Excerpt - Novel in Progress

I am attracted to violence from wherever it is that I come. If it is violence against the whites I am drawn to it like a bee to spring flowers. Like a coyote to weaker prey.

My tipi is the only one, a lonely sentinel. I am standing in a small bare space in front of the entry flap, in that space I dance with myself when loneliness becomes unbearable. A long slope flows away beyond me to the east, a carpet of wild grasses swaying in the wind, and on clear days the distant peaks of the Ouachitas are gray shadows low against the sky, easily mistaken for smoke trails except they hang without moving. Today I watch ragged chevrons of geese heading away from the snowy lands, cutting the sky like a canoe prow. I am lonely for my people but I cannot find them, so I spend long days in silence. Within this silence I hear many things that I never heard from within the company of others.

Did you know sand has a voice?

It is true. Sand sings in a constant keening sound, as does the prairie grass. The grass calls to the buffalo as well as the field mice, whereas the sand calls for water. The wind sings many songs, depending upon the season and whether drought or rainy. Rain grass sings with a joy whereas dry grass sounds like the crying of a hungry infant. The spirits have taught me to listen with the ears within my head and not the ears that are pierced with silver hoops. These are the things the elders should teach us, but no one ever taught me these things. The reason, I have come to believe, is that they did not know. I believe unknown spirits have adopted me, have chosen to teach me of the many things that live just beneath the surface of what can be seen, or felt, or touched. What can be seen is a river; what cannot be seen are fish.

I am standing in front of my solitary tipi with its beautiful lightning patterns, looking toward the distant mountains as I decipher the songs of the grasses, when I hear the first shots. They are so far away as to almost be hidden by the song of wind and grass. But I know too well the sound of gunfire, so I cock my head toward the direction from which it comes, and ask the world to stop singing for just a moment, if it does not mind. If I close my eyes and ignore other songs, I can turn in slow circles until I feel the direction of origin within my belly. And now I am like an eagle skimming above the world at a great speed, just above treetops and hills, drawn like a buzzard to the scent of blood.

Flight and Landing

I feel this human's warm hand, rescuing me from the past eon of repose in the damp sand of the lake bank. Oh, God, that warmth is nice.

Now I'm flying, spinning through cool air, spinning sparks of sunlight from my crystals as I soar,
exulting in the sensation that I, a flat rock, am feeling this moment.

Oh, please let this last. Let this last. Oh, please let...

I am the rock, the splash, myself, the water,
again again again,
slowing now,
warm on top wet and cold on bottom;
stalled into equilibrium,
sinking waffling back and forth as the light fades
from green to black to depths remembered in the crystal heart of my being
buried before, those millions of years.

I settle to the bottom and weep.

calculus

Lone Ranger, stranger:

kids grown and gone

not even a smoke signal; the

wife has taken her vow of silence,

face in a laptop screen or

asleep on the distant mesa of our

Ponderosa bed:

                This is the BIG Country.

Thirty million buffalo slaughtered

like my creativity, like those

wild Indians who couldn't

conform and died

not trying.  Abandoned bones

lay white in the elements,

worth more as fertilizer:

                the economics of resurgency.

Time passes

and time will tell where this life

is migrating as I strive to link the trajectory of

railroads creeping from east and west,

bisecting  the herd of my great ideas

yet never connecting at all;

relentlessly continuing toward manifest destiny

with the logic of those useless formulas

they taught us

in calculus.

dinosaurs

 

Paul Simon and the Africans thump

from ear to ear through my head;

coffee the color of streams in flood

pulsates like those water glasses in Jurassic Park

each time my foot taps to the beat:

continuous concentric circles

to mimic my own energies . . .

dinosaurs have breached the fence.

                Beyond the storefront windows the

                enduring blue of summer holds the world

                in place for one more day, not yet noon,

                pure robin blue to be washed grey later by heat.

                Everyone would like to write all day in

                refrigerated air, but then life

                would be too easy . . .

                they think.

Easy. . .

The word rolls from my thoughts

while writing, occasionally glancing

at the shimmer of summer women -- 

sparkly haired and sunny  circulating about my

island of refuge, casting oblique shy smiles

capable of keeping the raptors  at bay

a few moments more.

The Safe Room

We don't have a safe room. Just the extra room at the top of the stairs where Michael keeps his gun safe. He always figured that if the children couldn't see them, if guns were kept under lock and key, there could be no accidents.

