No, I'm not...that word. I'm not, really, and please don't jinx me by saying it! But I do seem to be popping up more often. And since I'm trying to reclaim my health as well as the rest of my life, I've joined the lovely Celia Kyle's Incredible Shrinking Authors (and Industry Peeps)
Come on by, take a look! Lots of different goals, lots of different approaches, lots and lots of support.
Happy (healthy) curves!
pxj
Monday, August 18, 2008
The Incredible Reappearing Author
Friday, August 15, 2008
Friday Flash: The Postcard
In an odd mood today, so here' an odd little short. Happy weekend!
The Postcard
Silver bleeds to salmon as night becomes dawn, and I sigh, watching soft petals fold away. How long until night falls again?
...goodbye, the breeze whispers. Good day.
Noon, glaring gold and faded green, wilted heat. Promise of thunder in the distance, but only a tease; bone-white clouds fray and fade away. Ducking into a market, I am served a brown drink like mud-flecked water. Delicious! Tamarind. Bought you this postcard and a shirt, pale gauze, voluminous. The cloth smells of the shop: bay rum and citrus. I wonder if it will glow in the moonlight, as the petals do?
(Imagine me rising from a blossom, clad only by the moon and wreathed in flower-scent. Does that thought make you smile, too?)
Late afternoon, the sunlight gold as honey, shining through drought-thinned leaves and melting over melted post-work pedestrians. Office workers swelter in their sweaters and jackets until they can shrug free, rushing for their air-conditioned cars. I nibble crisp jicama white as starshine, flavored with lime and chile, and smile as they pass wiltingly by. They are so very beautiful, a garden's worth of blossoms, similar and yet unique.
Once, you were such a face, chance-spied, limned by the rays of the setting sun. And I...
I, arrayed in silver-white, sit lotus in the garden and wait for the moon to rise. My eyes are closed, yet still I perceive Moonflowers’ slow unfolding, furry calyx yielding to the need of the luxuriant satin petals to be free. The urgent approach of nightbird, moth, bat, seeker after sweetness summoned by perfume. A slower drawing-near, footsteps light as goosedown but not at all hesitant.
Your smile, as you wait for me to turn.
The heat of you in the cool night, and the satin brush of petals over our skin...
See you soon!
pxj
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Five-Ring Circus: Condom News Round-Up
1. Gold medal for condom ads!
Man, I am SO far behind on condom news. (Well, not having posted anything in...um, moving on.) Have you seen the Beijing Olympic Condom ad campaign yet? A series of clever stills like the image above is garnering nearly as much chatter as the games themselves! The company, Elasun, has some clever take-offs on other ads as well. No need for a quip here, I think the ad-folks have created humor enough.
For now, anyway. -G-
2. Happy Birthday! Wait...who are you?
The female condom turns 15. An earlier roundup, unposted due to illness, included a study on female condoms and barriers to use. (I'll see if I can turn it up.) IIRC, price wasn't the primary objection women had to the things; the major reason these aren't used more is that a lot of us don't really know what the things are or why we should care. 15 years in production. And 00 in advertising time.
3. Sadly, you'll need more than 35 seconds
Spray-on condom has technical and approval issues Y'all remember this, right? The condom in a can, about which I confess to having made my share of jokes. Well, it's no longer coming soon.
Le Sigh(tm).
4. Every Man's Dream:
CDC pays (popular) men to talk about (safe) sex
Sort of. Actually, the program gives gift cards to social leaders, not $$ per se. No word on whether those cards can be redeemed at condom-sellers.
5. Can I be an honorary Canadian?
National Sex Day 2008 – August 21
http://canadianpress.google.com/article/ALeqM5hWc-aGdi5XyxnXo7kL53F3Ldu1tA
A day to celebrate sexual well-being. And, yes, the organizer is providing free condoms.
And, finally:
6. While you're waiting for designer phalli
Intellx recently announced a line of, well, let's say interestingly shaped condoms. SafeSexyShapes, they call them, made with a new technology that allows them to move a bit past the, um, natural model. Oh, the possibilities! The press release mentions a number of future options--Submarine, anyone? (Down, periscope! Oh, stop me. Please.) Or maybe you'd prefer to be a beer bottle, hourglass, baseball bat (!)... Available now are a flat-top model "YourTube" and the ever-popular dolphin--complete with, ahem, "pleasing bottlenose."
