What do Hell’s bells sound like? The shrieks of children.

I have grim news, my friends. It turns out that Hell is located in Austin, Texas, where it goes by the riotously ironic misnomer of The Oasis. Imagine Disney World, Fisherman’s Wharf, Santana Row, the most shudder-inducing mental image you can possibly conjure of a tourist trap (with corresponding mobs of tourists), and every Linda Blair impersonator I’ve ever lived next door to, and you have but a dim notion of the true horror of this place, which must be experienced in person to get the full effect.

Hell, incidentally, is outfitted with its own ice skating rink, which serves as conclusive evidence that at least a parcel of Hell is frozen over. Hell also comes with its own map of Texas, clearly created by a soul so withered, jaundiced, and corroded, it very well might rival my own. This thing all but literally drips with contempt for the slack-jawed, uncomprehending, and witless yokels it conceives of as its target audience. It sports references to “San Antone,” “Damn Yankees,” and, in a woefully ineffectual attempt to throw the beholder off the scent, “Heaven”.

GAH.

On the bright side, I did make a considerable dent in my New Year’s shopping (New Year's being the holiday I’ve opted to celebrate with the strategic doling out of the odd gift or two, although I’m not clear on when I’ll actually make it to the post office) at this place, although, even within its confines, the shrieks and thumps of children (and parents!) in dire need of a visit from this guy could not be escaped.

Fortunately for the sake of its tender sensibilities and lamentably for photo-documentation purposes, I forgot dear old Shutter Island at home, so you’ll have to trust me when I tell you that the views while driving on Comanche Trail and from Hell itself are stunning: sparkling blue water, evergreens, and the kind of sky that’s just showing off. It’s a great place to survey Austin from afar and serves as perfect testimony to what a great planet this would be sans the unsightly blemish of its human inhabitants.

On that note, happy almost Day of Baseless Mass Hysteria (aka New Year)!

Which isn’t to say it’s without its charms, or that I won’t be making resolutions aplenty…Like, um, being a tad less misanthropic perhaps. But wait. I like that about myself. Ah well, back to the drawing board…

Things of note in San Jose.

La Victoria, particularly their orange sauce; brunch time depravity at Hobee’s (guava and papaya Mimosas, and The Time I Hit an Armored Car (true story)); soy lattes from Peet’s Coffee; Cindy’s famous Christmas cookie platter, including the cakey Christmas trees with pillowy green frosting, Mexican wedding cookies, and chocolate-peanut butter diamonds; troglodytes out en masse (including, and perhaps most especially, us); confessional beer drinking; Christmas Evening Sad Times at the Marmist (the X-Files theme song and lethal vodka tonics); sharp cheddar cheese, Coke, and ibuprofen before 9 a.m. = Best Hangover Cure Ever; I am a teetotaler now (at least until cocktail hour); driving by the fancy houses in Saratoga; driving by our childhood homes; so many orange trees posing against an impossibly blue sky; how many people have been so good to me; Trader Joe’s (deeply missed); Voodoo stationery; the way exhaustion (for those blessed with my good health) is largely mental; fearless flying; Hello, Cleveland; sunbursts sparkling against my wrist; how long have you had your affliction?; the way things change and never do in San Jose; palm trees and neon signs; Trivial Pursuit; cooking show commentary with us serving as the peanut gallery; seeing the place where you grew up with fresh eyes; driving aimlessly with Li; firsthand experience of the way time renders our landscapes obsolete; lifelong friendships; home safe and so very lucky.

 

Look! I have friends! 

 

Christmas Evening Sad Times at the Marmist

Time for this rolling stone to brush off the moss.

Considering that the original premise for this blog hinged on the notion that I would be traveling fairly extensively in one form or another, it’s ironic how sedentary I’ve been in recent months. Gainful employment and single parenthood cramp your style like that.

Nevertheless! Tomorrow I buck the sedentary trend by catching a six a.m. flight to San Jose, California to reunite with those near and dear. Things are more or less squared away for the trip—the main question is, since I’m working tonight and I like to show up early for flights, and I don’t live close to the airport, should I even bother going to sleep this evening? Or should I just opt for Hunter-Thompson-caliber-delirium, abandon the tortured novel attempt I’m currently making no progress on, and pen Fear and Loathing in San Jose?

