Coins

AWP conference, Boston

It's time for the Association of Writers and Writing Programs annual conference, where would-be writers and publishers and agents come together to celebrate the craft, and network, network, network.  Or at least that's what I've been told; this is my first time in attendance, and I will be wandering the crowds as a nobody-anyone-has-heard-of, another small fish in the big pond and so on and other analogies everyone's tired of hearing.

Boston is, of course, a wonderful town, or at least it would be if the sky could only decide which manner of precipitation to spatter upon my glasses.  But then again a writer's favorite color is gray (or was it red?) so perhaps it fits that clouds gather over the city.

As for myself, the weather brought out my creative ambitions, and I was soon transported to a local coffee shop, and I, in a fit of ambition and boredom, wrote a short story in one sitting.  It's called "Coda," and it does not take place in Boston, nor does it take place on a gray day.  I like to draw my inspiration from the world that is not around me.

As for the coffee shop: the crowd is nice, the price is nice, the music is nice... but it, unfortunately  is no replacement for my regular hangout back in my fair city.  Truth be told, I miss my old hangout back in my old fair city; I have fond memories of sitting out front, smoking cigarettes and chatting about all manner of things with the best people I've ever met...

The last time I was in Boston I explored the ins-and-outs along with my favorite person, but this time, I am here alone, and it has been a long time since I wandered American streets without a companion.  It is both liberating and lonely to be just one of the crowd in someone else's town, although part of me suspects that the natives are aware that I do not belong.  Perhaps it is my scent.  I must be cautious if I am to observe them undetected.

If, by chance or by design, you should find yourself in Boston, you should consider attending the AWP Conference.  And, if, again by chance or design, you attend the AWP Conference, you should check out the Cobalt Review, table Y16, and say hello to Andrew Keating.  Buy his book (if you like) or a copy of Cobalt or Ampersand.  Another stop should be Cardinal Sins, at table R16.  I've been published in that latter one... although not anytime recently.  Pick up a copy anyway.

And if you happen to see me walking around, say hello, and (if you like) we'll ditch the thing and go get a drink.

New Artwork

More of my faffing about with fake depth-of-field and color manipulation; there are actually about twenty layers in this photo, changing it from a rather bland picture to something that "pops" quite a bit more.  I love washing out colors to achieve a restricted-palate look, without actually restricting the palate, which I think causes the picture to look flat and artificial.

Mud

Like all native Michiganders, I am obsessed with the weather, much to the chagrin of the locals, who seem not to notice the changes in temperature, wind, humidity, or cloud cover, as if the world around them was so unfathomable that to even question whether it would rain or not would be to invite the Mountains of Madness. Nonetheless, I am pleased to report that the mercury will only reach the mid-eighties today, a respite from the oppressive high nineties and early hundreds that have defined June in the Charm City. There is a cool wind from the north, which smells faintly of fresh lining; 'tis an auspicious day for the writer, the poet, or the musician, who can now safely commit themselves to their crafts without worry of mental fog.

The heat robs the imagination, causes the mind to see only that which is apparent, only that which lays upon the surface of the world. In the heat, the buildings; the row-houses, the towers, the skyscrapers, the train-stations, the derelict and the new; become nothing but piles of stone, like the abodes of mud-wasps or the hills of ants, nothing more than the piling of rock and stone and the earth, albeit in the human manner, with steep sides and the illusion of destiny. In the blue haze of summer on can fully understand with even a glance that bricks are merely chunks of mud cut and stacked, that stonework is nothing but stone scraped and chiseled, that even the concrete of the street is nothing beyond the rock of the earth poured into place. In the June heat, the world of mankind becomes nothing but the stacking of the earth upon itself in the strange notion that it is somehow better to do so, that the act itself is more lofty that laying in a field of dirt and muck. In the heat, mankind's problems seem less than petty: they are incomprehensible, the plights of ants, the daily worries of bees, the arguments of cockroaches. In the heat, I cannot care about anything.

But today is a cool day, at least compared to the new normal, and my mind is active again. Now again I see how important sky-scrapers, towers, row-houses, train-stations, the old and the new, are and what they signify. I can understand again why some men do not like other men, why life can be difficult, why I should care about art or writing or music. Bricks have become, once again, the divine tool of humans, used to subjugate, control, and direct the destiny of themselves and their planet. Bless the cool summer day, and damn the mindless heat.