Life on the Back Porch

The house where I am staying is a nice one, nestled among towering redwoods just north of Santa Cruz, California. I am in Scotts Valley, the place where the Suicide Squirrel Death Cult was first exposed, almost three years ago. (Three years!)

When I arrived home from a fruitless but enjoyable day of driving around, my hosts were both unavailable to entertain me, and the dogs had been exiled to the back. I set up my laptop on the dining table but soon felt the hopeful gazes of the hopeful dogs tunneling into the back of my head. The writing wasn’t going anywhere anyway, so I pulled a beer from the fridge and went out to join the banished canines.

It was a pleasant evening. I played with the dogs for a while and then leaned against the porch railing, appreciating the quiet. Quiet is different than silence, much different, and tonight’s quiet was filled with gentle sound. There is a stream that marks the back boundary of their property (as well as eating away at the property), and the still air carried the chatter of small birds. Sometimes things would rustle in the foliage back in the forest, and the dogs and I would both scan the dense brush for any sign of what might be out there.

The air, while clear, was not empty; countless winged creatures filled the canyon, darting through the sunbeams. One of those insects will appear in a story of mine someday, I suspect. While the multitude darted about in their brownian randomness, there was one, slightly larger flyer whose motion seemed to carry much greater purpose. The bug flew straight up, then after rising a few feet would freeze, wings outstretched red-gold in the slanting sun, and drift straight back down again. Up, down, up, down, the yo-yo bug continued, steering with a long tail to always be in the sunbeams. Hunting? I assumed so. Perhaps while it is drifting its prey cannot hear it coming. It was a very pretty killer.

I looked back in the window to see a cat silhouetted against my laptop screen. One of the feline residents here has an affinity for electronics. I wondered what the cat might be adding to the short story I was working on. (Later I discovered that the cat has actually removed a chunk of the story which it apparently found to be of substandard quality. Hey, it’s only a rough draft! Luckily the four-footed editor did not save her revisions, as I did not agree with all of the changes.

While the smaller dog grew impatient with me just standing there, the larger was content to hang out with me. There was much scratching of backs and rubbbing of bellies. The younger dog sent up clouds of winter fur, which drifted to form a layer, snow-like, on the deck. The birds sang, the creek babbled (happy to have someone listening for once), the land turned it’s back on the sun once again, and all was well.

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Deer Creek Bar and Grill

The Miata, almost exactly where I left it at the end of the homeless tour.

On the way over the hill to collect the Miata, John pointed to a place we had eaten at some unknown time ago. “Nobody seems to be able to keep that place open,” he lamented. We discussed why that might be, my theory being that although it is on a busy highway, it’s not near anything. When you’re on you way to somewhere, you don’t want to stop half-way, no matter how picturesque the destination. The place needs to be a destination in its own right to succeed here.

We discussed various gravity-enabled entertainment options – I started with a water slide but then figured that would be difficult in the current water-aware political environment. John suggested other lubricants for the slide (glycerine and KY). We went through some other ideas to make the place successful. When I suggested a bar with an attached hotel that forces patrons to spend the night if they drink too much (at an exorbitant rate), John wondered out loud just why it was we weren’t rich yet.

Looks nice out there, but I’m inside.

After one minor navigational snafette (In czech, snafuček) and a bit of an electrical infusion the Miata was purring like a 500-lb kitten, the top was down, and I was ready to drive. The first stop was supposed to be the DMV, but I wanted to run the alternator a little more before shutting things down. I’ll take care of that driver’s license thing later. I drove back south, up the winding road that connects San Jose with Santa Cruz, enjoying the light traffic, revving things a little higher than necessary to turn the alternator a bit faster. At the top I figured there must be enough electricity in the battery for one start, so I pulled out at the restaurant that always fails for a little lunch.

This is a nice place. I am indoors, with a good view of the patio where I would like to be on such a beautiful day, and the wooded hillsides beyond. There are no tables out there, however. Service is friendly and efficient without being oppressive. I am taking advantage of that peculiar North American tradition of free refills on ice tea, and the caffeine is starting to hit my system. My chicken sandwich was tasty. Soon, though, it will be time to go out and see if the car starts. It’s going to be very inconvenient if it doesn’t.

