Thursday, November 21, 2013
What's the news? The news is I'm not nearly as good a garment knitter as I thought. The news is I've never been better at pies. The news is I've had three orgasms this year that escalated into laughter and broke into crying. The news is I continue to get the occasional beard hair that is really ten beard hairs fused into one. The news is I'm afraid of the stories I'm writing, but I'm still writing.
For a long time I had pain in me. I'm a picker, so I picked the pain out but couldn't throw it away. Josh doesn't like to waste food, and I don't like to waste a word. I found a place to put my pain. Small stories. Well, those stories are in the world. Mother Ghost was the book I needed to write, but now I can write about anything. Three soldiers in love? A weird war? Yes, fine. That's the current story. I don't know these men I'm writing and yet they came from me. I don't know anything about battle. I do know gay people can serve freely now, and I do know I'd never fight another person if I couldn't use a sword. Too bad. This is no world for fighting with swords. The only person I know who owns a sword keeps it in an umbrella stand by the door.
If I were still a kid I might like drones, if only for aesthetic reasons. Drones are penile and menacing, like a blind bird missing all its feathers. Scrawny dragons. I bet there is a Transformer toy that is a drone. But I have a heart, it seems. A human heart. The only machine I've fallen in love with is an old medium format camera. The shutter fires loud as a gun. There is chrome involved. To wear the thing around my neck is to make a statement about my spine. It is intact.
I've been taking a lot of pictures. Mostly of myself. Some people call them "selfies." The term I knew for so long was "self-portraits." Whatever. For the first time in my life, I want pictures of myself. My hair alone is going places.
And my pies. I have started a small business of sorts. It's called Pie King. You may call me Pie King if you'd like, but I won't answer to it. There was a time I worked in a museum, and when I first started there I asked my coworkers to call me by my first name, Charles. That didn't last. I never heard it. My name has always been Casey. It's my middle name. I live in Kansas City, or KC, which is the only place I've lived where people ask if I spell Casey with a K and a C. I do not.
I do wish I could see you. It's been so long. My house is how I like it. Please visit.