Author Archives: catjenkins11

Just bitchin'

Shady Ladies

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I’ve run into something lately that bothers me no end. It chaps my hide…creams my corn…grinds my gears…gets on my last nerve.

It’s a delicate subject, in my opinion.

It’s shady ladies.

By that term I mean women whose prime survival tactic is subterfuge, manipulation, and dishonesty. Of course, females don’t have a monopoly on these stratagems. Everybody lies. Everybody cheats. No one, man or woman, is completely without a few smudges on their shields. But the ones I’ve encountered are people who are adept at the art. They’ve been doing it all their adult lives. They’re good at it. They will make no effort to change, because being shady has served them well, has brought them far.

It’s a sore subject for me because I was raised by an immigrant who drummed it into her children’s heads that they would only receive what they earned by working for it. And working hard. We were taught that no one owed us anything. There are no free handouts. And…here’s the kicker…that you should rely on no one to right your wrongs or pay your way.

A lot of this was because I was raised post-feminism. The bras were already burned. The angry speeches already made. So, for some reason I find it personally offensive to watch women choose the shady way when others are offered to them.

Perhaps some examples would help.

Example #1:    A woman whose hard luck story is first and foremost on her tongue. It is her identity and what she clings to because it has allowed her to cobble together an income of fraudulent claims for welfare, food stamps, and state subsidies. These are good and useful resources for those who need them. But not for someone who spends her days wandering malls and hanging out. Someone whose hard luck is years in the past. Asked what she’ll do if these funds are taken away, the reply is ‘Something always turns up.’ Ask more and you’ll discover it’s not something that turns up, but someone. This is a woman who brags she gets through life by surrounding herself with the ‘right’ people. They feel sorry for her. They don’t look too deep, and they give her money and gifts until she fades them out as they become suspicious of her story. Whereupon, she goes in search of new prey.

To me, that’s shady.

Example #2:    This lady runs her own ‘business.’ House cleaning. She spends her first few hours plying her employers’ ears with tales of her hardships. “I’m a single mother; you’ll have to give me some money for gas, I’m living that close to the edge.” In addition to her fee, she is handed, over the course of a month or so, several hundred dollars for various mishaps that befall this brave soul trying to buck the odds. She needs gas. Her car needs repairs. Her child is sick. Her absences and no-shows are attributed to her difficult circumstances. Until she slips and it’s revealed that she’s a single mom who’s been living with the father of her child for decades (there was no wedding, but it’s a marriage for all practical purposes). And her child is 30 years old. She claims him as a dependent even though he lives fifty miles away in his own home, and has a life separate from his parents.

Shady, shady lady.

I’ve met these people and talked to them in depth. I haven’t lost money to them or been taken in by them. They’re boastful about what they do.

As I said, everyone gets a little shady at some time. No one’s perfect. But to make it your lifestyle of choice? There are labels for such people: scam artists, con men (or women), grifters…

…shady, shady ladies…

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writing

Sell vs. Savor

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Writing is a gift.

Not necessarily for the literary efforts produced, but for the satisfaction of the process itself. I believe everyone who commits to it, knows that inner groan of pleasure when brain and keystroke join in a seamless act of creation. Which brings to mind one of the writer’s quandaries.

Do you write to sell, or to savor?

As you work your way up the rejection ladder, getting more and more substantive feedback, at some point a choice will begin to materialize on the edges of your awareness. It begins to shimmer its way into existence when the rejection asks you to submit more material; when it terms your writing ‘intriguing’ or ‘exceptional’ or ‘delightful.’ BUT…(there’s always a ‘but’)…your style doesn’t blend with the publication’s. Or maybe your subject matter needs tweaking before you’ll be awarded the brass ring of being published.

You’ve been diligent about researching to whom you submit. You’ve targeted publications that seem likely to want work like yours. But with the carrot dangling before you…so, so close…you take a longer, harder look at them…and at yourself. You’re willing to edit and rewrite and do it again and again, as long as the core of the work remains true.

Do you continue to please yourself, being faithful to what springs from your soul and hope to find a compatible outlet? Or do you pull that spark of what feels like your essence out, and write what you’re told as best you can, ignoring the deep, inner voice that whispers ‘This isn’t me…it’s not what I meant…’?

There are multiple arguments for both sides. There are varying perspectives from which to view each. There is no right answer.

What there is, is ego and that selfish side of the craft that drives you to write in the first place. If these things tip the scales for you, then you’ll resist compromise and say ‘I’m being true to myself.’