Good times ahead.

Support a sensitive artist with a wanton display of Christmas capitalism!

Just to clear up any doubt, the sensitive artist in question would be me, and the wanton display of Christmas capitalism in question would be acquiring my story, “The Drought,” from this fine publication (Volume 13, Issue 4). It’s available in print or PDF form, and apparently it can also be picked up at BookPeople, should you find yourself there. Because there hasn’t been enough drought in Texas this year…

As an added bonus, every time you purchase a copy of “The Drought” (an indispensable alternative to lumps of coal for the bad little boys and girls yet to be crossed off your Christmas list), a broke-wing angel plays the violin.

Or something like that.

So come on, people—get into the holiday spirit!

BUY MY WRITINGS, PLEEEEEAAAASSSSEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Thank you. That is all.

 

“The Drought” is Sparty-approved. 

 As you can see, he is very proprietary toward his copy.

If Sparty can successfully nab a copy, then so can you. The man can’t even catch a spider, for crying out loud.

Blair witch tamales.

In what I consider to be another rite of passage in my Texas residency, I made my first batch of tamales today at Lela’s inspired tamale-making shindig, wherein she provided the corn husks, masa, and steamer, and each attendee brought a different filling. My folded corn husks ended up resembling nothing so much as the effigies from The Blair Witch Project, but they turned out tasty enough. My contribution was of the dessert tamale persuasion: chocolate chips and pecans (the Texas state nut!) dusted with cinnamon and cayenne (in an attempt to replicate the flavors of Mexican chocolate). Next time I would up the spice factor and maybe use a less sweet, more complex chocolate (Scharffen Berger would have been incredible) but all in all, not bad. It was kind of like Tollhouse pie, in tamale form—a bite or two went a long way. I even got my own batch of sweet masa to work with, which tasted like cookie dough.

After the tamales were assembled, everyone took home some of each type of tamale for future enjoyment. In my case, Lela was even so kind as to volunteer to steam my tamales (since they are evidently not microwave-friendly, and tragically I did actually ask if they were) and bring them to me at work, on account of I lack a steamer. I look forward to trying the other varieties. Among the delicious refreshments we enjoyed at this fiesta were rice with lime and cilantro, beans, Mexican wedding cookies, and Mexican hot chocolate.

What I learned: it is very difficult to do irrevocable damage to a tamale, no matter how dubious your technique; when in doubt, grab another corn husk to wrap around any cosmetic or structural mishaps and pretend they never happened.

Lela’s neighborhood reminds me a bit of San Francisco, in that it’s full of funky, brightly colored houses whose floors have been converted into individual units. Lots of character. It was a welcome contrast to the soulless beige and noise-besotted biosphere in which I currently dwell and a valuable reminder that there are plenty of more inviting (or at least more interesting) living situations lurking out there when my lease is up in July.

One of the best things I saw all day was a big cactus with Christmas ornaments stuck atop its leaves (fronds?). I lament that Shutter Island was not with me at the time and I was therefore unable to photo-document it.

If this post is riddled with typos or just generally lackluster prose, I would like to officially blame my attendance at a librarian party last night because—whether a well-known fact or not—librarians (at least in Boise and apparently in Austin, too) are ferociously hard partiers.

I’m still recovering.

Mutter mutter mutter.

Further Austin traipsing to take note of, but this needs must be a pleasure deferred, on account of I must make my bleary-eyed way clear across town during rush hour for ethics training over near the airport. It will probably take as long to get there as this training lasts, and given the vehicular stylings of my fellow Austinites (read: Californians, G.D. them), there will be many a temptation to engage in behavior en route that, if not unethical, is at the very least unbecoming. If you ask me, being asked to be ethical before noon is ridiculous. 

In other news, I’ve joined a Fantasy Basketball League, just because it struck me as the last thing on earth I would ever be likely to do, and this appealed to my (alarmingly prominent) perverse streak.

Please help me, I am insane.

Taking stock.

