C.A. MacConnell
3/18/2022
3/17/2022
Story of You
In silence, in mystery, in between music notes, buried within
crafted, poetic lines, resting inside the space, the air filling
the collective movement of a tragic or comic dance, smashed
underneath the colors of a gifted paintbrush, life takes a turn,
becoming divine. Some say, rather delusional. All around,
scattered humans interrupt the quiet, making hell-noise,
wishing on sharp or smooth tongues, making gaping holes
with open lips -- sweaty, dripping, steamy ones and twos,
kneeling down or cursing, shouting or rejoicing within each
personal scene, whether magnificent or miniscule, harrowing
or revered, and then, suddenly, waking to the damp, cardboard
box. But no matter the time of day or scene of place, no matter
if the dogs stop fighting, or if the tree is obese, emaciated,
twisted, or hollow, eventually, any bullied child breaks free,
and no matter how flawless or wrecked a talker's skin seems,
the instantaneous, painfully awaited flash, the careful angle,
the shot, the strange oils blending, turning into legendary
faces, the perfectly executed succession of movement,
the instant when a voice halts, changing tone, the space
hidden inside these mathematic, infantile, godly lines,
the gap between canines and leaves, and the discreet story
of you and me, lives forever.
C.A. MacConnell
crafted, poetic lines, resting inside the space, the air filling
the collective movement of a tragic or comic dance, smashed
underneath the colors of a gifted paintbrush, life takes a turn,
becoming divine. Some say, rather delusional. All around,
scattered humans interrupt the quiet, making hell-noise,
wishing on sharp or smooth tongues, making gaping holes
with open lips -- sweaty, dripping, steamy ones and twos,
kneeling down or cursing, shouting or rejoicing within each
personal scene, whether magnificent or miniscule, harrowing
or revered, and then, suddenly, waking to the damp, cardboard
box. But no matter the time of day or scene of place, no matter
if the dogs stop fighting, or if the tree is obese, emaciated,
twisted, or hollow, eventually, any bullied child breaks free,
and no matter how flawless or wrecked a talker's skin seems,
the instantaneous, painfully awaited flash, the careful angle,
the shot, the strange oils blending, turning into legendary
faces, the perfectly executed succession of movement,
the instant when a voice halts, changing tone, the space
hidden inside these mathematic, infantile, godly lines,
the gap between canines and leaves, and the discreet story
of you and me, lives forever.
C.A. MacConnell
3/16/2022
3/15/2022
Spoon
On your side, behind me,
there you were --
temperate --
and serenely
sleeping.
There I was, in front of you,
on my side --
wintry,
twitchy,
pale as bone,
suddenly silver, static,
sober,
and awake ... soon
feeling
your elbow,
feeling your
pulse,
feeling your slight
feeling your slight weight.
C.A. MacConnell
there you were --
temperate --
and serenely
sleeping.
There I was, in front of you,
on my side --
wintry,
twitchy,
pale as bone,
suddenly silver, static,
sober,
and awake ... soon
feeling
your elbow,
feeling your
pulse,
feeling your slight
feeling your slight weight.
C.A. MacConnell
Just playing around with a little disruption in rhythm. It's kinda cool...comes across as both sweet and jarring. Always messing around, ha. <3 C.A.
3/14/2022
Photos: Love, Jukebox, Little Miami
Love.
Jukebox
Little Miami
Some shots from around town. I like to take each one as its own little piece of art, in terms of the mood. <3 No real consistency on edits, ha. I actually don't use photoshop at all...some tint/contrast/enhance manipulation, that's all, but very little. And I take one shot and go, as if it's film. The Jukebox one was actually on film. Taken at The Comet, a rad bar in town. Hope you have a beautiful day. Just up drinking some coffee.
Yesterday, at the park, I saw a little girl stumbling around. Holding her dad's hand, she was beaming, learning to walk, wearing blue socks, no shoes, testing the pavement. She toppled once and started giggling. It warmed my heart.
C.A. MacConnell
3/13/2022
Spanish Moss
No gutter man.
The day we met,
swimming straight
out of the bayou,
you shone. Light
only came through
the sun and iris.
Back then, you wore
the perfect shade --
a faded, hand-me-down
sweater, a shy cut,
an original number,
surely home-threaded,
hand-woven by spiders
using only the finest
Spanish moss.
