Builder
In the beginning, we are real, all the time.
C.A. MacConnell
9/26/2017
9/24/2017
9/22/2017
Happy Fall!
Hold My Hand
Sharonville, OH
Front Quad, Hollins University
Roanoke, VA
Hey everybody, happy fall!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Weird, it's like 92 degrees here today.
Love to you,
C.A. MacConnell
Photo: Barn Aisle
Barn Aisle
Loveland, OH
I actually worked as a professional trainer at this very farm for about five years, but the place has been totally redone since then. Still, when I visited last year, it brought back so many memories. I suppose I'd like to have one horse to train again someday...just for fun...some gelding. There are two horses that I miss...one is the gelding I owned when I was 16-18 years old. I'd tell you his name, but it's not polite to speak of the dead. The other is Johnny, one of the racehorses I retrained to jump. I know where he is, but it's private property, and they don't allow visitors. Bummer. 'Course that never stopped me before. Just ask Argo the dog, who lives in a yard down the street.
So, yeah, it'd be nice to have that connection with a horse again.
But I'm all right.
Back when I worked at this Loveland farm, I had like 30 in my care, and I rode and jumped many of them. I also had a slew of students that I loved. Feels like another life, at the moment.
It is.
I get so caught up. And right now, the focus is on trying to help others and finishing up book three, so that's keeping me in tune with all that is. It's good to have a focus, a goal, a dream. I always have something cookin'. I've always been that way.
Nature has been a beast lately. You know what made me happy two days ago? I saved a turtle from being hit by a car. A painter. Picked him right up and carried him close to some water. He was so scared, the poor guy. You know what made me happy yesterday? I saved a katydid. She was scared too.
Horse or no horse, job or no job, agent or no agent, broke or getting by...I'm not scared.
C.A. MacConnell
9/21/2017
Higher Brow
Tunnel
Lawrenceburg, Indiana
Higher Brow
We were ready to face them.
How casual we were – leaning back in heated seats,
listening to the radio's low hum, riding in the strange
car. You were driving carefully – not too fast,
not too slow, taking the turns lightly, teaching me
how to settle and sink, to welcome the ache of calm.
We were making it. On the way to the most crucial
event, lit up with talent fire, I looked out the window,
and I had a vision of what the packed party might be like –
pretty lights, round, clean, white tables, the rich, organic
smells, and a thousand flutes – glasses upon glasses
shining at flashes, and when they touched, they hit,
screaming with cheer. Everywhere, flawless smiles,
sharp shadows, quick hands gripping microphones,
dresses reaching ankles or knees, tailored pants, fitted
jackets, and the difficult height of heels. We were ready
to face them. For weeks, we had planned the perfect
timing, the shifting flame of our long-awaited arrival.
Then, suddenly, still on the road, you looked at me
once, twice, three times, then shrugged and said,
You know, we don't have to go, and I nodded, smiling,
staring straight ahead, then looking back at you,
studying your cheek, loving your fine, cut jaw,
loving the way the higher brow hugged your right
eye, loving the way that some days, the lid seemed
purple, and we both laughed, and we couldn't stop,
and again, the road, the life, the laughter, the costumes,
the sky lights, and the newly burning stars, were ours.
We were ready to face them.
C.A. MacConnell
car. You were driving carefully – not too fast,
not too slow, taking the turns lightly, teaching me
how to settle and sink, to welcome the ache of calm.
We were making it. On the way to the most crucial
event, lit up with talent fire, I looked out the window,
and I had a vision of what the packed party might be like –
pretty lights, round, clean, white tables, the rich, organic
smells, and a thousand flutes – glasses upon glasses
shining at flashes, and when they touched, they hit,
screaming with cheer. Everywhere, flawless smiles,
sharp shadows, quick hands gripping microphones,
dresses reaching ankles or knees, tailored pants, fitted
jackets, and the difficult height of heels. We were ready
to face them. For weeks, we had planned the perfect
timing, the shifting flame of our long-awaited arrival.
Then, suddenly, still on the road, you looked at me
once, twice, three times, then shrugged and said,
You know, we don't have to go, and I nodded, smiling,
staring straight ahead, then looking back at you,
studying your cheek, loving your fine, cut jaw,
loving the way the higher brow hugged your right
eye, loving the way that some days, the lid seemed
purple, and we both laughed, and we couldn't stop,
and again, the road, the life, the laughter, the costumes,
the sky lights, and the newly burning stars, were ours.