So many things coming up: covert operations, a librarian party, a tamale-making party, appointments galore, a trip to San Jose, California, where I will bask in this person’s exquisite company, and then, of course, 2012, which I intend to start off with a bang by attaching ambitions far too numerous and unrealistic to it, and then frantically scrambling to REALZE THEM ALL SIMULTANEOUSLY.

Good times.

In a bit I will venture into the kitchen to try my hand at a goat cheese dip, which just might culminate in an entry in this sorely neglected blog.

Word count: 33,061

Even more things of note.

The weird lucidity that accompanies being slightly ill; ginger water (I sliced a leftover piece of ginger and boiled it in water, since ginger is supposed to aid the immune system—too bad there’s no honey or lemon); scouting semicolon tattoos for an upcoming blog post; long naps; hot baths; this comic book; gray skies (awfully accommodating, given that I am presently The Infirm); the way it feels like it could be several decades later within a mere matter of minutes (the way it already feels like this). 

Word count: oh, dear

Other Things of Note.

Morning fog wending its way down the street, shrouding the trees across the way, making them look like veiled widows; the interpersonal equivalent of a colon cleanse (hint: this is why some of the links I’ve recently posted are broken); Meep curled up in my lap; a deep and abiding sense of relief and freedom from fetters; conjuring calendar holidays; venturing to a new grocery store later in hopes of finding a happy medium between H.E.B. and Central Market; Aunt Sheila’s rainbow-colored afghan, which has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember; the excitement of too many ambitions; waffles for breakfast; to be continued.

Word count: 30,254

MORE about how to break into technical writing: get a job!

You’ve done your homework and honed your expertise? Now it’s time to hit the pavement and show prospective employers what you’ve got.

Go get ‘em, tiger!

http://professionalwritersofaustin.com/2011/12/08/how-to-break-into-technical-writing-part-2/

Oh yeah, seasons. I remember those—vaguely.

It appears that winter—or our version of it, at least—has decided to make a guest appearance in central Texas, with the temperature currently hovering between 30 and 35 degrees, and an expected high of 47 degrees today. I actually had to turn on the heat for the first time ever here. As my winter coats currently reside in Boise, Idaho, and I’ve lacked the good sense to acquire a new one (my abiding philosophy of clothes acquisition has long been that they should magically find their way to me, and I’ve had surprisingly good luck with this), I’ve cobbled together a fairly ridiculous getup in hopes of staying warm when venturing outside (remember Rainbow Brite?). I hope the library temperature isn’t set to “meat locker” today.

How to break into technical writing: read all about it!

Attention, would-be spinners of gobbledygook! You want to get in the game? Here’s a start:

http://professionalwritersofaustin.com/2011/12/05/how-to-break-into-technical-writing-part-1/

Things of note.

Rainy Sunday, purple Christmas lights, pinpricks of light through tin stars, chicory coffee, sleeping cats, comfy pants and a ridiculous gray shirt with a pink stereo emblazoned across it, words falling out of fingertips, the familiar pain of a throbbing headache, the whooshing of cars on a wet street, baseless (or not) optimism, the thuds, slams, and screams of neighbors (“It’s NOT cold out!”), good books, the promise of so many discoveries as yet unmade in this city, time flying with leaden wings, and incremental progress.

Word count: 27,355

Mirages.

It’s a gorgeous rainy morning of the sort that makes my soul glad, and I’m thinking of the way sunlight dies between oak trees in the late afternoon, and the red and blue walls of this delightful place, where I met Carolyn for coffee yesterday after originally steering her to this evidently now-nonexistent venue, about which she was quite gracious, especially considering that I was ten minutes late and therefore not present to swear that it was indeed once an actual café adjoining a Shell station.

While it’s a shame, it seems fitting that Tuscany@360 appeared on my horizon and then vanished just as quickly. I like the idea of it as a mirage: a mysterious one-time oasis that serves its purpose when needed and then disappears to another plane, where another soul in search of respite discovers it.

Plus, this seems to fit beautifully within the whole “Keep Austin weird” theme.

Meanwhile, I’ll be looking forward to another cinnamon-flecked mocha at Uno (where they also do mean latte art), as well as drinking their wine, and losing myself in their red and blue walls, which palpitate with deep, rich, glorious color.

