Smokey Mountain Breakdown

I got three rejections today and spent the better part of the day swimming in the frosty pool of my own shortcomings. I don't find this to be a particularly bad thing to do. In my twenties, it ranked right up there as a suicidal tendency, but I need to look at myself that way now and again. Take the cover off the mirror. Pull out the windex. Embrace my freakishness. My monsterhood.

It's easy in my isolation to see myself as normal. To think there is even such a thing. I go about my day. I function just fine. No one stares at me except the dogs and what they are saying is clearly transparent. So I give them each a biscuit. Good dog.

But I am different. I am apart. Up here on my mountain, I look out into the mist. Look out into the rain that drizzles like it did on Glastonbury Tor that day long ago. I'd climbed to the top of the Tor and stood on the remnants of the thirteenth century belltower--the only remaining structure from an earthquake in 1275 that shuddered beneath that limestone dragon's back. Curious thing--in that belltower, the wind cut through the center at 45 mph, trying to rip it from the nipple of that hill. I was sick then. Sick as I am now. Different as I am now.

I didn't let the wind knock me down.

It's hard to look at my shortcomings. But I sort of need to now and then. So the wind doesn't knock me down.

Well, the sentence came down today for Popcorn Sutton's trial in the Federal Court. The news said everyone gasped in the courtroom. They are sending him for 18 months in federal prison for the weapons moonshine charge with 2 years supervised probation after that. I'm sure the Newport Pie Hole Plain Talk, will have some of the details in tomorrow's paper. I'm not actually too worried about him. I think he'll be a rock star in jail. Still, I understand he's taken this all pretty hard. Bottom line though--he's not going to stop doing what he does and the courts know that now.



If you want to know more about what Popcorn Sutton does, there's a documentary running of the Documentary Channel called The Last One. The director, Neal Hutchinson, sent me a copy and it's a really wonderful documentary on the traditional way moonshine used to be made up here in the hills.

Filmed in the mountains of North Carolina, The Last One is a journey deep into Southern Appalachia, and Appalachian culture, as seen through the lens of a mason jar. Lifelong moonshiner Popcorn Sutton returns to the southern highlands in his treasured A-Model Ford to seek a suitable location to run one final batch of traditional bootleg whiskey. Through the laborious process of clearing a site, building a furnace, brewing corn mash and distilling high proof moonshine, Sutton reveals the craft of traditional distillation as practiced by his forbears and reveals a lifetime of memories in the trade.

Now, I've seen photos of Popcorn's more current installations and know they don't resemble anything like this...The Last One is more about the way 'shine was made back in the day. And Popcorn has a dying swan tendency to proclaim he's making a "last" run, but as his court sentence proves, it's his inability to stop making illegal liquor that's the problem.

You can pick up a copy of The Last One at Neal Hutchinson's Sucker Punch Pictures. It's a good historical A to Zed of setting a still up and the music is really good too.

Happy Inauguration Day!

Am I ready for a handsome, articulate man who oozes intelligence to take office?

Hell, yeah, beeotches! Let's make some history!



**************



The snow has been falling for two days now and we've got a nice blanket of white all over everything. The frogs woke up on January 8th this year, so I'm guessing they had to go back down in the mud.

I've not been a-blogging in a while. Basically I've got a bunch of stories coming out in print and the web this month and the next so I've been story wrangling.

The biggest thing of mine out now is the Mslexia story, "48 Years". This was an important story for me personally. It meant much when I wrote it and I'm really happy such an important publication as Mslexia recognized it as being of worth. I'm not sure there is a more important literary journal specializing in women writers and their craft. I'm really proud to be included.

I've already been getting congratulatory emails from my friends in the UK who have seen the issue and loved the story.

My issue has yet to arrive since it has to travel from the UK, and I'm jumping out of my skin waiting for it. Perhaps it will be here today! You really should subscribe to Mslexia. Or at least buy the issue I'm in so you can read "48 Years". Do it now. Or I'll send goats to your house.