The deponent rests.
pxj
Monday, August 11, 2008
...just casually sauntering by...
Let's get one thing straight: I am NOT back. Over the course of my illness-and-recovery cycle, call it the past year or so, I've declared my return several times, and each time, something bad has happened. Not always terrible, but always a setback, consuming time, money, and energy I'm quite sure I could better have employed in some other way. And, frankly, I'm sick of it.
Also, growing superstitious. "Once is chance, twice is coincidence, three times is enemy action"? Not unless the Universe doesn't like me anymore... Horrible thought, out of which such things as throwing spilled salt over shoulders is born! So, no, I'm not back. Really. I'm just posting. Saying hello. Maybe I'll do it again. But I am not back.
Even if you should happen to see me on a loop. Or in real life. Say hello, by all means, buy me a cup of coffee if you like, tell me about your new book--I'm always interested in that--or whatever's got you smiling or amusingly ranting. I miss you all, and I'd love to get caught up!
Just...don't, please, whatever you do, say "welcome___" to me.
K? Thnx.
pxj
Friday, May 2, 2008
Friday Flash: Pick of the Season
Strange couple of weeks. Haven't had any issues with my memory in a while--the last symptom of my illness and by far the most disturbing. The doctors cleared me to get back to life, though with lots and lots of cautions. And the Universe...promptly gifted me with jury duty. A whole blessed week of jury duty.
This, I need?
Haven't yet converted that ordeal into fiction, sorry. But, hey, it's spring! Incredibly vibrant, cheering, blooming-and-blossoming-and-burgeoning all over SPRING. End of the loquat season, beginning of mulberry. Yummy spring, bright and warm, and it feels so wonderful that (gasp!) I had to reach for my keyboard and celebrate.
Hmm. Maybe I'm not quite back to normal, if that was the first impulse? -G- Can't complain too strenuously, though I'm not yet certain where this particular fruit-inspired story is going. But you'll see what I mean...
Ivan watched sidelong as, just outside his window, the nymph tipped back her head, exposing the long column of her sunbrowned throat, and sank small white teeth into the sunset-hued fruit she had just plucked from his tree.
His tree. Seed planted with his own two hands, in the rich soil of his land, planted to grrow where he could see. And still! Birds and wasps he expected--thiefs of nature who yet gave back as much as they stole--but this was no bird to pay in song for the fruit she ate.
Not...exactly.
Eyes flashing, he rose, headed for the door. But a mirror gave him back his appearance, reminding him he was not appropriately attired. Changing his guise took no effort, only a spark of will. A man of this age, this place and time. A man to charm this unwinged thief.
The mirror told him he now wore greying hair, shaggy if not unkempt; his reflection looked at him from earth-brown eyes. Neat pressed denim pants and a shirt of similar weight showed shoulders broader than his own form had, a lightly muscled chest, a stomach softened with age though not quite fat. Older than the nymph--the woman, he corrected himself. A father figure, perhaps.
Or perhaps she, too, was older than she looked. He paused in the doorway, neither indoors nor out, and stared. Bright sunlight picked out silver strands within the russet hair, and faint pale lines radiating outward from her eyes. When he spoke, she turned at the first sound of his voice, her lips shining with fruit juice, cheeks coral with emotion, spring-green eyes wide.
He met her gaze and he felt--
Something.
"Excuse me?"
Caught in the act, Sadie could only wince. It's not as if you don't know better, she reminded herself, and slowly turned to face the (presumed) owner of the tree she'd been robbing. Harvesting. Over-ripe fruits fermented at her feet, proof enough he had no use for the things. So was it really stealing?
The cops would say so, if asked. She could only hope the tree's owner would be satisfied with scolding her and sending her away.
"Excuse me, please?" the voice came again, and Sadie paused in her glacial motion, caught by the rich tones--and the accent. Like something out of an opera. Russian? Yummy as fresh-picked loquats, she giggled, and the smile stayed on her juice-sticky lips when, at last, she faced him.