No gutter man.
C.A. MacConnell
The day we met,
swimming straight
out of the bayou,
you shone. Light
only came through
the sun and iris.
Back then, you wore
the perfect shade --
a faded, hand-me-down
sweater, a shy cut,
an original number,
surely home-threaded,
hand-woven by spiders
using only the finest
Spanish moss.
No gutter man.
C.A. MacConnell
3/11/2022
3/10/2022
Snapshot, Just So
Sharply,
he is dressed
in eggshell,
with a touch
of borrowed
baby blue,
platinum,
and diamonds,
with serious,
slicked-back
hair. Not one
flyaway there.
At first, severe,
he stands
between
two women --
one sick,
one well --
worried
about the gel.
Later, alone,
at the circular
hotel, he leans
back against
the antique
headboard
and smiles
sideways.
C.A. MacConnell
3/09/2022
3/08/2022
My favorite.
All the time, people ask me this: "What is your favorite book that you've written?" Well, I'll tell you.
Griffin Farm was the debut, so that was awesome, and it took a long time to harness the form, because there are a lot of dynamics with family dramas...people coming and going, weaving in and out, that kind of thing. And it tugged on my heart; I can't say that I maintained an "artist distance" throughout the process, and I think this shows in its intensity.
And holy shit, speaking of people weaving in and out, The Anchor wins in that category. People are crawling around everywhere in that sucker. By far, the Anchor was the most fun to write, and there were a ton of voices and witty dialogue, which I loved, but the numerous minor characters made editing challenging! Very complicated, and it took an immense amount of research, but also, it's incredibly detailed and visual. Real life, living in 90s Seattle, and events there definitely inspired the work.
Strange Skin was challenging as well, since it was a YA, so it was a new style for me, and I had to work hard to tone down the fucks and leave the drugs out and such, ha, but the nature of this genre forced me to make the story more compact, which was a great learning experience. I definitely fell in love with my character Casper, which is interesting, because I seriously have never met anyone like him. His character grew out of an article I read about street hustlers a long time ago.
So that's the short answer. With each project, I become enmeshed, and they're all a part of me now, but once I finish one, I never read it again, unless I'm doing an event or whatnot.
And what comes next? Book Five, and as far as the style and subject matter, it will remain a secret until it's absolutely finished.
Until then, the others are here, paperback and eBook.
Griffin Farm was the debut, so that was awesome, and it took a long time to harness the form, because there are a lot of dynamics with family dramas...people coming and going, weaving in and out, that kind of thing. And it tugged on my heart; I can't say that I maintained an "artist distance" throughout the process, and I think this shows in its intensity.
And holy shit, speaking of people weaving in and out, The Anchor wins in that category. People are crawling around everywhere in that sucker. By far, the Anchor was the most fun to write, and there were a ton of voices and witty dialogue, which I loved, but the numerous minor characters made editing challenging! Very complicated, and it took an immense amount of research, but also, it's incredibly detailed and visual. Real life, living in 90s Seattle, and events there definitely inspired the work.
Strange Skin was challenging as well, since it was a YA, so it was a new style for me, and I had to work hard to tone down the fucks and leave the drugs out and such, ha, but the nature of this genre forced me to make the story more compact, which was a great learning experience. I definitely fell in love with my character Casper, which is interesting, because I seriously have never met anyone like him. His character grew out of an article I read about street hustlers a long time ago.
And The Hole was a whole other animal; it was painful to write that sucker, but strangely, I felt incredibly free at the same time, because I allowed myself to get as dark and dirty as I wanted, and I became completely lost in it, so much so that it felt like I became the characters when I did the voices. This one also took a lot of research -- interviews, letters, reading, podcasts, and then some. I learned a hell of a lot.
So that's the short answer. With each project, I become enmeshed, and they're all a part of me now, but once I finish one, I never read it again, unless I'm doing an event or whatnot.
And what comes next? Book Five, and as far as the style and subject matter, it will remain a secret until it's absolutely finished.
Until then, the others are here, paperback and eBook.
TYVM,
C.A. MacConnell
P.S. You're my favorite, always.
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.
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
3/07/2022
Roadside.
