Find my gritty crime short, "Mistake," in the latest issue of Needle. Use the code "marbooks12" to get 20% off.
Lulu link
Thursday, March 22, 2012
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
3/20/12: As Long As You Follow
I went to the grocery store this morning. This was strange, not because grocery stores are especially strange by morning, but because my mornings are typically reserved for writing, and other things that can be done while in a zombified pre-noon stupor. I'll spare you the details of how this came to be -- a story in itself, rife with unlikely things -- but the important part is that I was in the store this morning, forced there by circumstance.
While there, I was struck by the song on the in-store radio: "As Long As You Follow," by Fleetwood Mac. I hadn't heard the song in a while, and the groove hit me just right, sucking me in despite it coming from the radio in a grocery store. I was so enamored, in fact, that when it came time to leave and the song was only halfway through, I wanted to stay and listen to it.
Now, that was this morning. Between then and this afternoon, another long, unlikely chain of insignificant events unfolded, these culminating in my visiting a local pharmacy, some hours after my grocery shopping. When I stepped into the pharmacy, I recognized the song on its radio as the same from the grocery store that morning. Also, it was about halfway through, suspiciously close to where it had been when I last heard it, as though picking up where it left off.
(Note: My first thought on this was that both the grocery store and the pharmacy were subscribed to the same in-store-music broadcast and that this could possibly explain the song popping back up so soon in the line-up (if the broadcast was on a six-hour rotation, maybe). However, this says nothing of my uncanny timing, not only going to a separate store and hearing the same song, but hearing it seemingly where it was left off.)
(Note #2: To my recollection, I have never before heard "As Long As You Follow" on any radio, in-store or otherwise.)
(Note #3: As far as I know, there are no in-store-radio-broadcast guys conspiring against me.)
While there, I was struck by the song on the in-store radio: "As Long As You Follow," by Fleetwood Mac. I hadn't heard the song in a while, and the groove hit me just right, sucking me in despite it coming from the radio in a grocery store. I was so enamored, in fact, that when it came time to leave and the song was only halfway through, I wanted to stay and listen to it.
Now, that was this morning. Between then and this afternoon, another long, unlikely chain of insignificant events unfolded, these culminating in my visiting a local pharmacy, some hours after my grocery shopping. When I stepped into the pharmacy, I recognized the song on its radio as the same from the grocery store that morning. Also, it was about halfway through, suspiciously close to where it had been when I last heard it, as though picking up where it left off.
(Note: My first thought on this was that both the grocery store and the pharmacy were subscribed to the same in-store-music broadcast and that this could possibly explain the song popping back up so soon in the line-up (if the broadcast was on a six-hour rotation, maybe). However, this says nothing of my uncanny timing, not only going to a separate store and hearing the same song, but hearing it seemingly where it was left off.)
(Note #2: To my recollection, I have never before heard "As Long As You Follow" on any radio, in-store or otherwise.)
(Note #3: As far as I know, there are no in-store-radio-broadcast guys conspiring against me.)
3/19/12: The Universe Recommends Kaopectate
For the last couple months, I've been on a new, powerful probiotic supplement. Among other side effects, probiotics can sometimes trigger diarrhea, as a sign that they're working. Well, today, I think mine started working.
It led me to wonder if I might need something to remedy this problem, this thought coming to me just before lunch. Then I sat down to eat, and since I study my word ledger when I eat, and today was no different, I opened my ledger.
The ledger's first entry was "kaopectate."
It led me to wonder if I might need something to remedy this problem, this thought coming to me just before lunch. Then I sat down to eat, and since I study my word ledger when I eat, and today was no different, I opened my ledger.
The ledger's first entry was "kaopectate."
Friday, March 9, 2012
3/9/12: Dark Dispatches
Find my short stories, "Monsters" and "Hunt," in Dark Dispatches, a new anthology from Static Movement, depicting war with a speculative slant.