Oh, yum-yum-yum! Loam-brown eyes in a sun-weathered face, brows raised quizzically. A thatch of greying hair flopping to the collar of a shirt that framed broad shoulders. A strong but not too strong chin. And those lips--
Sadie blushed as she realized what she was thinking. Blame it on the perfect day; spring always made her frisky. And there'd been the delightful feeling of naughtiness as she crossed the sidewalk, venturing near the house, the allure of those golden-sunset fruits hanging so temptingly, their taste...
"Excuse me, please," it wasn't a question now, the voice firm though still melodic, "I asked you, what are you doing to my tree."
To the tree? That's nothing, tovarisch, she thought, swallowing laughter and nearly choking. Ask me what I want to do to you! Better he didn't; the way she was feeling, she might tell him. Which would open up a whole new can of...fruit.
"Loquats," she managed, holding out her hands, a cluster of ripe yellow-orange fruits balanced on one palm, the fruit she'd just bitten into when he caught her in the other. Her gaze followed his as he stared down, and seeing the clear juice welling from creamy flesh, she sighed. Licked her lips.
"They are...you find them good to eat?"
A good sign. The folks who asked that didn't usually call the cops. (And you know you need a new hobby, she scolded herself, when you've racked up enough past encounters to judge that! Right? Right.) The standard loquats-for-dummies lecture rose to her lips, but she didn't speak it. Instead, she plucked a perfectly ripe fruit from the cluster and held it out to him.
His brow furrowed: a forehead-centric frown. "Show me."
She looked at him, this homeowner who, so far, hadn't really objected to her trespassing. He stood barefoot on the slate steps, in jeans and a button-down shirt with the sleeves folded back, and made no motion either toward her or away. Cell phone in his pocket, so if he'd wanted to dial 911...but instead he simply stood, waiting. Watching her as much as she watched him.
Okay. Her purse lay still where she'd dropped it, by the sidewalk, but she had a small pocketknife on her keychain, used that to slit the fruit in half. "You can't eat the seeds. Poisonous. Pretty, though." Two large tiger's-eye ovals flew as she flicked the knife. "And you'll probably want to pull the membrane. Some gourmets blanch and peel the fruits, at least for cooking, but fresh," the blossom-end cut away, she extended the fruit to the man, "well, here."
He took one half from her, delicately. "Show me."
Sadie watched his eyes as he bit into the creamy flesh, but saw nothing. No flash of surprise or of pleasure, no ecstatic slow closing, not even the suspicious narrowing of a man who thinks a trick's being played on him. He bit down, chewed, swallowed, but showed no reaction at all.
It worried her. But the sun's rays warmed the fruit-half still in her hand, releasing its unique bouquet, and she remembered his request. Demand. Show me, he'd said, and so she would. Feeling a trickle of juice making its sticky way toward the hollow of her palm, she decided to truly give him a show.
Step one: put the knife away. That was harder than it should have been, even after she wiped the blade clean; her hands were shaking, just slightly. What was it about this man? Something. One thing at a time. The blade snicked home at last, and she stifled a relieved sigh. Step two: Um, next? Oh, right; she needed both hands free. So all the fruit, except for that one still-leaking half, she laid by his feet.
Noting their oddly squared appearance in passing, and the old-ivory sheen of his toenails.
Rising, she took a sudden step back, out of his shadow. Shivering. She panted, tasting copper, wondering. Fear--like a storm--had swept over her, through her, but surely there was no reason to be afraid. There was only an attractive older man standing on his front stoop, asking, quite reasonably, why she was picking fruits from his tree.
An attractive older man willing to listen, to try, to learn. And he'd asked her to show him...
Ivan shifted his weight back on his heels, adjusted his newly broadened shoulders to let the sunlight pass unimpeded. She'd flinched from the touch of his shadow, sudden fear darkening those light green eyes. A moment he had not chosen, would have side-stepped had he been able to, but he hadn't expected her--yet--to kneel at his feet.
Laying his own fruits down in offering. Brazen, this woman!
And no sooner had he thought it than a new light was in her eyes, mischief dancing in green like the legends of his home that led wanderers a merry and dangerous way. Could she be more than she seemed? But, no, she was human, salt sweat and strong emotion and the rich red blood beneath the skin. Human, mortal, thief.