Lavinia Greenlaw chose the selections for The Four Elements theme of the New Writing in this issue, of which I am part. She wrote a really smart introduction and had this to say about my story:

Other forms of disturbance include those of memory and recognition, finely illustrated in Rosanne Griffeth’s story ‘48 Years’ in which the global effects of agricultural policies are played out in parallel to a more local and intimate series of consequences.

So, yeah. I'm a happy camper. Snow falling. Story in Mslexia. Barack Obama in office. Life is good.

Thunder fog! We have thunder fog! Wonder what that means?

Happy New Year, peeps. I've been battling the mother of all insomnia flares. I haven't been to bed since day before yesterday. I'm getting into that sleep deprived zone where inanimate objects discuss politics with you in a purely rational way. And there's very little that is rational about that, now is there. I start feeling the confines of my filters slipping away.

Have you ever not said anything stupid or confrontational, but knew you were pretty much doomed to do so? It's a foreshadowing of shame that shows up in the gut, twisting and recoiling. Begging you to stay off the computer, not speak to anyone or write anything, because you are bound to put your foot in your mouth and offend. I've been feeling like that. My filters are wafer thin. I might say or do anything, beeeotch!

I've been having a really uncontrollable urge to mock the local paper. Though Caleb Abramson is still makes my heart go pitter-pat with his punsterliciousness. Those other dudes, though--they're fair game.

I have a new Appalachian word, I'd not heard before. As I may have mentioned, when women get together here the conversation invariably turns to women's health issues and the graphic details thereof--the more graphiccy the better. And this is definitely a women's word.

The Weed. The Weed is what the old folks called mastitis--or probably any ailment of the breast associated with lactating. I don't have much experience with this so I'm not sure what other ailments that might be. A story was related to me concerning a patent medicine everyone took--I'm guessing back in the 50's. I can't remember the name but I'd be dimes to billy goats it was chock full of alcohol, paragoric and other things of tonicy goodness. Medicinal. Anyway, there was this old guy who used to go on and on about how it sure helped his "weed" out--which all the women thought was hilarious.

I'll stop now before I say something dangerous.

Oh Noes! I've discovered the Blackadder Quote Generator at the BBC. It has ensorcelled me.

Flashheart: If word gets out that I'm missing, 500 girls will kill themselves and I wouldn't want them on my conscience - not when they ought to be on my face!

- Private Plane

...here's another:

Blackadder: Baldrick, does it have to be this way? Our valued friendship ending with me cutting you up into strips and telling the prince that you walked over a very sharp cattle grid in an extremely heavy hat?

- Duel and Duality

...and another:

George: My head... oh, my head... feels like the time I was initiated into the Silly Buggers Society at Cambridge. I misheard the rules and tried to push a whole aubergine up my earhole.

- Corporal Punishment

Anyway, I'm okay. This is the sort of thing I've been doing instead of posting in my blog like I aught to. And reading novels. Lots of novels. Bad ones with no redeeming features.

Happy Holidays everyone. Well, I know you are all wondering what sort of things you'll be saying about me tomorrow and Christmas Day in my absence. Never fear, Rumor Control is here with the best maybe true, maybe false fun fax about Rosie Griffeth. If this is your first time coming across a Rumor Control post, you'll want to bring yourself up to speed with Rumor Control and Rumor Control, Too. Feel free to scroll down to the good parts if you are in a hurry.

Complicated explanation in a nutshell, this is my random post in which I give you a dozen rumors to spread around about yours truly. Some are true. Some are false. Some are half-true, half-false.

The Rumor Control Dozen:

1. As you all know, I was born with a tail. While I now think of it as that "special", "fun" part of me, believe it or not, I did have my awkward moments as a teenager. Kids can be so cruel. Anyway, there was this boy I had a big crush on--I had a crush on his sister too, which in hindsight was typically bent for me--but anyway, he asked me out on a date and I was so thrilled. I must have spent an hour with the Tooth Pik shining my braces up. I found out later he only went out with me on a dare to find out if it was true. The tail thing. He got his answer while we parked at the beach that night. He never called me again, but his sister sure was interested in me after that.