Recalculating: or, I am the Most Corrupt GPS Device EVER.

New NaNoWriMo strategy: reach 25,000 words by November 30. This makes sense because:

·         I have a snowball’s chance in hell of accomplishing this.

·         I’d rather have a salvageable first draft—however rough—than a 50,000-word puddle of incoherent brain-vomit that is beyond redemption (see: Autobiography of a Tick). I think that’s one reason this has been my most laborious endeavor in the long form: I’m actually aiming for something that has a plot, and a pace that suits this format, and not just writing with a mind toward the final word count.

·         If I can get reach 25,000 words this month, then I can reach 50,000 next month, and 75,000 the month after that, until this thing is as long as it needs to be. 

·         It’s November 27—it’s time to admit alternative victory (which sounds better than “defeat”).

·         Lately I feel so scattered and unfocused and pulled in about ten billion different directions, not to mention mired in the sort of unrelenting ambiguity that drives control freaks like me up the wall, it’s a miracle I’m present enough to change the toilet paper roll as needed, let alone write a novel. 

·         Look! I’ve hit the 25,375-word mark! I’ve already exceeded my November goal!

What does this have to do with being a newly minted Austinite (which is this blog’s—at the moment, anyway—ostensible theme, because otherwise it would just be “Look, dudes, my navel is such a scenic view when gazed into against an orange backdrop,” which reminds me, I do want to dedicate a post to Narcissism, aka The Zeitgeist of Our Era, and more to the point, The Zeitgeist of Me)? Good question. Uh, well, I wrote here today (latte art—fancy!). And look! Here’s a Texas-related link!

Versatile Blogger!

I am honored to have been selected for the Versatile Blogger badge by this estimable wordsmith. Of course, one must earn her badge, just as in Girl Scouts (incidentally, I once threw my loathsome brown loafer into a bed of ivy in hopes of exempting myself from attending one of their insufferable meetings, which is in no way to compare being selected for this badge to that gruesome girlhood rite). Here, then, are the rules:

The first rule of the Versatile Blogger badge is do not talk about the Versatile Blogger badge (I guess I fouled this one up already, didn’t I?).

The second rule of the Versatile Blogger badge is to confess seven heretofore unknown odds and ends about oneself.

The third and final rule of the Versatile Blogger badge is to select fifteen blogs for the badge.

The fourth and truly final rule of the Versatile Blogger badge is to link to the blogger who originally selected you.

So, dear readership and comrades at arms, here goes:

Seven Admissions

This part admittedly poses a challenge, as the bulk of this blog’s readership comprises the few long-suffering folks who know me like the backs of their hands and have still managed to avoid backhanding me—or running screaming in the opposite direction. So, I’m trying to be inventive here.

1. When Brendan and I were little (and Brendan, if you aren’t annoyed with me the next time we talk, I’ll know you don’t read this blog), he used to speak a language that only I could understand. Our baffled parents would turn to me to translate such arcane terminology as “todo” (cereal) and “shai-dai” (toothbrush). I have no idea how I knew what he meant.

2. My blood type is O Negative—just like the band!

3. I wrote my first poem (“Leaf, Leaf, All Alone”) about a solitary leaf beholding a communal pile of leaves from afar when I was five. Thus began a lifelong preoccupation with, experience of, need for, aversion to, and writing practice devoted to the themes of loneliness and solitude.

4. There are contexts in which I answer to the name Angus.

5.  My middle name is MacIntosh.

6. On my twenty-first birthday I made a point to hit the bars and order only nonalcoholic beverages. I thought this was a hoot.

7.  My mother used to tell me that when she was carrying me, she would ask me, “Who are you?” This is one of my favorite things about her.

And the winners are…

Here are my selections (which fall far short of fifteen, alack) for the Versatile Blogger badge:

Forgotten Y.A.: This bloginatrix is like the snarky Young Adult librarian of your dreams. She will find the canker in the heart of each cream puff and make you laugh out loud at it.

Failing at Living: The only issue I take with Ms. Gonick’s oeuvre is that I did not write it.