Her mouth would taste so sweet.
No, that's not all there is. That's not even all I've written today---but it's all I'm going to post right now. In part because I've already gone over wordcount, but also because there are three separate and distinct paths I can see for this story. And I'm feeling greedy enough that I want them all! Were I to post the next bit, that only works with one path, I'd feel obligated to keep traveling it.
But, hey, if you have any preferences...
The happy hermit,
pxj
Friday, April 11, 2008
Can't be a science nerd post 'cause this ain't science!
I'm foaming at the mouth over a recent story on the AP wire. The header reads "Sex and financial risk linked in brain"; doctors' orders or not (mouth-foaming not being an approved activity), I had to read on.
Why do I do these things?
My first reaction, discounting the rabid-animal imitation, is simple disbelief: Let me get this straight: my non-hermit friends work their buns off trying to get press coverage for their latest fantastic opus, and this makes it onto AP?
This isn't science. This isn't even fuzzy science. This is, not to put too fine a point on it, nonsense.When young men were shown erotic pictures, they were more likely to make a larger financial gamble than if they were shown a picture of something scary, such a snake, or something neutral, such as a stapler
Okay, I'll buy that. Of course, young men aren't exactly known for either their disinterest in sex or their sense of financial responsibility. Hmm. How young were these guys? Old enough the reasoning pathways were fully formed? (Teenagers really are different, though maybe not quite a separate species...) Article says hetero men, but what if you were to study men with stapler fetishes? Or those guys who are, you know, really fond of snakes...
Giggling, I read on. And choked. Their sample size was 15 college-aged men
Fifteen? That's not a study, that's barely a start. Deep breath. No women? Do women not take financial risks? Of course. Was this an all-male school? No. So
why no women? Becausethey didn't know what pictures aroused women
Where should I begin? Granted, the actual study isn't nearly as silly as the AP article makes it sound, and, yes, there is a link provided to some actual almost unbiased news coverage, but it's still irresponsibly sensational reporting.
Or maybe I'm just upset because chocolate didn't get a better mention. Or, for that matter, sex. –g–
As always,
pxj
Friday, April 4, 2008
Flash Fiction Friday: Pixie
Hi, folks.
Yep, it's the hermit, posting. Asking for help, actually. (Hail from a clear sky; two blue moons in a single month; kind words from a mother-in-law...) The worst part about being sick for so long, for me, is that it gives me permission to do nothing. But I'm not all that sick anymore, really, and now--
I NEED SOMEONE TO KICK MY A*S!
More specifically, I need someone to remind me that I don't get to call myself a writer unless I write. That unfinished drafts are useless as unfletched arrows. That...
Blecch. Surely you get the point. It's a Flash Fiction Friday, so here's a tidbit. From (you guessed it!) a story I haven't finished. Nearly, almost, it's only missing a few little things...
Rev up those feet, won'tcha?
pxj
Anna blinked, absurdly conscious of the small breeze the motion stirred. The weight of her eyelids, their passage, tiny muscles in concert. The brief cessation of sight. Normally, of course, all of that would have gone unnoticed—but there was nothing normal about this.
Impossible not to tremble, but her hands were steady, holding onto her camera with just enough pressure, not tight enough to stress the plastic, but with no risk she’d drop the thing. It was her favorite digital, the one she called Pixie, the one she carried with her everywhere. A camera that ate batteries with voracious appetite, but that never failed her in the clutch, that never fogged or blurred, that fit all her old lenses and scopes and held thousands of images in its capacious expanded memory. The camera that never faltered nor falsified, never lied.
Pixie hadn’t lied to her this time, either; she’d only thought it had. Thought the image it had shown her too preposterous to be real.
But it was. He was. Not the least bit credible, but real just the same. Sitting at a café table just like any normal man, in a small Louisiana town no one beyond the county line had ever heard of, a mystery in human shape. With eyes that held her easily.
“Please,” his voice was cultured, soft and deep with only a hint of a drawl, “sit down.”
She sat. She didn’t think she could have stood much longer anyway, her legs shaking as badly as the rest of her. Except her hands.