2. I cut down a Christmas tree with a chainsaw. Indoors. A fully decorated Christmas tree. With lights. I wore my big boots. And I stomped on all the glass balls making a shiny carpet of green, red and gold slivers of glass. I was about to take my boots off and walk through the shards when I was interrupted.

3. One of my lovers was a bisexual surgical assistant with a name like Christmas. Noel. Every thing about him smelled like Betadyne. He either wore green scrubs or black leather and rode a motorcycle. He kidnapped me one day, took me out in a boat and sabotaged the engine. I had to lie, promising I'd see him again, to get him to fix the boat and take me back to shore. I got a really bad sunburn that day. There were sharks.

4. I played rugby. I was a prop. Rugby players eat their dead. I liked mine with a bit of salsa.

5. Nobody knows I'm a heterosexual.

6. This is really private and embarrassing. Anyway, you know I had this really bad series of surgeries back in 1997. It was really grim and I was in the hospital for six months. They removed my sternum. Obviously, it makes a mess of your chest when they do this--everything gets cut up and--well--it took some pretty radical plastic surgery to put me back together and make me look normal, with clothes on anyway. Well, somehow, all of my nerve endings to my nipples got reversed. Basically, everything that touches my left--I feel on the right and vice versa. Like I said, it's really private and embarrassing--but sort of cool and fun too. My extra two nipples aren't a problem--just the main ones.

7. I've eaten balut before. It's a bit soupy and eggy. Mmmmm, balut. Hot sauce.

8. I've had reams of bad lesbian love poetry aimed at me, which explains my aversion to poetry. One called me an "omnipotent angle".

9. My best friends and I ended up in a strip bar/brothel in a port city. It was chock full of Greek sailors. We were afraid to leave because we thought it would be impolite to do so without first having a beer or something. Anyway, we were really looking for a gay bar for our gay friend who was with us and sort of appalled by all the exotically clad women who kept approaching him. I guess they thought we wanted to watch or something. We asked the sailors if they knew where a gay bar was. And you know what? They knew exactly where one was. Who would have thought a bunch of rough and ready, macho sailors would know where a gay bar was? We were so surprised.

10. I singlehandedly caused 3 pub brawls while I lived in the UK and was banned from the pub. Permanently.

11. Nobody knows I'm extraspecialomnisexualexpyaladocious. But isn't it great they have words to describe everything these days?

12. Okay, this is really embarrassing too. But it's not like something I remember or anything. Just one of those little physical abnormalities they correct in infancy you never remember. Perhaps it's because of the tail, but I was born with another really rare medical condition called vagina dentata. Yeah, it's pretty much like it sounds. But they were just baby teeth and they pulled them shortly after I was born. This boyfriend of mine had a friend who had this fear of women with my condition. We explained to him that the teeth were removed and I was for all practical purposes vagina no dentata, but he'd just run screaming from the room every time he saw me. It was awkward. But the cool thing is, my mom saved the teeth. I had them made into a necklace and earrings and they are quite the conversation piece. People are always asking me what they are and boy are they surprised when I tell them they are vagina teeth.

It was really cold today and I drove into town. So cold I started the jeep up so it could idle and the frost could melt. I love cold as long as I don't have to do much in it. Chopping wood is okay as long as my ears are covered. But the frog pond is frozen and the cow pond across from the little church is covered in ice. I'm still having to skitter up Greene Mountain to get to the road. Those bridges will be like that for a while I guess. Everyone is enjoying wearing their Carhardts.

I've been listening to a lot of The Arcade Fire recently. Wonder if I'll ever grow out of listening to moody emo-esque music that makes me cry. Will I? I'm just asking. As I approach the entire "change" thing--I have to wonder if maybe there's a way my emotions could be a little less accessible--'cause I've never had particularly good control. I'm just sayin'.

