The Misty Hills
Do you ever wonder why there are fewer bugs on your windshield when you go for a drive these days? There is a reason.
I tried to write this morning. Got up at five, long before the rest of the family, but nothing came out. That’s okay. I continued to plot up my next novel instead. I went outside and started a fire. Roasted a bagel. Ever had a fire-roasted bagel like that?
We blame goldenrod for allergies because it’s visible. But it’s likely ragweed that makes us sneeze. Sneaky.
Is it reasonable in this day and age to hope? Or to expect a reply to what you put out, in earnestness and seriousness? In good faith? I don’t know.
Excerpt from Untitled
I wrote this as part of a longer story, I like it:
‘Yuri has never been comfortable with the fact that of the five thousand Russian ships on the water, only his is captained by a woman. Derbent, they call her, an old woman with massive breasts, that only drinks water and carries a wooden sword in her belt. They say she has never been beaten in a battle, but she is not exactly Artemy Volynsky, and the Persian rebellion this time is hardly a trifle. Five thousand ships in the middle of a storm attest to that.
On the deck, Yuri rubs his penis in the open air. The water is swelling, and the horses below-deck – already sick to begin with – are complaining that they are not meant for this (as though Yuri is). For now, he concentrates on his cock, and unwittingly an image comes to him of Derbent’s breasts. He shakes his head. Along the length of the railing, other men are also pleasuring themselves, a long line of young sailors who have been given exactly this amount of time to relieve themselves of their tension, the products of their fancies destined to drown a slippery death in the Sea of Oman. They do not, of course, look at each other as they complete their activities.’
I’ve written lots of words in a short time before, but nothing like I just did over the last while. It’s not the quantity, though. It’s the differential. I set out to elevate what I produce, to get to that other level. I honestly believe I did that. I reviewed what I’ve written. It shocks me. Hard to tell where any of this will go. Maybe I’ll be a writer on a blog for the rest of my life. There’s nothing wrong with that. But it’s not enough for me. So like Yuri rubbing his penis, or possibly buggering his horses belowdecks while his Captain tells him her breasts taste like apple, you keep sailing because that’s the way the ship is going.
Anyway, it’s not like I really know the answer to the bug question. A gnat bit me the other day. Whispered in my ear and told me I’m crazy. Like I didn’t know. Like I wasn’t aware. I don’t kill bugs or spiders. They’re just getting along with their lives. They don’t live my existence, and I don’t live theirs, and even if they want to take a bite out of me at times, we can live together, right? That part, I know I got right. I just do.