raging scary machine, just like anyone could be. I always wondered when his fury would be directed at me. A punch or something. It never happened, but it was always in the back of my mind. He was also extremely sensual, but he seemed highly insecure, and he was extremely dishonest. I loved him deeply, and he really broke me. I was weak, anxious, and neurotic. I lost myself in him. There was nothing fairy tale about it. We were two mismatched people, just like any two mismatched people, trying to cope with our lives and pasts, and the fame had nothing to do with it. As much as I was deeply hurt, I still miss him, and I hate to say it, but when I think about him, I still feel...well...not good enough.

It is what it is. Some things leave us with a pang of hurt that may never completely leave. People sometimes ask me who it was. Some drill me. I usually answer, Who cares?

I just read a public icon's memoir, and I really related, so I wrote him. I don't consider anyone's public persona or name as a reason not to reach out. So if the moment calls for it, I do.

So this morning, I'm thinking about all of these stories, connections, and intertwined lives. I'm thinking about the ways that I reacted and attempted to live on, for better or for worse. I'm thinking about how the outer images we portray have nothing to do with the way that we can connect on an intimate level.

Love takes time.

Love is a process.

And I believe in true love to this day, but I define it in a different way. Sometimes it means taking a walk and realizing that both of you are coming from completely different directions. Sometimes I have to walk away. Sometimes it means letting go. Sometimes it means connecting on the Internet, and for some, getting married and having kids. Sometimes it means taking many walks and realizing that your journey together has been truly amazing, and no one on the outside could possibly feel the great weight of this connection. It is yours, only yours.

Love -- between friends, coworkers, partners, and family -- is complicated and multi-faceted, and when we touch, it merely scratches the surface. Love takes true grit, tears, and commitment. And to me, true love is a marathon.

Let it unfold. Today may be the day you leave someone behind, or today may be the day someone clutches your heart forever; it is strange and beautiful, and it isn't for the faint of heart. And remember, above all, no matter where we come from and where we're going with who we love, you and I are hilarious.

C.A. MacConnell

Photo: Y.

C.A. MacConnell

What's in There.

With his fingers, one lonely man
made a perfect, nude, stone sculpture.

A single woman penned a lofty book,
one about a shy, misunderstood

monster, a recluse who was half
machine. How could we ever

forget. Others wrote elusive songs,
poems, naked stories, and yes,

bibles and speeches. Soliloquies.
Still today, each moment, the world

falls in love with Marilyn Monroe.
How we all want to somehow

describe what's in there. We wake,
and we feel the ache, the relentless

pull in the center of the blood.
And here I am, going at it again,

trying to express what lies inside
my deep, my heart, but like the rest,

I'll never quite reach. I'm sure you
already know.

C.A. MacConnell

Blanket

Outside, the shy,
cold front
settles down
on our sky.
Inside, the air
turns thin
and mean.
We crawl under
covers,
tossing,
and God knows
we'll never stop
moving.
Your slight
hand
graces my collar
bone.

C.A. MacConnell

Photo: Little Miami, and a Note to You.

Little Miami River

Cincinnati, OH

Ohhh. I just finished a little Stephen King novella. Now off to read some autobiographies. Doing some voice research for BOOK FOUR. Fun, fun, fun. Creation in the works! My mind is already grabbing a hold of this next project. :)

Life is good. I clean, walk, work, create, and muse about love. That's about it. Very simple, but good.

Not sure where all the hawks are this year...they usually return by this time. Strange. Perhaps soon. I hope. I love to scout for them. :)

I have signed copies of STRANGE SKIN in my possession. My contact info is here. All books are available on Amazon as well. Extremely soon, they'll be available at some select stores, so I'll let you know when that happens. Rad.

Hope you liked the shot. Much love to you,
C.A. MacConnell

Photo: My Coworker

My Coworker

Been roasting up a storm. Took some Brazilian home for me too. :) Hope you are well. I have some copies of STRANGE SKIN right here, by my side, so email me at camacconnell at gmail dot com if you'd like a signed copy. Right on!

Thanks for so much amazing feedback, everyone.

Love,
C.A.