The Jaguar is broken
down,
and in the traffic's face,
I am making
wolf eyes,
feeling the speed of machine
cheetahs,
because no honest beast slows down,
and the hot air burns any cheek,
like sun-beat bars on a steel cage,
and the closest
rest stop
is five hundred tracks away,
and I wonder
where you are killing
lunch.
C.A. MacConnell
down,
and in the traffic's face,
I am making
wolf eyes,
feeling the speed of machine
cheetahs,
because no honest beast slows down,
and the hot air burns any cheek,
like sun-beat bars on a steel cage,
and the closest
rest stop
is five hundred tracks away,
and I wonder
where you are killing
lunch.
C.A. MacConnell
3/06/2022
3/05/2022
Reception: Apartment 52
Evening.
The Dad says
she should lower her expenses,
but she didn't know
about the Siberian Unicorn
until this night;
she’s finally getting
reception.
How she wants to be
25,000 years ago.
What a beast.
But she can’t see it
now.
She only sees
rabbit ears.
C.A. MacConnell
The Dad says
she should lower her expenses,
but she didn't know
about the Siberian Unicorn
until this night;
she’s finally getting
reception.
How she wants to be
25,000 years ago.
What a beast.
But she can’t see it
now.
She only sees
rabbit ears.
C.A. MacConnell
3/04/2022
3/03/2022
Photo: Electric.
Took this over by Lunken Airport. I like to watch the planes roll in. I like to imagine who's coming. <3, C.A. MacConnell
Raw.
Actually, I wrote the original version of this one back in college, Junior year, when I was living in an apartment with three other girls. That would have been the 1994-5 school year, whoa. I used to play my guitar on the steps outside of that apartment, and I started writing my first songs then. Singers are fun.
Raw
The mint. Sure, I was a cowboy
Killer. The den light
Burned pink,
Like raw skin,
Like a room tongue.
I kissed you once, twice, maybe lucky three
Times, telling you to leave
Before the roommates woke up and
Found us
Passed out on the couch again.
Humming, whistling.
That night, the storm
Was wild. Surely, somewhere, horses dashed
Across slippery fields.
Surely, somewhere, wind slid through the
Cracks
Of a screaming barn.
C.A. MacConnell
3/02/2022
3/01/2022
Shavings
Hand me a bandage. Earlier, I cut myself.
We are forever blending into some couch.
You are made of smog, smoke, fog, steam.
You are dust. You are an intangible buffet,
a cirrus cloud, a vast scab, a gorgeous vapor.
Your shoulders are static rather than bone.
Something hangs between us – a fight never
fought, a loss never lost, and the irresistible,
makeup screw. To our mad, silent lives --
from the dirtiest laundry to the lightest
sheets. Sometimes, I see your shavings.
Cutting the quiet in two, sound is our knife.
I see our small house, white paint peeling
on the left, the heart side. I see you call
the painter. I see me call the gutter man.
I see our swing, our kitchen, our late night
dinner -- orange, fake fish on green plates,
no napkin, bare clean kitchen, the scent of it.
The table, the imperfect circle. And no matter
how the meal ends -- empty or full, imagined
or real -- even if I could, even if I should,
I wouldn't take anything back. Hand me
a bandage. I see us sit down at the same
time, sinking into high-backed, black, plastic
chairs, praying and laughing and digging in,
whether or not people need to eat
in heaven.
We are forever blending into some couch.
You are made of smog, smoke, fog, steam.
You are dust. You are an intangible buffet,
a cirrus cloud, a vast scab, a gorgeous vapor.
Your shoulders are static rather than bone.
Something hangs between us – a fight never
fought, a loss never lost, and the irresistible,
makeup screw. To our mad, silent lives --
from the dirtiest laundry to the lightest
sheets. Sometimes, I see your shavings.
Cutting the quiet in two, sound is our knife.
I see our small house, white paint peeling
on the left, the heart side. I see you call
the painter. I see me call the gutter man.
I see our swing, our kitchen, our late night
dinner -- orange, fake fish on green plates,
no napkin, bare clean kitchen, the scent of it.
The table, the imperfect circle. And no matter
how the meal ends -- empty or full, imagined
or real -- even if I could, even if I should,
I wouldn't take anything back. Hand me
a bandage. I see us sit down at the same
time, sinking into high-backed, black, plastic
chairs, praying and laughing and digging in,
whether or not people need to eat
in heaven.
C.A. MacConnell