Programming Note: Comments RSS

For those who worry about missing comments made in old threads, this might help. It is the RSS feed that nourishes the recent comments list in the sidebar. Perhaps in conjunction with your RSS reader you can catch comments before they slip away. To the best of my knowledge, there is no way to make it show more than the ten most recent. If you find a way to make it show more, I’d like to hear about it.

get your feed here!

Bannned in China!

According to Great Firewall of China, it is likely that Muddled Ramblings and Half-Baked Ideas (as http://muddledramblings.com) is blocked in China.

*sniff!* It’s good to be noticed.

But then again, why not? What is Muddled Ramblings, if not a celebration of the freedom of the human spirit, of the deeper meanings of seemingly simple actions, of rebellion and art, individualism and choice? It is a place where there is no thought too radical, no dissertation too convoluted, no idea too stupid to be aired out and discussed in free and open debate.

We here in the Muddleverse exist to challenge the status quo, to look at the myths that built America, then go beyond merely looking at the myths and embrace them with prenostalgic fervor, lamenting the loss of something we never had. We stack rocks to build an altar to the open road, then hold a belching contest while basking in the grandeur. We embrace — no, we demand — the right to be self-contradictory and generally incomprehensible.

What totalitarian government could stand in the face of this? What recourse do they have but to silence this voice of freedom before it reaches the ears of their benighted citizens? People are to freedom as tigers are to human flesh: Once they taste it they can never go back.

It is probably only a matter of time before other governments tremble in fear before this bastion of freedom, this open rebellion against tyrannies of every shape, be they transnational corporations, democracies for sale, or ruthless dictatorships. And you, my friends and faithful readers, were there at the start. I’m sure your names are already on lists somewhere, to be rounded up and exterminated at the first opportunity.

Sorry about that.

The New Mini

I was discussing my plans with John the other day. I said I was going to go up to the Seattle area, then perhaps a couple of days in Colville (rhymes with Smallville), then working my way back down and ending up in San Diego before crossing the desert to New Mexico. All that in three weeks! I called it a “mini road trip”. He laughed.

I’m getting a little antsy, though, as I still don’t have a car. The guy with the keys has not gotten back to me. The guy who might know another way to contact the guy with the keys hasn’t answered my last email, either. I like it here, don’t get me wrong, but the road is out there.

Britannia Arms, Aptos, California

I’m back in America. Yep, there’s no denying it. It’s good to be here. I like Czech Beer, don’t get me wrong, but man I miss the good ol’ American overhopped Pale Ales. if something’s worth doing, it’s worth overdoing, that’s the American way.

Right now, however, I’m sitting in a British-like pub, and I just finished off the best steak and kidney pie I’ve had in several years. That’s not saying much, as it’s the only steak and kidney pie I’ve had in several years, but that doesn’t change the fact that is was quite good grub. Flaky pastry, rich gravy, good steak and good kidney. Served with peas, of course.

On the TV to the right of the bar is non-stop coverage of football (rhymes with soccer) from around the world. It looks like Pakistan lost big this week. On the TV to the left of the bar is NASCAR. Neither of those is terribly distracting to me. What is intruding on my fragile concentration is the conversation at the table next to mine. There was a time when I was immune to this sort of thing, but spending most of my time in places where I can’t understand the conversation anyway has diminished my ability to tune out the world around me. It’s still a novelty that I can understand what people are saying.

Still, I’d best get the nose to the grindstone. J. K. Rowling is a billionaire, now. I’ve gotta keep up.

Worst Nightmare

For those of you who believe in karma, jinxes, and the like, you might find corroboration as you read about my trip from Dallas to Denver. Hours ago, while sitting at the terminal in Frankfurt, I wrote about how air travel is generally pretty routine these days. It took the Hand of Fate a little time to find me, but somewhere over Greenland the pilot made an announcement that at the time seemed completely irrelevant: Our plane would be arriving in Dallas early. Since I had a very long layover in Dallas anyway, getting there early just meant waiting in an airport rather than sitting on a plane.