We were ready to face them.
C.A. MacConnell
9/20/2017
9/19/2017
Newsy Note.
Kiss
Wish me luck. I'm getting excited!
I'm really enjoying working on this one, that's for sure.
It's been a smooth process.
But all in all, book writing has really taken me on quite the journey. I've been at it for a long time, that's for sure. Doing the deal, pushing through difficulties, enjoying the successes, and the like.
Just reflecting.
Hope you are well and happy today.
Much love,
C.A. MacConnell
P.S. I saw Logan Lucky, Wind River, Atomic Blonde. My favorites were Adam Driver and Jeremy Renner. <3 Maudie was amazing!
9/16/2017
Just in Case She's Going Somewhere
Butterflies
Krohn ConservatoryJust in Case She's Going Somewhere
Garden Plant
One Caterpillar
Studies Wind
-- C.A. MacConnell
9/15/2017
9/12/2017
Photo: Cormorant
Cormorant
Mt. Repose, OH
I've never seen one of these before, not that I've noticed. They spread their wings to dry them after they hunt for some fish din din. Looks like he's mimicking the fountain in the shot. Pretty rad, if I do say so myself. :)
C.A. MacConnell
9/11/2017
Come Down
Howdy. Here's a dreamy, intense piece I wrote a while back. I've been working steadily on book 3, as well as other writings. Book Three's getting all slick. Lookin' good. :) 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! Any time you buy a book, a donation is made to The Prospect House, a grass-roots drug and alcohol treatment center. Thank you so much. C.A.
-- 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
-- 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
9/06/2017
9/05/2017
The Heater
The Heater
We were the last two
standing
on the soaked floor.
Together, after the packed
rock show,
we sang Indigo
Girls in his beat up,
blue van.
Modestly,
ears were ringing.
We said so.
The weather
turned cold,
and everything white
fell from an aching sky.
Late, vacant highway.
No, no noise.
We checked in. Two
double hotel beds.
Like brother and sister,
we rested separately
until I sat up
on the bed
by the heater
with my head
propped on my hands.
Soon, blood rushing,
hands and feet
came alive again.
I breathed deeply,
pretending sleep.
He sat up, creeping
over to the heater,
twice feeling the air.
Finally, his slight weight
fell down next to me.
It was five a.m.
Back home, girls
whispered.
Back home, girls
asked me for a souvenir.
They asked me,
What’s he like.
They whispered
and asked me,
What’s he like.
He spoon-slept
by my side,
holding up
his hand, pressing it
against my palm.
We measured,
and I couldn’t believe
that his fingers
were just as small
as mine.
C.A. MacConnell
on the soaked floor.
Together, after the packed
rock show,
we sang Indigo
Girls in his beat up,
blue van.
Modestly,
ears were ringing.
We said so.
The weather
turned cold,
and everything white
fell from an aching sky.
Late, vacant highway.
No, no noise.
We checked in. Two
double hotel beds.
Like brother and sister,
we rested separately
until I sat up
on the bed
by the heater
with my head
propped on my hands.
Soon, blood rushing,
hands and feet
came alive again.
I breathed deeply,
pretending sleep.
He sat up, creeping
over to the heater,
twice feeling the air.
Finally, his slight weight
fell down next to me.
It was five a.m.
Back home, girls
whispered.
Back home, girls
asked me for a souvenir.
They asked me,
What’s he like.
They whispered
and asked me,
What’s he like.
He spoon-slept
by my side,
holding up
his hand, pressing it
against my palm.
We measured,
and I couldn’t believe
that his fingers
were just as small
as mine.
C.A. MacConnell
9/03/2017
A Surprise for You...
Hi there. How's it going? Hope you're well. Guess what?
As of today, right this moment, my second book, THE HOUSE OF ANCHOR, is now on sale. Click the title to get your copy today!
Act now!
You won't be disappointed.
The feedback has been outstanding. Very grateful to all those who have read my work...and...if you've already read the book, please leave a review here. Much appreciated!
And of course, my first novel, GRIFFIN FARM, is available right now at a reasonable price as well. Click the title to get your copy today! You can leave a review for Griffin here.