Amazon link
Amazon link
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
2/29/12: Leap Year
My word ledgers. Past posts have described this valuable tool, which, rather than a book of words that I've defined so that I may broaden my vocabulary, has become more of a Tarot or I Ching.
Example, today.
Exhibit A:
Two days ago, I finished studying one such ledger and then picked up a new one, it featuring a nifty string bookmark (why don't all books have these?). When I went to open it for the first time, I instinctively did so from this bookmark, which was set in its middle, randomly, from when I'd last gone through it.
Even though I wanted to start it from the beginning, I went with this funky middle placement. It felt very Right, in the distinct, characteristic way I've come to identify with these things.
Exhibit B:
Last night, I went to dictionary.com and noticed a little thing on their front page asking if you knew the word for inserting a day in a calender, which I did: "intercalate." Everyone knows that (everyone who reads my ledger, at least).
I clicked through the question, and it led to the definition for "intercalary." Close enough.
Exhibit C:
A maximizer, I read my ledgers over meals. This morning was no different. Halfway through my breakfast, however, I gave pause, on "intercalate."
On February 29th.
In a 200-page ledger containing a few thousand words.
When, two days ago, I'd started the ledger and opened it halfway, at the "wrong" place.
Example, today.
Exhibit A:
Two days ago, I finished studying one such ledger and then picked up a new one, it featuring a nifty string bookmark (why don't all books have these?). When I went to open it for the first time, I instinctively did so from this bookmark, which was set in its middle, randomly, from when I'd last gone through it.
Even though I wanted to start it from the beginning, I went with this funky middle placement. It felt very Right, in the distinct, characteristic way I've come to identify with these things.
Exhibit B:
Last night, I went to dictionary.com and noticed a little thing on their front page asking if you knew the word for inserting a day in a calender, which I did: "intercalate." Everyone knows that (everyone who reads my ledger, at least).
I clicked through the question, and it led to the definition for "intercalary." Close enough.
Exhibit C:
A maximizer, I read my ledgers over meals. This morning was no different. Halfway through my breakfast, however, I gave pause, on "intercalate."
On February 29th.
In a 200-page ledger containing a few thousand words.
When, two days ago, I'd started the ledger and opened it halfway, at the "wrong" place.
Saturday, February 4, 2012
2/3/12: Onion
Ever realize something that's always been subconscious to you? Call it a revelation, a broadened awareness, eureka; whatever. Last night, I realized I like onion. Like it very much, in fact, as some people do chocolate or a choice drug. Crisp, zesty, domineering -- that's the onion.
This occurred to me over a friend's email and a dinner salad, which had onion in it but only a minority, as to allow only a few choice bites of oniony goodness, the non-onion bites providing the contrast necessary for me to appreciate my bulbed, eye-watering ally. After several sans-onion bites, I came up with a nice, comma-shaped slice of it, and that's when it hit me, all at once: I like onion. Love it, maybe. So count me as an onion lover, even if it one day gets something of a Star of David on my window.
The epiphany, while grand, did not interrupt the reading of my friend's email (my friend trumps onion, it seems). And then, there it was, in the very next paragraph down: "And as a side note. I love onions." My chewing stopped.
Synchroshock.
Now, my immediate response to this was "peripheral reading," a syndrome I am quite familiar with. It happens all the time when I'm writing: I'll come up with a brilliant, original, perfectly fitting word, only realize I'd used it halfway up the page, or was reading it off a web browser tab or something across the room. We do this, involuntarily and subconsciously, and, besides being exploited endlessly by advertisers and propagandists, it is a constant source for synchronistic false-positives, since the "supernatural" inspirations come from a source beyond your conscious awareness.
Except, I was eating onion before it happened. In the salad, my oniony bite, the necessary ingredient for my realization and its "chance" reiteration. Peripheral reading does not manufacture salads and put them in your mouth, oniony or otherwise.
Update, 2/16:
This one happened again, almost exactly the same: me eating dinner while catching up on email, the email written by the same friend, except this time it involved broccoli. I'd just taken a big bite of the stuff when no sooner did I read, " I think I'll go eat some broccoli." There were no thoughts of admiration as I did so, but still ...