By the time we got there, I was very enthusiastic about the prospect of getting off the plane. I was sitting next to a toothless old guy from Bombay, which could definitely have been a lot worse. (For the record, Lufthansa’s veggie meals smelled pretty good, and Hindus can drink beer.) The infant two seats over was crying during boarding, but then clammed up for the entire flight. Still, ten hours is a long time to spend in any chair. Off the plane and through immigration quickly and over to the next terminal (with the help of one security guy who went way out of his way to direct me to Frontier checkin), I was in time to hop on an earlier flight from Dallas to Denver. It meant a longer layover in Denver, but it’s always better to grab the earlier flight if you can. As the guy checking me in said, “You never know.”

No, you never do. I settled into 16F, and it looked like I’d have the row to myself. Excellent! Room to spread out!

Just before departure time, a happy-go-lucky guy came bumping down the aisle and asked the attendant, “where’s 16A?” The blonde in 16B looked up in disappointment; she was already spreading out in her row. I got the feeling she was an airline employee of some sort. Much to her relief, he did not sit in 16A, but chose 16D, on my side of the aisle instead. He sat heavily and I realized just how drunk he was. He looked over at me and said, “Dude, I’m just going to fuckin’ apologize right now. I’m fuckin’ wasted. Am I saying fuck too much? This is like your worst fuckiin’ nightmare, isn’t it?”

It wasn’t… yet.

He talked at me for a bit. It turns out he’s a rancher from Wyoming who supplies horses to rodeos. His problem these days, he says, is that his horses are too mean for the new generation of cowboys. He paused at one point to say, “Are we off the ground yet? Good. I can’t get arrested and thrown off the plane. I’m just this side of alcohol poisoning.” Throughout our discussion (he was just as interested in me as he was in telling me about himself), he said, “Just remember the code word. ‘shut the fuck up motherfucker.’ I can’t believe you haven’t used it yet.” The thing was, I was a bit curious about raising horses for rodeo. Eventually, however, I did invoke the code word and a he lapsed into silence. The attendant comped him free access to the directTV broadcast on the screen in front of him, and he lapsed into semi-consciousness.

We were on the ground here in Denver, taxiing to the gate, when he puked. He pulled out the air sick bag in front of him and filled it, and then some. Then he had trouble sealing it up. The blonde across the aisle and I offered supplemental barf bags at the same time. “Double-bag it,” the blonde said helpfully, but our cowboy just didn’t have the motor skills. He looked over at me.

“Almost made it,” I said, as the fasten seat belts sign turned off.

“Almost,” he agreed, then rose from his seat and fled in shame.

So very, very tired

Air travel is pretty routine these days, despite the best efforts of the security folks to make us feel safer by inconveniencing us more and more. (It was Buggy who pointed out to me that if a terrorist wanted to end all air traffic and cripple the economy of the developed nations, all he would need to do is smuggle a bomb up his butt and get caught. The resulting security checks would end all passenger traffic.) So, while standing in line to get patted down and have a metal detector run over my body in the Frankfurt airport I thought of ways to get dangerous substances past. It still strikes me as frightfully easy.

But other than that air travel is an easy process — you wait around in large building, when instructed you join a few hundred of your (now) closest friends in an aluminum cylinder,

*** We interrupt this blog entry to stand in a new line for a while, to be allowed to come back and sit where I was before, with an extra form to fill out. The United States government promises that the form will be destroyed upon the arrival of my flight in the US. ***

… aluminum cylinder, where we sit for a period of time. There is some noise and some motion; those with windows can see things change outside, and then the noise goes away and we all file out of the cylinder (“deplane” — when we got on, were we “planing?”) and we discover that we are in a building much like the first, but the advertising is in a different language. That, in a nutshell, is modern air travel.