If the lure of being published has the greater weight, you’ll do whatever you have to to get something in print. The satisfaction of being published will silence any voice that queries ‘Did I sell out?’

Luckily, there is also the inevitability of change, of maturation and growth. And that’s the saving grace that can lead to a place where the pleasure of savoring the process and the rush of seeing yourself in print can meet, merge, and become magical. That essential internal spark is always changing. So is your work. So is the marketplace. The longer you persist, the better your chances of finding the niche you were meant to fill.

Write for someone else, or for yourself? Sell or savor?

Do both. Strive for that magical moment of overlap.

Just don’t ever stop.

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Just bitchin'

A Northwest New Year’s Eve


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Here in the Northwest we like to welcome the new year with a visual shout out from the top of our signature logo…the Space Needle.

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A great many people who live in the neighborhood are treated to pyrotechnics galore, accompanied by blaring music and cheering revelers.

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It really is quite an amazing sight as well as an amazing site.

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Afterwards, the celebration continues into the small hours of the newborn 2015. So, apologies to those who live nearby, a captive audience to the annual madness, noise and disturbance, but…

Happy New Year!

And twelve months from now, we’ll have recovered enough to do it again…

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Just bitchin'

The Magic of the Night…

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Christmas Day is lovely.
Can’t argue with that.

But the night before is what steals my breath and makes me believe in magic. When you’ve outgrown Santa, when you’ve made the conscious decision to relegate to the rear mad shopping, stress and the frantic pace, what is left is the sheer beauty of the season.

For me nothing showcases that unique splendor like a fine, clear, cold night. Dark. Deserted. Lit with splendor.

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I wander unfamiliar neighborhoods and find elaborate displays. Extravagant creations glittering in the night….

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Sparkling abundance paying silent homage….

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But I linger longest before the simple presentations.

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Their elegant purity touches the heart. They do not shout. They whisper.

This is the night before the Day. This is the anticipation of the celebration of something extraordinary.

Merry Christmas…

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Just bitchin'

Alternative Rites of Christmas

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Every family celebrates the holidays with a touch of individuality.

Those little quirks acquired along the way eventually transform into tradition.

The earliest remembrance I have of mine was around the age of four.

We’d been decorating the Christmas tree, that huge pine-scented presence that brought magic and happy expectation into our home. Someone of my tender years wasn’t allowed to do much. While the others adjusted lights, draped tinsel, and placed strategic puffs of angel’s hair, my primary task was to put hooks on the ornaments. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, I pulled each delicate, blown-glass piece from its nest of tissue paper, attached the wire hook and placed the finished product to one side for someone else to have the honor of hanging.

Low to the ground, I saw things the others didn’t. Like the way the tree’s water supply was already littered with pine needles. Like the way the cottony-white skirt sprinkled with glitter caught the light, shimmering like an echo of the magnificence towering above it.

Like the family dog, Tio, having his way with a light bulb.

All our decorations were handed down from grandparents I’d never known. The lights were antiquated: large, heavy things, tapering from a broad end with the screw cap to a rounded tip. Tio had managed to engulf the whole ensemble, leaving only the tip poking between his lips like a glossy, green bubble.

Neither Tio nor I recognized the danger of the situation. He wagged his tail in contentment, sucking on his new toy. But my laughter at the ridiculous picture he presented alerted my mother. Scolding, she pulled the bulb from Tio’s mouth, then replaced it with a green-tinted biscuit.

Dogs are smart. They remember.

Every year thereafter, Tio demanded a biscuit in return for refraining from mouthing light bulbs.

At some point, we began leaving the biscuit on a low-lying branch of the tree. Tio would snatch it up and consider his ransom demand met.

But that made the cats jealous.

Food wouldn’t placate Buffy and Phoebe. Oh, no. They wanted the crash and dazzle of breakage. They wanted an interactive batting practice. And so began the tradition that still continues today.

The Rite of the Sacrificial Ornament.

It must be large. It must be shiny. It must hang low.

Its demise must be met with a humble, human willingness to clean up the mess.

If these conditions are not met at the outset, then woe to the entire tree. It will not survive. However, make the sacrifice and nothing else is required.

It astonishes me that this bargain has passed from generation to generation of pets as well as people. At least that’s how I see it. I put up my first tree on my own, in my own apartment only to have it decimated by Boots, a cat who had never been party to previous Rites of Sacrifice. It was with an almost occult shiver of skepticism that I righted the tree, cleaned up the damage, and then, with disbelieving fingers, hung a sacrificial ornament.