“Will you have tea?”
Tea. She’d never understood how people could drink hot beverages once the temperature got above ninety, but just then, she felt chilled. Tea might help. Only, she’d have to let go of Pixie for that. And she might drop the cup, shaky as she was.
He hadn’t waited for a reply, pouring with an almost laughably serious expression, completely focused on the small task, setting the saucer properly before her. “Please.” Oh, that voice! It had a texture, that voice, like wet sand, soft and sharp all at once.
Fit match for the man.
Anna drew in a quivering breath, the scent of him—earth and oak, something sharply green, moisture and a hint of chalk—overwhelming in the close, still air. Louisiana humidity. Which writer was it that had likened it to an animal humping your leg? But he’d forgotten to mention the decadent perversion that rich air carried on its fetid breath, that made a woman want to turn and draw it up her body, see what fun she could have rolling around with it.
Darlin’, that feeling’s not from the air. Take another look at the man-rock sitting there.
The Primal Stone. That’s what she’d seen through her camera, a free-standing bone of the earth, dark as obsidian, strong as granite, rooted deep in the land and unwilling to be quarried free. Small sparks like sun on mica danced over an unremitting darkness shaped vaguely like a man. To her eyes, he wasn’t quite so daunting.
But so much sexier.
It wasn’t his looks, though she supposed he was handsome enough—black hair worn a little long, the way she liked it; dark eyes; strong features, bone structure clear beneath just enough flesh to keep him from looking raw; broad shoulders. She couldn’t see much else, with him sitting at a café table, but he had wonderful square hands, and his nails were clean.
It wasn’t his looks that stole her breath, but the sheer solid strength of him. She could feel it, sitting across the table, knew others could feel it as well. The way the waitress kept one eye on him, no matter where she was; the way no one came near enough to jostle him, though there was a crowd.
“What—who are you?”
“One of your picturesque natives.” Flash of white teeth: a smile. “Drink your tea.”
Heat washed across her cheeks as she obeyed.
No secrets in a small town. That was the maxim, long-ago learned and yet still a surprise. Anna hadn’t been back to this particular small town since a summer visit when she’d been twelve or so. Even then, it had felt stifling, her mother fluttering, a pair of spinsterly great-aunts forever telling her to mind her manners, a flock of cousins teasing, locals whose dialects and motives she hadn’t understood, and no real consciousness of time in the whole place. So unlike city life. She’d told her mother after that visit that she was never coming back, and she hadn’t, either, until now. This trip was an obligation, for the family; they’d just buried one of the great aunts, and she’d come for the funeral.
Though that wasn’t her only reason. Being a freelance photojournalist wasn’t the glamorous, financially secure life the movie-makers portrayed; she’d hustled a few assignments to pay her way, including one for the Chamber of Commerce. Small wonder people knew what she was doing, wandering with her cameras. And, usually, Anna wouldn’t have cared if it bothered them, if they thought she was playing safari in their home. Anyplace else, yes, but not here; this place had never been kind to her, so what matter if they thought she was cruel? It wasn’t like a few pictures would hurt anything; hell, some would even help! And she’d take them and be gone. She wasn’t interested in leaving good memories behind; all she wanted was to leave.
Or, all she had wanted. Now, there was a big solid chunk of mystery calmly sipping tea, watching her as she watched him.
She opened her mouth, and words fell out. “Picturesque. You are, you know. Uniquely picturesque.” Before she was through speaking, she worried she might have said too much. Flickering monster-movie images rose before her mind’s eye, vampires and werewolves coldly disposing of the mortals who had stumbled upon them. The sun shone down, almost too bright, but her skin bore a renewed chill. What was he, this man who looked like a monolith to her camera’s sight?
Whatever he was, he knew, she was sure of it. Coal-black eyes stilled as he looked at the camera, and sound faded from her world as she watched him look. He knew she’d seen. She thought again of his impossible image in her camera sight, wondered if he’d destroy the camera before or after he took her life. Horrible thought, that what might have been the best photos she’d ever taken wouldn’t be shared with the world.
“I-if you’re going to kill me, I’d really like to know why you look...like you look. First.”
He threw back his head and laughed, the sound like a friendly landslide.
...
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