I'm watching Yimou Zhang's Curse of the Golden Flower tonight. Chow Yun-Fat and the gorgeous Li Gong star. I'm quite sure I won't know what to do with myself. Costumes, beautiful Asian people, martial arts and wire-fu--what's not to absolutely love? I'm going to eat sushi, watch the movie then I'm going to bake cookies. At least that's the plan.

I got an unexpected acceptance today. At least I think it's an acceptance. They just sent me the contract and W-4 stuff for my honorarium, so I assume they are not giving me money just to be nice about it. I'm guessing they are actually using my story. It's just the first time I didn't get a letter saying, "We really liked blah-blah-blah and want to use it in our X issue."

Welcome to my sleepy, disjointed Sunday posting. AKA--I Gots Nothin'.

I've been thinking of sense memory, particularly of smell. My sister-in-law once pointed out how potatoes baking in the oven smell like brownies at a certain point. She's right and for some reason a story is gurgling up inside of me using that as a jumping off point. One of my unhappily domestic stories probably. Every time I start a story indoors it becomes funny and unhappy at the same time. I'm not sure why that is. Okay, maybe I do, but I don't want to talk about it. Senses are funny that way.

I haven't wailed on my arch nemesis Newport Utilities in a while. Last night we had one of our frequent power outages. Went off at 1:30 a.m., right in the middle of my anime night. I do so hate having my "stories" interrupted. It shuddered back on around 3:30, but by that time I was in full insomnia mode and didn't get to sleep until 5:30 this morning.

Wondering what Friend Scott is up to--must give him a call and see.

Great police blotter title in the Newport Pie Hole Plain Talk last Sunday.

Mullet-man makes off with purse

Self-explanatory really. Mulleted man makes off with purse, but I now have:

Have you seen the mullet-man, the mullet-man, the mullet man.... running through my head. Oh, Caleb Abramson--you witty devil, you. Thanks for the ear worms.

Happy Sunday

And it's beautiful! And thanks to the magic of alphabetization--I'm across the fold from Kathy Fish!

It's a gorgeous big glossy magazine color thing. My handwriting is some of the worst there--except maybe Blake Butler's or Dennis Mahagin's (whose writing is also crazy creative as you would expect from those two), but everyone's stories and poems are so wonderful! It's neat to see a little of everyone's process. Handwriting always says so much about a person. Mine, for instance, says I can't pass a sobriety test when I'm stone cold sober.

Order Keyhole #5-- The Handwritten Issue

I've got some other stuff coming out this month and the next and on into June 2009. It's getting hard to keep up with them all. I've got a pieces upcoming in Muscadine Lines: A Southern Journal, Pank, Diet Soap, MsLexia, Southern Fried Weirdness, Pocket Change, The Potomac, The Dogs: Wet & Dry Anthology and Weave Magazine. So, yeah--I guess life is nice in publishment land.

I do need to catch up on my subs. I have this one piece I think is brilliant I'm having a hard time getting to stick anywhere. I am very excited about "Kurosawa's Rain" getting picked up by the Potomac and my head is still really swollen over MsLexia running "48 Years" next month.

I'm included in the Dead Mule School of Southern Literature's Holiday Homecoming Issue! There are some very fine writers sharing space with me there...all with wonderful Southern stories. I always wanted my work to appear in The Dead Mule--it's a perfect place for much of my fiction.

The Scent of Peaches, while a summer story, is very much about homecoming. I'm sure you will enjoy it.

While you are reading it, you might want to go back and read the Peek-a-bo Peach Brandy post--one of the most visited posts on The Smokey Mountain Breakdown. The Christmas season was when Mother would pull that brown paper bag from under the wash stand the TV sat atop. The brandy was served in little liqueur glasses and we'd pour the brandied peaches over vanilla ice cream.

Peaches will always stir strong feelings of home. I must have dozens of stories where they pop up.