Photo: Fall

Fall

Milford, OH

C.A. MacConnell

Photo: Dark Horse

Dark Horse

Camp Dennison, OH

C.A. MacConnell

Love Poem

I need a guitar,
and a new tattoo.
I need a dollar
to buy a lotto ticket.
Winner winner chicken dinner.
I need a woman
to show me how to heal.
I need a man
with a tattered jacket,
and a trick up his sleeve.
I need a black Camaro
with Kentucky plates,
and a rooster, a dog, and a glove.
I need a mailbox that leans,
and a doctor
who knows how to fuck.
If I could go back,
I'd take up the drums,
just for the muscle.
I need a mighty voice, a piano,
and a damn safe spork.
I need a shovel, a white room,
a backpack,
and some noise.
I need new employment
in the sky.
My eye is twitching.
My ears are ringing.
My ears are burning.
My eyes are burning.
There is one person
I'd like to mention.

C.A. MacConnell

Getting Lost...or Found?

I often get lost. Mainly when I'm walking, or when I'm inside buildings and houses. Small, large, you name it. See, when I visit a friend's house, when it's time to leave, I might forget where the exit is. Usually, I try to see which way someone is leaning so that I can follow the clue/hint toward the exit hall or door. If they don't lean, I keep talking nonsense until some person begins to walk a certain direction, giving me the "go-ahead." Or I shuffle and watch how they act. Do they widen their eyes, which means, Where are you going? Or do they just step forward, relaxed.

It's a maddening game.

I hate, hate to ask. That's what makes me panic -- not the lost part, but the fear that I may have to ask.

If I enter a building from a different direction, I have trouble understanding where the stairs are, and I always have difficulty finding the right room. If I'm at a party and someone tells me where the bathroom is, I may end up in the closet, or I may forget the way back. I get distracted, or I notice a collection of dog figurines, or I see a cool painting, or I stop to visit with the cat, dog, plant, hall mirror, and bobble head collection. Any number of things can take the "directions map" right out of my brain. So I listen for the noise, the rumble of voices, to find the way back. That's usually the ticket.

When I'm driving, I usually have a good sense, unless I'm thinking about true love, and then I just might pass my exit and end up taking the LONG WAY somewhere. But I always get where I need to be, and truly, GPS comes in handy nowadays. Back in the day, it was every man/woman for him/herself. Meaning, my road trips were often exceptional.

When I was very little, I was spending the night at a friend's house, and I got up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night, and I had no idea how to get back to her room, so I just started wandering around the house. I guess I made some racket, because the friend's mom finally found me in some corridor, and she said, "What are you doing? Go back to bed." I remember thinking, Right, I'd really like to. I just stared at her, not moving. Finally, my friend's mom shook her head and took my hand, leading me back to the right room. Crawling in my sleeping bag, I felt so defeated that I was "caught lost."

I distinctly remember how much I wanted to figure it all out on my own.

When I was in high school, I was a brief member of the cross country team. But one day, when we were supposed to run five miles, I got lost and ended up running eight, and I was still going until I finally flagged down some random car to take me back to school. That's right, a random person. In the bathtub that night, I decided that eight miles and directions were too much trouble, so I quit the team, but the real reason I quit was this:  the whole time I ran, I thought about the horses I should be riding, and I wanted to focus on that sport, not the running. So I did.

So I get lost when I'm anxious, bored, distracted by visuals, or when I want to be somewhere else or be with someone else. It's like my body is saying, No, you are not going the right way, and you are not in the right place, go over here. Or, it's this:  you are not with the right person. Most of the time, it's really this:  I get lost because I'm attuned to the scene around me, and I'm musing about something to write. I see the pictures and stories in things.

I see the whole damn movie sometimes.

I guess when I'm supposed to be paying attention to routes and maps, I think about the sadness in someone's eyes, the unique shade of a woman's hair, the man in the coveralls at the park, the glass earrings I just bought, the brown-eyed boy I once met in Blacksburg, one of my old professors, how I want some gum, my grocery list, the next step for book four. At exit three, my exit, I might think this:  I wonder how I'd look with a septum piercing and Mohawk. By the time I'm at exit five, I've decided to do the piercing, but then I think it might be better to put the money to tattoos. And then I realize I'm too broke for bodily mutilation, damn.

Maybe being lost isn't being lost at all. Maybe it's about becoming "found." Through someone's help or a divine act of Providence, I always end up where I need to be. Maybe not where I'm supposed to be, but I end up where I need to be. Maybe "winning" or being on the "right path" aren't all they're cracked up to be.

Maybe it's the ridiculous route of trying that matters.

C.A. MacConnell

Photos: Bicycles

C.A. MacConnell

Phil Collins - In the Air Tonight (Live at Montreux 2004)

Gave me chills this morning. Love, C.A.

Photo: Leaning

Leaning

Mason, OH

C.A. MacConnell