The waiting area I’m in right now is more comfortable than most, and the TV appears to be showing the news right now. There are pictures of a passenger airliner in flames; the tail sticking up from the surrounding burning foliage is the only indication of what it used to be. No one around me seems to connect that flaming aluminum cylinder with the one we will be packing into soon. Then again, I don’t appear to, either.

This is the time of hope and fear, as we all size each other up, and wonder who’s going to get stuck next to the crazy lady whose eyes point different directions and who wants to talk to everyone (about what is not entirely clear), or who’s going to have the seat in front of the hyperactive five-year-old and feel the thump-thum-thump of his little sneakers for ten hours, even while trying to tune out his over-loud complaining. Then there is the pretty girl in the purple sweater. Will she be seated in 20B? The vast majority of passengers, however, are like me, just interchangeable faces, people who are in Frankfurt and would rather be in Dallas. At least, I hope I’m in that group.

What does any of this have to do with the title for this episode? Well, not much. But I am tired. It’s my defining characteristic right now. The leg of my trip from Prague to Frankfurt was typical in every way, but there was a point where I rose out of deep snooze to some bouncing and jouncing. “Sweet,” I thought. “Already landing.” No such luck; we were taking off.

Meddling fool… a retraction

I just got the message. I have a ride to the airport. Disregard my previous post.

Something that only gets better when you know the context

An excerpt from an email I got a couple of minutes ago:

The head-cracker will still be in place, though I expect they’ll finally paint over Jer’s blood.

Meddling Fool of an American!

I leave in a few hours. My procrastination skills have designated tonight an all-nighter.

Public transport from here to the airport is reliable, but not especially swift. Tonight I was sitting with MaK and she offered to drive me to the airport in the morning. I gratefully accepted. I said more than once, “you’re OK with showing up at that time?” She said that while she didn’t look forward to it, she was willing to do it. I was willing to incur the karmic debt.

Enter my brother. What had been a simple one-person-doing-another-person-a-favor transaction suddenly became complicated. Complicated to the point that I will not be getting a ride later this morning. He didn’t say they weren’t giving me a ride, he just revoked the commitment and said, “when do you need to know if we will be picking you up?”

Well, of course, given the relative speeds of the transportation involved, the difference is about an hour. What that means is that now in order to give me a ride to the airport MaK has to get up forty-five minutes earlier than she would have, just to tell me she’s coming. Yeah, like that’s going to happen. pL rewrote the rules to make it almost impossible for me to catch a ride.

Jerk.

Jilted at the Altar!

I was a little fuzzy-headed yesterday morning; the night before was a long one. I hadn’t planned it that way, of course, but sometimes those things happen. I was hanging out at my brother’s place, and his buddy was over to discuss buying a restaurant. Nights can get long when Jardo is around, but he and his girlfriend left at a reasonable hour. All might have ended early if it weren’t for Šarka (rhymes with shark-ah) being there also. She lives out of town, and MaK likes to keep her around as long as possible when the opportunity presents itself.

Šarka is also a massage therapist. That is an admirable quality in any human being, but when I said (quite sincerely) that I would forgive almost any sin in my next girlfriend if she gave good massages, MaK’s matchmaking instincts kicked into full. She was by no means obnoxious about it, mainly just doing her best to keep both of us there as long as possible, something that fits with her natural hosting instincts anyway. One of her techniques is to make sure a guest never has an empty glass. (Although when she almost-tearfully told Šarka that she was welcome in the family, that might have tipped her hand a bit.)

Šarka stayed very late, and I sure as heck wasn’t going anywhere when there are massages from attractive women happening. Which they were. I must say that although my head was fuzzy on Sunday, my back and shoulder felt better than they have in a while.

Somewhere during the massages I proposed marriage. She said OK. That was supposed to happen yesterday, but we never specified a time or place, and as the day wore to a close I didn’t hear from her. I didn’t press the matter — I had managed to get her consent for marriage, but not her phone number. Obviously I could have got that from MaK but I wasn’t at my best anyway. It is rare that I actually sparkle, but yesterday I was solidly entrenched at the far end of the personality spectrum. And maybe — just maybe — she didn’t take the proposal seriously. That I was laughing when I proposed probably didn’t help. Now she’s back in Moravia, and I won’t see her for at least a month because of my own travels. Ah, fickle gods of strong hands and soft hearts! Why do you torment me so?

