the mosquito – the fool – did not realize the paint was not truly skin. it landed on the luminous breast of the maiden, all aglow in the perfect spotlight. the mosquito – the fool – dug the needle into the craquelure veins, sucked the blood.
it wasn’t blood. it was old canvas and dried oil paintings.
the mosquito – the fool – flew away believing in the painter’s masterful strokes. she found her mate, and laid her eggs with the blood food from the painting in a small patch of water in the old, leaky roof.
for years, afterwards, these moths were everywhere. they had mosquito-like bodies – small and dainty and jagged angles – but they had the dusty puff and gorgeous wings of moths.
guests go home, and find moths hiding in their clothes.
hiding in their hair.
clerical matters preclude me from a genuine update today.
here’s an old picture i found hiding in the digital camera that i think is fantastic.
something new was added to my amazon.com page:
under Editorial Reviews:
The debut of a brilliant new voice that will change the fantasy genre forever.
An intricate web of stories weave together to tell a tale of revenge, justice, ambition, and power. Zhan has been sent to find her grandfather, a man accused of killing not only Zhan’s family, but every man, woman, and child in their village. What she finds is a shell of a man, and a web of deceit that will test the very foundations of a world she thought she understood.
A tale of revenge that grows into something more, Last Dragon is a literary fantasy novel in the tradition of Gene Wolf and Gabriel Garcia Marquez. J.M. McDermott brings the fantasy genre to new literary heights with a remarkable first novel that will leave critics and readers alike in stunned awe.
About the Author
J.M. McDermott graduated from the University of Houston in 2002 with a BA in Creative Writing. He resides in Arlington, Texas with an assortment of empty coffee cups, overflowing bookshelves, and crazy schemes.
Let me go on the record and state this very clearly: I DID NOT WRITE THAT! I wrote the biography. I did not write the book description. I don’t want to call the guy a liar, but it would have never occurred to me to say my name in the same breath as Gene Wolf and Gabriel Garcia Marquez.
I’m trying to track down who wrote that. They deserve a cookie.
since it’s raining cats and dogs, i thought i’d explore what my apartment looks like for a cat. i can’t very well go for a walk out there.
here is a cat:
this cat hates me. he hides from me. all the time. here is what my apartment looks like to him:
my lovely apartment – and it is a lovely apartment – does not look so very lovely when i see it through a timid cat’s eyes.
my parents lent me a digital camera for the week that i may photograph my sister’s cats and send them to her whilst she prepares for deployment.
here is a picture of massimo, lord of destruction:
here is a picture of diva, who will be abducted shortly by a large alien in a denim jacket:
now that I have appeased the lolcatz crowd, i shall move on to other things.
since, i had the camera, i carried it with me for my urban wanderings.
i am fascinated by construction sites. out at the edges where i live, urban sprawl eats forest and park and old buildings. to improve land we must first destroy it entirely, strip it to the nude rock and smother it in layer upon layer of trash and sweat and steel. Someday, this spot of ground that used to be a marshy thicket will become something tall and proud and clean with manicured gardens and trash cans and the miracles of indoor plumbing three stories above the ground.
here is a series of photos, that i hope tell you a story worth more than my thousand words.
tomorrow, I’ll find new batteries and new wastelands.
a thousand men upon a thousand and more predicted the end of the world. a thousand upon a thousand women, too. in fact, the world should have ended a thousand upon a thousand times by now.
i am amazed at the longevity of our doomed universe.
however, i suspect that all the predictions were true. we who are bound by time ought not to bind the cosmic in this way.
the world is not created external to the self. it is created by the senses that experience the world. thus, each person carries inside of them their own god-like nature, creating the world by touch, by taste, by sight, by smell by other senses we have not found to measure.
every time a vessel of senses drops into numb, the whole universe is destroyed.
every birth is a creation. every death is the end of the world.
god is life.
white’s funeral home sent a large, glossy card to this weatherford student whose good grades got mentioned in the newspaper.
left side of card:
“congratulations, and best wishes! the recent article in the paper about you did not go unnoticed here at white’s funeral home. please feel free to call on us for your pre-arrangement and funeral needs.”
right side of card:
“congratulations s_____ r______ on having been named to the honor roll for the 2006 fall semester at tarleton state university! your community is proud!”
back of card:
“white’s funeral home, serving weatherford and surrounding communities for four generations.”
in summary: the funeral home sent a thinly veiled advertisement to a college student by name, encouraging her to arrange for her funeral right now, today.
she said, to me, as if it wasn’t apparent, “it’s a small town.”
a single straw in a red plastic lid rolled around the parking lot listlessly.
with the sturdy lid, and the sturdy straw, the wind blew it end over end and all around, like a master tumbler.
this acrobat flips over and stands on its hands (the short end of the straw),
then jumps to its foot
(the long stem of the straw).
tumbling and tumbling in the wind,
the straw and lid bowed and leaped into the black backstage below a honda.
there was no encore. also, there was no applause.
“you know they’re going to get me some bullets next week. when they do they’re going to have to give me some bullet-proof shoes.”