When I woke up today, the sky and the air smelled of snow. The gravid clouds hung in the pink sky like men with big bellies. Those clouds weren't going anywhere soon. They needed a nap. The odd thing about when the weather changes to cold in the South is the strangely warm day that precedes the drop in temperatures. Today was that day.

It's not a day where you become happy and rush outside to do things because the weather is so nice. No, this day threatens. The warm wind in ominous, dry with the promise of hurt. Bad things seem to be promised on such days. Bad things sometimes happen on the oddly warm day before the snow and ice and hail.

Today, Rose Goat fell from the 300 foot cliff, breaking her hip. The local farm boys shot her for me. I couldn't get to where she was across the creek, but they were kind enough to come tell me. Yang, her boy, is home now. I don't think he'll stray. Rose was the one with wanderlust. I'm philosophical about it. I can't get too worked up--the little bitch never would stay where she was supposed to. But who would have thought something as sure footed as a goat would fall? It may have been the bobcat after her--he lives up there somewhere.

So, I'm in the Walmart today and saw the most outrageous mother/daughter pair--each with extreeeeeme two-tone mullets. Mom had clipper cut the front half of her head and peroxided it and left the permed caramel colored back hang down her back. Then, the daughter's had grown out a bit and she had the opposite color scheme--dark brown front and bleached perm down the back.

Well, I was like, Holy Crap! Get a load of those mullets! There was something almost Pictish about these hair cuts--the line bisecting their skulls was behind the ear so there was a sort of domed forehead effect. Like the Bene Gesserit nuns in Lynch's version of Dune--but sort of hillbilly. Suddenly, I looked around me and noticed how many other mullets surrounded me in Newport, TN.

Mullets aren't just Appalachia--they are a below the Mason-Dixon sensation--a true Southern classic. Mullets have successfully migrated from the South to the midwest to the Pacific Northwest. Hell, they are as Southern as KFC and you can't spit in Asia without hitting one of those. Yep, we are going for world mullet domination.

They are what happens when you grow out a nice head of hair and become conflicted about cutting it. The other way it happens is when you try to cut your own hair, but--you know--you can only really reach the front part. Then you walk around pretending you meant for that to happen. Before you know it, all your friends are doing it. Once it's done and you realize it looks sort of funny---the really long part next to the really short part--you run out in a panic to get a cheap perm because for some reason, you think curly hair will look less weird next to the short stuff.

It made me a bit nostalgic for my rattail. Yeah--I had an asymetrical 80's do with a foot plus long rattail hanging from the right rear. It was splendiferous. Sometimes, I think I feel it--Phantom Rattail Syndrome. I sort of cried when we cut it off.

Okay, so, I snuck off late yesterday afternoon, went to Morristown and saw Twilight, the Movie. Cuz...as I mentioned before, Robert Pattinson is really pretty. And I do like pretty things. Really. I do.

Every time I take myself into a public place like that I wonder anew if I'm even capable of living amongst people again. I walked up and down a mall for the first time in probably eighteen months--maybe even two years. I can't remember the last time I was in such a crowded place. There were so many people and I do love seeing east Tennessee's interpretation of "cool" and "hip". Young people, no matter how off base they are in rendering modern trends (which I know only in theory, but am reasonably confident in my own interpretation), are so vital and beautiful. They are really adorable. I love their hair roots and food coloring hair dye. It's never as they originally intended and by the time I see it--it looks like someone spilled coolaide in their two-tone hair. They are parading up and down the mall. Adorable.

I am accosted by a cosmetics booth temp during my stroll.

"I have something to show you!" she says, bright and chirpy, stopping just short of physically grabbing me.

"No. No, really. I live alone with goats," I say.

I don't think she really registered what I said. She has a frantic cast to her eyes.

"Well, then I really have something for you!"

I hurry along as much as I am capable, using my cane as an oar to push myself off--paddle my way through the throngs of people. I can't see myself as an aging hipster anymore with the stick and my gimpiness--though I know that's indeed what I am. I've just lost all of the physical attributes that come with that designation. As long as I remain unseen, a hand on a keyboard, I can hold onto that. It's part of why staying hidden is so important to me--it allows me to maintain who I am. Who I am really. Not what I look like. Because what I look like and who I am are at odds, and they always have been.