Thanks so much. Hope your evening is beautiful.
C.A. MacConnell
Photo: Katydid
Katydid
I've been hearing these lately, close by my window. But once, the one in this picture did come into my apartment, and she landed on a photo I had, as if she thought it was a real branch. I think it was a female, because the songs were outside, and she was quiet. Pretty cool. Born in spring, they die in October or November.
Think about it. What if you were born in April, and you died in November, and that was your entire life? To them, it must seem like a long time. They're magic, really. They remind me to appreciate this day, this life, this moment.
Today, I will focus on the details of the moment. Right now, I hear cicadas.
Nature is everything. Hope you have a chance to get out in it today. Much love and peace,
C.A. MacConnell
P.S. Book Three is coming along! Getting excited.
9/02/2017
Gratitude in Action
Attention: I'm looking to hire someone to help me with promotion. If you're
interested in marketing...doing all social media, emailing, writing letters, and getting the word out,
helping promote my books, and you're passionate about the material, I will hire you. Contact me at camacconnell at
gmail dot com. Thanks so much. Now, for today's essay...
Gratitude in Action
I woke up thinking this: I don't know what I'm doing, really. I feel so lost sometimes. Does anyone know what they're doing? I mean, some people look like they have it so together, don't they? They wear their suits, their business skirts and sweaters, their uniforms, their costumes. But deep down, aren't they wondering the same thing...here and there...do they think this: should I be doing something else? How can I best contribute to this world? How did I end up here?
I suppose we all think things like this. Maybe every day, or every week, or merely from time to time. Especially when things are going well. That's when these thoughts seem to creep in for me, putting a film on my outlook.
And then I stop to think things like this: somewhere, right now, someone is stuck in an abusive relationship. Others are trapped in flood waters. Some are sick, dying, or mourning the loss of a loved one. At the border, a girl is trying to escape sex trafficking. And all over the map, people are struggling to find safety and satisfy basic needs.
So in reality, it's an absolute privilege that I am able to wake up and muse about the direction of my life. A privilege. Because I don't have to worry about hot water, safety, warmth, dry clothes, food, and the like. My basic needs are taken care of, and that, when I think about it, is a miracle. I am truly blessed.
But even so, I've often stopped to think, What is the Creator's plan for me, really?
But that's where great gratitude and perseverance come in. Because sitting around thinking about everything and questioning my life plan really doesn't seem to help me much. What does help is getting into action; that is, I start working on book three, like I do every day, regardless of how I feel. I do my other writing work. I plug away. I do the steps, the daily deal. And in the neighborhood, I try to help someone unload her cart at the grocery. I visit someone at the hospital. I do what I can to add to the stream of life.
As far as the universe's grand plan, I take it one day at a time, and I just try to do the next right thing. Then the big picture, I assume, will just roll on out how it should.
I let the rest work out on its own.
Today, let me take small steps and cherish every moment I can add to the stream of life. Let me walk in gratitude...and I don't mean gratitude as a mere feeling; I mean it as an action word.
Gratitude in action,
C.A. MacConnell
P.S. Whoever is reading, I hope your day is full of love and light. Also, hi Mike, if you're reading, keep trucking.
Gratitude in Action
I woke up thinking this: I don't know what I'm doing, really. I feel so lost sometimes. Does anyone know what they're doing? I mean, some people look like they have it so together, don't they? They wear their suits, their business skirts and sweaters, their uniforms, their costumes. But deep down, aren't they wondering the same thing...here and there...do they think this: should I be doing something else? How can I best contribute to this world? How did I end up here?
I suppose we all think things like this. Maybe every day, or every week, or merely from time to time. Especially when things are going well. That's when these thoughts seem to creep in for me, putting a film on my outlook.
And then I stop to think things like this: somewhere, right now, someone is stuck in an abusive relationship. Others are trapped in flood waters. Some are sick, dying, or mourning the loss of a loved one. At the border, a girl is trying to escape sex trafficking. And all over the map, people are struggling to find safety and satisfy basic needs.
So in reality, it's an absolute privilege that I am able to wake up and muse about the direction of my life. A privilege. Because I don't have to worry about hot water, safety, warmth, dry clothes, food, and the like. My basic needs are taken care of, and that, when I think about it, is a miracle. I am truly blessed.