Infinite Variety: The always informative and entertaining musings of Lela Ellison, who intersperses her comprehensive young adult and children’s book reviews with stories about her life. And she’s a snappy dresser, to boot!

Seitan Beats Your Meat: Besides having the best blog name EVER, this character’s always up to something interesting and inspiring. When I see how much she’s accomplished in her relatively few years, I feel like a big old loser-pants, but in a positive, productive way that makes me want to get off my duff and do something about it!

Jill Tracy: This blog is new and infrequently updated, but when it is, it’s worth a visit—because sometimes, like Persephone, you just need to be whisked away to the netherworld.

Blast the Human Flower: Just as sometimes you just need to be whisked up into the ether. This woman is another constant source of inspiration.

Tale of Tales: The Path: All right, so this blog hasn’t been updated since July, and it’s clearly going to be of limited interest to anyone not familiar with the game, but I’m including this because The Path is one of the most singularly affecting and gorgeous experiences I’ve had in any format. Ever. And yes, it’s a computer game. You should get acquainted, if you’re not. Warning: this game is amazing, but it’s not perfect. Several aspects of the gameplay are downright obnoxious. But stick with it—I have a hard time believing you won’t be rewarded if you do.

What Gypsy Pirate Vagabond Lone Wolves do on Thanksgiving

Eat refried beans from a can.

Have high highs and low lows and realize that often it’s precisely when things don’t go the way we think they should, or aren’t how we think they’re supposed to be, that opportunities for true gratitude present themselves.

See Wayne “The Train” Hancock at the Continental Club.

Drink too much, evidently, which makes me extra super-grateful, while we’re on the subject, that today is leaf-blower day, or if-you’re-happy-and-you-know-it-brandish-your-power-tool day, or what have you, at ye olde Biosphere from Hell.

Oh yes, and ratchet up our NaNoWriMo word count to 24,144, which is insufficient, but better. 

Happy Thanksgiving, have some writer’s block!

Or some Deep Thoughts on the subject, at least:

http://professionalwritersofaustin.com/2011/11/24/you-know-you-have-writers-block-when/

Here’s hoping y’all have a splendid day o’ gratitude, even if, like me, you are a gypsy pirate vagabond lone wolf adrift in this wide world.

I am a blogging dynamo!

Or fool…

http://blog.awcaustin.org/2011/11/20/it%E2%80%99s-all-about-the-benjamins-and-sometimes-the-jacksons-and-the-lincolns/

NANOWRIMO: Staggering toward the bitter end.

Word Count: 20,108

Am I going to make it in time?

Probably not. But that’s okay.

On the bright side, this novel is pretty much written—except for the actual writing part. I have it more or less figured out. It’s just a matter of getting it down.

It looks like history is doomed to repeat itself:

In that, early on in my deplorably long undergraduate career, I had to drop Statistics because otherwise I would have failed it, and today’s NANOWRIMO stats, as they stand right now, remain pitiful, and it could be said that I am once again failing at statistics.

Word Count: 17,250

The NANOWRIMO website estimates that, at this rate, I will finish on December 25.

Nooooo!!!

As luck would have it, Li more or less singlehandedly salvaged this hot mess with her inspired suggestions, so I hold out hope that I might yet make it. Even if I don’t meet the NANOWRIMO deadline, I will at the very least see this through to its bitter end, for the sake of the exercise and because I think I owe it to the project at hand.  

Sangria is Not Fruit Juice

I went here last night, where Riki’s birthday festivities were in progress. Shortly after my arrival, I found myself sipping (inhaling) delicious sangria in Mason jars with brightly colored paper umbrellas. This had me shortly thereafter declaring Spartacus as my husband (although, let’s face it, I do that when stone cold sober, so I can’t fault the sangria for that) and loudly advocating for karaoke as the next chapter of the birthday festivities.

Apparently the food here is excellent, too, but I didn’t have a chance to try it since, by the time I got there, the kitchen was closed.

Oh well—next time! 

Forthcoming!

So, it turns out this writer-pants biz is only 99 percent rejection: I have a story slated to appear in the Winter 2011 issue of The First Line.

Huzzah!