She chases after me with a jar of cream. Perhaps I shouldn't have ignored her. Perhaps I could rub that on my hands and be transformed into someone who looks more like what they really are.

So, I went into the movie theater and sat near the front where my eyes could be filled with the screen. My favorite review thus far--and the one I like most with is on Lainey Gossip. Read it after you've seen the film if you plan to see it. It's catty, funny, balanced and I wish I'd been with these two when I saw it.

I think the chemistry between the director and Pattinson is obviously--well--not there. Which is a shame since the chemistry between him and Kristen Stewart is there in spades, so it's a glaring missed opportunity--well, as much a missed opportunity as it could be considering the source material.

There's this one scene that I imagine the direction to Pattinson went something like this:

Director: Okay, Rob--You are nauseated. Really, really sick. About to blow chunks in a big way. Imagine sushi. Bad sushi. Sea urchin with visible parasites. It's in front of you and it's so gross, projectile vomiting is called for--Camera....run speed....aaaaand--ACTION!

There was never a sense of this kid being given what he needed for this role. Never a sense that he was given real thoughts to think about or that possibly--less might be more. He's a pretty, pretty boy and I think it would have been a better call to let him be pretty for this one. Leave the acting calisthenics up to guys like Cam Gigandet-who pretty much steals every scene he's in. And you believe him.

But there are lots of pretty young people in the movie in a pretty place--so what it lacks in substance, acting, scripting, believability, directing--it makes up for in terms of eye candy.

I've decided this is the reason I, embarrassingly, find myself drawn to the movie theater to see Twilight. Or perhaps some sort of former professional interest in the makeup--which does look very interesting--model perfection in the pouring rain and cold. God, I'm glad I didn't work on this one. I think I would have been in tears the entire time. It would have been Coniston Water all over again. There are few things more miserable than following actors in the driving rain making sure they don't muss themselves. Because they have a rare talent for that--mussing themselves.

Anyway, not sure I'll be able to see this today as we woke up to a snowy day. Nothing much sticking but it's cold and miserable. And, of course, the movie isn't playing at Newport's cinema. Guess it wasn't churchy or killy enough for them. Those are the two entertainment draws. What they think is wholesome and body counts. They are so going to be sorry since this thing is showing serious momentum. Guess they didn't know they were Mormon vampires. (Not really, but the author is Mormon and some of that does come through in her work.) So, I'll have to haul myself to Waynesville or Sevierville or Morristown. Arrgh.

I've read the book and I think it's going to be a better film since the book was heavy by at least 200 pages. Totally needed the cuts. And I'm thinking--as much as I razz on the vampire book writers--I probably could do it so much better. I know I could. But here's the thing. I wouldn't want to use my own name--cuz I'm like, a serious litrary writer. Srsly.

So far, my Zoe friends have come up with "Lustine" (Thanks, Gerry!) and Lecroix (Thanks, Tim). Lustine Lecroix. Think you can do better? Go ahead. Make my day--rename me.

I'm driving home from Newport today after buying groceries when I saw it. Got more stuff to do the amazing sweet potato dish and a 20 pound turkey. It's been a while since I cooked a turkey and I always enjoy watching the cockers while the thing is in the oven. They guard the stove like somebody is going to come and steal the turkey. Or maybe break in and make off with the entire stove--like it's a turkey safe or something. You need opposable thumbs to get into it.

Anyway, I took the long way home rather than cross Green Mountain--where we all have to detour until the bridges are finished. Off 25 is a whorehouse they painted and converted into a church. 25 is famous as the old red light district of Cocke County. We think they have it cleaned up now, but every once in a while the prostitution thing will resurface. Anyway, I remember when they busted this little whorehouse, so it hasn't been that long ago--2005? Anyway, it's a church now. I'm not sure what sort of special sanctification rites must be performed to switch a whorehouse to a church, but I'm sure we Episcopalians or Catholics have something already written up for such occasions.