Michael is traveling. I heard the glass break to the kitchen door; not a crash, but a sharp ping. They are inside. I can hear their whispers. I slide the phone from the receiver. Nothing. Line cut? I remember my cell phone is charging downstairs. I slide into Madelaine's room and wake her gently. "Sshhh," I whisper. "Come!" She sticks to me like a shadow as we sweep Justin from his bed, still sleeping, and I carry him into the safe room. By the nightlight glow I spin open the combination and select an automatic, slide the clip into place, and chamber a round. Justin stirs fitfully for a moment then slides back into dreamland. I sit with my back to the far wall, Madelaine leaning against me, shivering slightly. "Mama?" she whispers. "Shhh." She goes silent. The pistol rests on my knee, hammer back, aiming at the door. Michael was a good teacher.

The stairs creak. Then the hardwoods just outside the door. My heart sounds like a steel factory, loud, relentless. Madelaine squeezes my arm, but stays silent. "Come on, you fuckers," I'm thinking. "You invade my home, you will fucking die." The lever handle moves slowly. I control my breathing and squeeze.

 

The Floating World

Under my wiper blade this morning, this message, ink bleeding through the restaurant napkin from the night's humidity, a watercolor conveyance of this koan:

the moon:
I wandered around the pond
all night long

-Basho

Now: night breezes stir gauze curtains into a small dance, round and round, playing to the windowsill audience. Sultry. Cicadas sing their call and response love songs above the thick air. The napkin crumpled on my lap, almost forgotten except for the faint scent of her infused into it. From her purse? Her hand? Like charged particles, we attracted one another at this restaurant two months ago. She has carried its napkin this long. The logo in kanji reads:

The Floating World.

Then: she had me floating dizzily, my thoughts an unrepentant fantasy as I nodded my head toward the caress of her conversation, acting attentive while blood rushed in my ears, through my belly and even lower like a Shinkansen of sensuality thundering over me.

Meet me, I whispered as I brushed her cheek goodbye. I thought…no, I wanted to see that slight nod, that affirmation within the black slate of her eyes. The pond, I breathed, then turned to leave, my heart pounding so loudly I was certain everyone in the room could hear it, especially her husband.

Walking back to the hotel on the soft path, which dances beside the edge of the very pond I had intimated, I realize my folly. She would not show. How could she break away? Get control, I admonish myself, hands still shaking as I meander the dark path to my room. A cold shower. An X-movie. Relief.


I’d almost forgotten my proposed rendezvous. No, that's not the truth. I’d not forgotten, nor could I. Then this morning the note on my windshield. In a game of Go she has informed me it’s my move now.

Unwanted Vows of Silence

I've apparently ended a one month vow of silence.

Actually, I didn't realize I'd taken one, but ever since the AWP Conference last month, blogging has taken a backseat. I finally started another novel, so the time has not been wasted by any means, but I could be more productive.

There are times we need to simply stop our daily grind, to step off this treadmill we accept without question. In this multi-tasking, 24/7/365 madhouse, don't we deserve a little time to decompress? To quote the Pogo comic strip: We have met the enemy and he is us. I have filled my life to the overflow scuppers with inane tasks that keep me from shifting into 5th gear and entering the autobahn of proliferation. The paradox is that to achieve focused proliferation, we must first empty the rain gutters of the prolific flood of information (which we shall call "rain" in order to keep this metaphor flowing) that inundates our creative processes. Whew. That was a mouthful.

So, take a break people! A friend just returned from Italy, amazed that everyone there was so happy. I'm envious. Weren't Americans the happy people not that long ago? Who stole my cheese and all that? Sometime in the past twenty years, while nobody was paying attention, our inalienable right to laugh, to relax, and to take a f**king break were hijacked. How did that happen? It was like we woke up from a long nap and they were gone. Our collective mojo is gone and we want it back. Writers can't write without mojo. My mojo is now only a mojito. We call him "Junior".

Hey, we can empower ourselves. It's easy. Let's just say no. Step away from the cell phone, Ma'am. Just walk away, Rene. Let's do whatever it takes to clear away the brain static of too much "stuff". It's what I need to get back my focus for writing.

If you need a getaway place, here's one I suggest:

www.LuzdeBlanco.com

I suggest it because I'm self-serving and small. Of course it's mine! But it's a good place nonetheless. You should see for yourself.