a little bit at the library

photo: public domain

I was interviewed today for an article on stroke. I met with a journalist at the public library downtown and we talked for about an hour and a half as she scribbled notes in her book, a book made from discarded Asian woven plastic rice bags by the look of it.

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You don't have to do anything to be stressful. Stress just happens. Peacefulness, on the other hand, takes practice, a little bit every day, over and over and over, until it becomes a habit.

i remember . . .

. . . the first time I saw the word HORIZONTAL. Mrs. Ambroise, my Kindergarten teacher, one hand behind her back, was writing it on the chalkboard, and seeing the word unfold letter by letter, seeing it stretch all the way across the board like some kind of sacred or magical formula -- so long, so exotic, so z-filled, so horizontal --thrilled me to my core.

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Available on Amazon July 1st

me as a werewolf

photo: timothy frederick

"how to" screen mock-up

i dreamed . . .

. . . the lady who clears the highways of roadkill picked up a large charred bird carcass with a pair of long-handled tongs and showed it to me. She called it a seal, but it looked more like an ostrich to me. Its flesh was charred and not unappealing, like a spit-roasted pig's crispy brown skin. I recoiled when she pinched her tongs together tightly, afraid the barbecued ostrich might burst.

ebook cover

I went to bed last night reading a book about the history of Penguin paperback designs and woke up this morning with a book cover idea fully formed in my head. I must have dreamed it. How strange is that? Sometimes I think I do my best work when I'm asleep or half asleep. Anyway, this is how the cover appeared in my dream. It recalls the late 1960s Penguin academic paperback style. I'm going to use it as the cover for an e-book I'm writing. I could also see it as a dustjacket on a hardcover.

gargoyle drawing

jetheriot, 1999

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i dreamed . . .

. . . Gwyneth Paltrow walked slowly toward the end of a diving board, unaware that a half-clothed long-haired blond man was walking right behind her, so close he could reach out and touch her shoulder. She dove into the pool, and by the time she surfaced, the stranger had rotated the diving board sideways, allowing him to dive into the pool without making a splash. When she saw the sideways diving board, she knew something was wrong, and her instinct was to be as still as possible, moving her legs only enough to tread water and stay afloat. She had no way of knowing that at that very moment a blond savage, her dark shadow perhaps, was swimming silently underwater toward her, dazzled by the flesh of her legs.

an unconfession

photo: ramón velasquez

In the fall of 1990 I walked into a church in Natchitoches, Louisiana, entered a dark wooden booth no larger than a closet, knelt beside a priest sitting quietly in a separate compartment, half-hidden from my view, and confessed to him my deepest shame through the grate of a small sliding door. “Each of us has a cross to bear,” he whispered back to me. “This urge is your cross.” Then I cried and asked for forgiveness.

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a may prayer

photo: jetheriot

May the sun be shining. May a breeze be blowing. May your windows be fully rolled down.

jamestown

photo: jetheriot