Outside, the sign reads, "Walmart isn't the only Savings-Place, Come on in!"

Thought that might give you a giggle.

I'm so sorry I seem to have turned my blog into my personal PR firm. All I ever do anymore is announce where my stories are being accepted, blah, blah, blah. Just one more though! And this is huge--it's like one of those benchmark acceptances. I'm both thrilled and a bit shocked. One of my beloved stories--stories I like too much for their own good--"48 Years", has been picked up by MsLexia! It's a big deal for me. I mean, important people read MsLexia. More important than me, anyway.

So, I've been wandering around trying to adjust my surroundings to accommodate my enormous head which keeps knocking over the furniture. They had me fill out a questionnaire thingy even. I'm getting stuff in the mail from England. Whoo-weee! They'll be talking about me almost as much as they did with my Japanese admirer.

I had to go into Newport today to get an MRI of my back. Not that they'll be able to do anything if they see something. I told them that. But I think it will make them feel better if they do find something. But I was in at the crack of dawn to be pushed through the thwunk-thwunk machine. I don't know why those damn things are so loud. It's like they are crashing cars or something inside there. And the stupid tubes. They must construct those tubes in some country where people are much smaller than we are. I felt sausagey. Polska Kielbasa-ey.

So, I took the laptop with me because I knew I was going to be in town all day. I'm getting therapy for the PTSD I've been suffering from the September asshattery of Newport Baptist Hospital's ER. Anyway--the appointment was late in the day. Spent part of the day at the library--would have spent the entire time there if not for their no laptops policy--I know--nuts, considering the tech they are afraid of is on every cell phone and blackberry now.

So I end up at Bojangles working on the novel. Most places, you'd end up at an internet cafe or some trendy spot. I'd die of self-consciousness in one of those places. Somebody is always working on a damn novel and they can't wait for you to ask what they are doing so they can say, "I'm working on my novel. It's about...." Argh! In the Newport, TN Bojangles Chicken and Biscuits, there's absolutely no danger of that happening. None, whatsoever. I was a bit embarrassed the laptop was so dirty. I gave it a good cleaning when I got home.

Weave Magazine picked up one of my stories for their second issue. I really like the look of this new journal. They are out of Pittsburgh--where I narrowly missed settling. Had I decided to go to CMU for my MFA, I might be there now. Instead of wondering what my next starring role in Appalachian Emergency Room might be.

If you were planning to send a story in, the deadline is December 1--so get writing. There's a partial list of contributors on the Dogs: Wet and Dry site. You can also follow how the anthology is shaping up on the Dogs: Wet and Dry blog.

I'm really excited since the dog thing has always been a big, big part of my life. The story I've got in there is called Lulu and Jules, about a teenage boy and his seizure alert/service dog. All breeds and everything in between will be represented given the wide range of really amazing writers contributing to this book. It's going to be great! This is definitely a book you are going to want. I'll let you know when it is coming out so you can pre-order a copy.

The chapbook is sort of done. It's longer than most chapbooks at 11,600 words--which means I'll need to cut it down to enter it in contests. But I don't know if I really want to do that. I've been having a bit of difficulty with the name--so far I've been playing with Exile to Shaconage and The Exiles of Shaconage. Yes? No? Shaconage is the Cherokee word for the Smokies that means "land of blue smoke".

One of my favorite stories I've written this past year, Where Saturniides Fall Into the Sky, went live on Night Train this morning. Please read it! I'm very proud of it--it's one of my insect inspired stories--and has a nice dose of Southern Gothic for a soupçon of creepy.

I loves Keyhole Magazine!

Again--I find myself in the company of some of the most amazing literary talent out there. When Peter Cole asked me to contribute, I warned him I had dreadful handwriting. But I was a pretty good doodler. I totally didn't know it was going to be in color, though!

Anyway, I have a little drabble in this issue called, "Spell Shop".