But even so, I've often stopped to think, What is the Creator's plan for me, really?
But that's where great gratitude and perseverance come in. Because sitting around thinking about everything and questioning my life plan really doesn't seem to help me much. What does help is getting into action; that is, I start working on book three, like I do every day, regardless of how I feel. I do my other writing work. I plug away. I do the steps, the daily deal. And in the neighborhood, I try to help someone unload her cart at the grocery. I visit someone at the hospital. I do what I can to add to the stream of life.
As far as the universe's grand plan, I take it one day at a time, and I just try to do the next right thing. Then the big picture, I assume, will just roll on out how it should.
I let the rest work out on its own.
Today, let me take small steps and cherish every moment I can add to the stream of life. Let me walk in gratitude...and I don't mean gratitude as a mere feeling; I mean it as an action word.
Gratitude in action,
C.A. MacConnell
P.S. Whoever is reading, I hope your day is full of love and light. Also, hi Mike, if you're reading, keep trucking.
8/31/2017
C.A. Goes to Chicago
Bicycles
Chicago, Illinois
Bridge View
Chicago, Illinois
Chicago Fire
Sunrise
Chicago, Illinois
Just returned from Chicago, where I attempted to wear business attire. I attended a conference, which is amusing all in itself, just because I felt way, way out of my element, but I tried to blend in nonetheless. I did have to wear my Vans though, because my right foot is bothering me. Poor me, ha.
I think I pulled it off.
I haven't been to Chicago since the memorable, fifth grade class trip we took. Why did we take this trip? I have no idea. There we were -- a bunch of Catholic school kids on the loose in Chicago. When I say "on the loose," that's because at some point, I sneaked off with some kids and got "lost;" that is, lost on purpose, which got us in a whole hell of a lot of trouble. Also on that fifth grade trip, I was desperately trying to get the attention of the second most popular boy, Christopher, who preferred the most popular girl, who wasn't me. I bet you're sorry now, Christopher. I've got skills. I'd like to say I have a six pack, but today it's like a four pack with a li'l belly attached. Hey, my nose is pretty good. I've always liked my nose. And my eyes seem to be holding up. The rest is sort of iffy.
Anyway, back to the present. So when I returned home, I found out the Ellen Show premiere is in Chicago this coming Tuesday...aw, I should have stuck around and tried to bust in and score a ticket! Oh well. Next time? Man.
Did you know Waking the Dead is my favorite movie? This has nothing to do with this post. I just thought of it for no reason at all. I want a love like that. But I want it to work out. You know, be together.
So I loved Chicago -- the theaters, the wide sidewalks, the water, everything about it really. I spent a lot of time on super early morning walks. I tried to beat the business crowd. I also spent a lot of time at 7-11. Now, this wasn't just any old 7-11. They had every single thing I needed, at all times. It was amazing.
Well, my favorite thing about this city was Eugene; he works at the hotel desk, but he's also a science fiction writer, and he has a book out. I'm gonna plug it for him as soon as I read it. Eugene and I liked to cut it up. From the get go, when I went to check in, and there were some problems, he was incredibly gracious. I said, "I know I look sketchy." I felt like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman when she was getting looks and major shit when she was trying to check into the posh hotel, and later, when she was attempting to buy nice clothes. That was me. Eugene treated me like a queen, regardless, just like the hotel manager in that movie, played beautifully by Hector Elizondo, I might add.
My second favorite thing about this city: in the hotel hallway, I swear I made super soulful, incredibly deep, meaningful, momentous eye contact with one of the conference speakers, and I kept running into him, and I achingly wanted to talk to him, but alas, fate never delivered. It reminded me of the times when I was at a rock show, and I thought the singer was looking at me with deep fascination, when in reality, he probably just had to take a piss. Anyway, maybe the speaker and I shall meet again in the Hotel Cloud Room 3&4 in another lifetime.
Back to the grind. Working on Book Three, doing other writing, back on sched.
Hope you like the photos. Hope I made you laugh,
C.A. MacConnell
8/28/2017
Photo: Rush Hour
Terrace Park, OH
Good morning. On the road again. Have a beautiful day.
C.A. MacConnell
C.A. MacConnell
P.S. Hi Mike.