This occurred to me over a friend's email and a dinner salad, which had onion in it but only a minority, as to allow only a few choice bites of oniony goodness, the non-onion bites providing the contrast necessary for me to appreciate my bulbed, eye-watering ally. After several sans-onion bites, I came up with a nice, comma-shaped slice of it, and that's when it hit me, all at once: I like onion. Love it, maybe. So count me as an onion lover, even if it one day gets something of a Star of David on my window.
The epiphany, while grand, did not interrupt the reading of my friend's email (my friend trumps onion, it seems). And then, there it was, in the very next paragraph down: "And as a side note. I love onions." My chewing stopped.
Synchroshock.
Now, my immediate response to this was "peripheral reading," a syndrome I am quite familiar with. It happens all the time when I'm writing: I'll come up with a brilliant, original, perfectly fitting word, only realize I'd used it halfway up the page, or was reading it off a web browser tab or something across the room. We do this, involuntarily and subconsciously, and, besides being exploited endlessly by advertisers and propagandists, it is a constant source for synchronistic false-positives, since the "supernatural" inspirations come from a source beyond your conscious awareness.
Except, I was eating onion before it happened. In the salad, my oniony bite, the necessary ingredient for my realization and its "chance" reiteration. Peripheral reading does not manufacture salads and put them in your mouth, oniony or otherwise.
Update, 2/16:
This one happened again, almost exactly the same: me eating dinner while catching up on email, the email written by the same friend, except this time it involved broccoli. I'd just taken a big bite of the stuff when no sooner did I read, " I think I'll go eat some broccoli." There were no thoughts of admiration as I did so, but still ...
Friday, January 27, 2012
1/27/12: Actuarial
Yep, "actuarial." Ever heard this word? I have, exactly once, as to be noted and defined in my word ledger, and not much else. But this isn't a ledger synchronicity.
It was on my mind when I awoke yesterday, very clearly and distinctly, in the space normally held by "breakfast" or "toilet." Actuarial, actuarial, I thought, and continued doing so off and on all day, haunted by the word's significant presence and improbable arrival. Short of remembering it had something to do with insurance, I knew nothing of the word.
However, yesterday came and went, and I had no further encounters with actuarial, despite looking all over for it as though I'd called it a name. It was this morning that I realized this, also upon waking, "no actuarial" now replacing "actuarial" and its predecessors, accompanied by a despising sense of disappointment. It might have been the name of a woman. I got out of bed, and the word wasted no time leaving my attentions.
Then, this evening, while reading a book immaterial to this occurrence, I came face to face with none other than"actuarial," in context to something even less relevant. Regardless, it was there. There were neither fireworks nor alarm bells upon its discovery.
(It bears mentioning: the word found me only when I'd ceased expecting it. And, also, the word's dictionary definition: "a person qualified to calculate commercial risks and probabilities involving uncertain future events" (the italics are mine).)
It was on my mind when I awoke yesterday, very clearly and distinctly, in the space normally held by "breakfast" or "toilet." Actuarial, actuarial, I thought, and continued doing so off and on all day, haunted by the word's significant presence and improbable arrival. Short of remembering it had something to do with insurance, I knew nothing of the word.
However, yesterday came and went, and I had no further encounters with actuarial, despite looking all over for it as though I'd called it a name. It was this morning that I realized this, also upon waking, "no actuarial" now replacing "actuarial" and its predecessors, accompanied by a despising sense of disappointment. It might have been the name of a woman. I got out of bed, and the word wasted no time leaving my attentions.
Then, this evening, while reading a book immaterial to this occurrence, I came face to face with none other than"actuarial," in context to something even less relevant. Regardless, it was there. There were neither fireworks nor alarm bells upon its discovery.
(It bears mentioning: the word found me only when I'd ceased expecting it. And, also, the word's dictionary definition: "a person qualified to calculate commercial risks and probabilities involving uncertain future events" (the italics are mine).)
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