Go ahead and preorder your copy HERE!

It was the year my grandfather died, I was in a school bus accident and I got a rare case of stress related stomach ulcers--rare because I was ten. Parochial school will do that to you. The windows of the second floor school building looked out onto a side street that was most often blocked off and one of those creaking, gently decaying Savannah mansions--abandoned during those days. I remember day dreaming, looking at that old house. My mother told stories of how that house had been quarantined one summer. Big posters warned everyone away. My grandmother became obsessive about literally laundering money--washing all the money that came in to remove the polio cooties. It was a polio summer and no one could go swimming.

While I lazily thought about this--ignoring the mysteries of prepositions which had thus far eluded me--inviting the nun to cuff me on the back of the head (ergo the stomach ulcers), Margaret sat behind me unplaiting and plaiting my hair. She'd get it just so--then undo it and start all over again. We had these old fashioned desks that were connected and had actual ink wells in them. The ghosts of miserable students past clung to those old desks and when I lifted my desk to gather my notebooks, I could smell the fear so much like my own mixed with beeswax. Evil Irish nuns smelled of altars, incense and bitter potpourri. Poor little Anthony, the tiniest boy in class, but also the most chatty, had knuckles like a bare fisted fighter that entire year.

Margaret was black in the way I miss so much here in Tennessee where skin is usually coffee and cream or burnished red. I miss the Lowcountry and the lush darkness, the shiny, tactile glow of West African roots. She and I were just kids--bright kids--and I fancied her my best friend. Her nervous handling of my long, white girl hair, spread out on her desktop, calmed her as much as it calmed me, I think.

I asked if I could bring Margaret home for the weekend for a sleepover. Permission was denied when my parents found out Margaret was black.

"Why?"

"It's just not done."

I pressed the matter as far as I dared but lost that battle. Margaret and I drifted apart through the years. She was always so much smarter than I was, but argumentative and on the debate team--in my heart's dreamscape I imagine her as a lawyer. I don't really know what happened to her after high school--but I think she would be a judge or someone very important by now. Definitely someone more important and accomplished than me.

The truth is racism exists in the South much like the stain of original sin. All of us, of a certain age have it. To deny that we don't is just stupid. Some of us are unrepentant, some of us deny we are racists and some, like me, are always wondering how things could be different and examining our selves for the hidden stain. We know it's there. We become hyper-aware of it, but at the same time, know we are completely clueless as to what it means to be a person of color in this country. It's very sad to me that the most profound advance I've achieved in my own quest to eradicate racism in my self--is the ability to say, "You know, you're right. I have absolutely zero point of reference for what it must be like to wear your beautiful skin--to exist in your culture."

I've seen how this played out in the election on Tuesday. Of course, the South went red. And there is absolutely no way to know how much of that was issue based and how much was driven by racism. Things are very snarled in that respect. I'm sure there were quite a few of my fellow Dems who voted McCain because they had problems with Obama's skin color. I'm pretty sure they would deny that, too.

I think what has excited me the most was how the vote broke down by ages. The younger generations are indeed making headway. All this ugliness we white Southerners have been toting around with us is fading. That's so exciting to me. To think that a South where people could stop lugging around the chains of hatred is in our grasp in a few generations. And I have this crazy elated hope that the Obama presidency will jumpstart that--that it will serve as the river baptism that will sweep all of that ugliness downstream.

Oh...yesterday's Newport Plain Talk--after the most historic election in anyone's lifetime placed the article about Obama's landslide victory below the fold at the very very bottom of the page in a teeny tiny article you had to turn to page 3 to finish reading. Under an article about how Cocke County overwhelmingly voted for McCain--but Eddie Yokley of course won his seat, despite being a Dem. Cause he's a damn nice guy and shows up.

But that doesn't have anything to do with racism, because today I saw a bumper sticker that said "TN is for Jesus, Not Obama." And Jesus was another fine, upstanding man of color--so, if He was running, TN definitely would have elected Jesus--dark skin or no.