Although we did make tentative plans for an Alaska road trip…

Infinology bites.

Infinology is the Web hosting company that carries Piker Press. More than a week ago, Piker Press stopped working. Since then the editors over there have tried through various channels to get help. Nothing. Zip. Nada. No one is answering the phones, no one is responding to the help tickets. This would to my untrained eye make the claims they make on their Web site downright fradulent.

So, to summarize: Infinology sucks. They are liars as well as bad Web hosts. Don’t even think of using them.

Once again, too much left unexplained.

I mentioned recently that I got three rejections in a single day. Those were from literary agents, and were all the quick-glance sort of rejections. When one sends out queries in batches, one should expect that the rejections from agencies that are not grabbed by the cover letter will come back in batches as well. So, while it was disappointing that three came back that way in the same day, it was not entirely unexpected.

Meanwhile, I’ve been checking the steps up to my door eagerly every day because I was waiting to hear back from a major magazine about a story I really like. Today, there was not a SASE waiting there, but a small package. I assumed it was from my folks, but on inspection it proved to be from the magazine to which I had submitted the story. I mentioned previously that one gets a feel for when a rejection is in the envelope, and this was clearly an outlier. Eagerly I tore open the package.

Inside was a copy of Esli, the Russian sister of F&SF. The editor thought I would enjoy having a copy of the Russian edition with my story Memory of a Thing that Never Was in it. He was right; I think that’s pretty damn cool. (Illustrated, even!) I’m curious now whether there are any reviews of the Russian version. In the US, most reviews said “Good writing, the reader has to fill in the gaps.” For some reviewers that was a good thing, for others not so much. I wonder how eastern Europeans will react to it; one of the big criticisms of American literature over here is that too much is explained, and that stories always come to pat conclusions. With that in mind, Memory might appeal even more to Eastern sensibilities.

I’m not sure, but I think the Russian magazine picks and chooses stories from a variety of sources, which makes it a little more special that they chose mine. I could be wrong about that, though. I wonder if the translation is any good.

I can also say now that I have been published in multiple languages. That’s pretty cool.

There were two notes in the package with the magazine. The first said something like, “thought you might get a kick out of seeing the Russian edition. I have a story of yours I’ll try to look at this weekend.” The second note said, “too much unexplained.” That’s a paraphrase, the note was by far the most comprehensive critique to come with a rejection. The editor took some valuable time to give me his opinion. He also said the piece felt like part of a larger story. Mere days ago I said that I liked stories like that.

Sigh. This was a story I’d actually revised to make things clearer, so the reader didn’t have to work so hard. Still, I have to admit that the prose is dense and can be demanding if you let it be, and there are some things that I don’t come out and explain directly. I thought some of the things the editor cited were pretty obvious by the end of the story, though. Then again, I’m not really the guy to judge that.

I think I also have to accept that what these guys really want are what I consider my second-best stories — stories that are more stylistically straightforward and don’t have multiple layers of interpretation. I write a lot of those, and I enjoy them, but generally I don’t deem them ‘worthy’ of the big magazines. This despite people around me, even readers of these pages, telling me they also like (and sometimes even prefer) those stories.

As an experiment I think I’ll loosen up the style a bit, add more explanation, and see if it still sounds good to my ear. I get paid by the word, after all. At the same time I’ll see if a more literary venue might be interested in it. Perhaps I just need to find a market for speculative fiction for people who like to be challenged. (To be fair, Fantasy and Science Fiction does sometimes publish more challenging work, but it is the exception, and it’s not mine.)

Who knows? Maybe in Russia…

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Happy Ground Squirrel Day

Whether you grind your own squirrels or just pick up a couple pounds at the local butcher shop, don’t forget to celebrate the day!

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