Boots accepted it. The rest of the tree was left inviolate. And so it continued.

This rite persists. It is weird in its reliable performance.

But I suppose the same could be said of my family.

We are the practitioners of the Rite of the Sacrificial Ornament.

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Just bitchin'

The Vapor Dancers

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Leonardo Da Vinci was fascinated by the changes night could bring.

He walked the streets at dusk, marveling at the beauty of the human face when bathed in twilight’s special grace. There was a muted loveliness denied the harsh illumination of the day.

It has always been so.

Things change at night. Stranger sights and seeming secrets feel freer to move among us. It’s one reason I follow Leonardo’s example, wandering after sunset, hoping to stumble upon lesser-known magic as it goes about its nightly routine.

But I never expected the Vapor Dancers.

I don’t know if this is a subculture or a single occurrence. I don’t know if they are called by another name, but to me…Vapor Dancers.

You’ll find them when the hour is late and the street deserted.

You’ll find them where plumes and columns of steam rise from manhole covers and vents.

The first one emerged from shadow, making a soundless way to the center of the street. Diaphanous fabric floated from her waist, pale and grey as fog. To the music of distant sirens, she approached the pillar of vapor where it escaped the city’s substructure, drifting upward as the breeze sculpted it into pleats and folds. Her arms rose in graceful imitation.

And then began what I can only call a dance.

Moving in silent harmony with the steam, she made it her partner. Then another, and another, and one more appeared, echoing the first’s performance.

But no city street is deserted for long. The dance lasted until a cab turned the corner, the sharp beams of its headlights interrupting, scattering, dispersing both dancers and steam.

I left, too. It was late, and this wasn’t my world. I was just a visitor who’d been treated to something strange and hauntingly beautiful.

Leonardo would have loved it.

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Niteblade Magazine & The Newbie: A Fond Farewell

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A couple of years ago I stumbled across something sharp and edgy and winsomely wicked. It was inspiring, and it sort of felt like home. It was Niteblade, a magazine devoted to horror and fantasy and sporting an encouragingly feminine…yet sinister…logo.

I’m a newbie compared to the seasoned writers comprising an astonishingly vast subculture that feels like a simmering presence once you’ve discovered the literary haunts of the internet. But newbie or no, I was compelled to submit to Niteblade. I just had to.

When my story was accepted, I gave a fan-girl squeeeee!! and then began to worry about how the editing process might work. Every editor is different. And I had no idea what Rhonda Parrish would be like.

I’d only had a couple of stories published, but for one, the editor rewrote at will, adding his own bits that only came to light when I received my contributor’s copy. It was then I also realized he’d written my bio himself, publishing my full name and the city where I lived. This led to readers tracking me down and coming to my door. A bit unsettling. I moved and got an unlisted land line.

But maybe that was par for the course, my newbie-brain thought. So, drawn by the magnetic lure of Niteblade, and yearning with every fiber of my writer’s soul to be granted a place among its contributors, I waited to see what would happen.

What transpired was courteous, professional, yet painstaking, as Rhonda led me through her editing process. It was like being steered with velvet reins. I learned a lot. I was proud of the final product. It was also the first time a story of mine had been illustrated. I promptly bought the original rendering and hung it over my workspace.

It proved inspirational, because Niteblade accepted a second story.

And soon after, Rhonda short-listed two more for inclusion in her anthology ‘Metastasis.’ The one that made the cut was shorter and tighter and more powerful than at its birth, thanks again to Rhonda’s scalpel-keen editor’s sensibilities.

I’ll miss Niteblade as it prowls off into the wings, but I’m grateful for its edgy, sharp, winsomely wicked influence on me and my writing.

And I have a feeling it might sweep back to the forefront someday, black wings spread wide to foster other newbie-writers…

So on the eve of Thanksgiving it seems appropriate to say….thank you, Niteblade…and thank you, Rhonda Parrish!

nitebladecat

cat image from theinfinityplane.com

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Just bitchin'

The ABCs of Survival

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Ferguson.

It’s a hot-button issue and everyone says to stay away from it. But I won’t. If you don’t like what you read, too bad. My blog; my right. My circus; my monkeys.

What happened in Ferguson was terrible. Heart-rending. No matter which side you fall on, when you consider a death that might have been avoided had things fallen out differently, you want to scream to the heavens and dig your nails into the dirt and shriek your throat raw. Your heart breaks for the life lost and the lives ruined.

But what I heard last night turned my rage up; turned it molten.

A Washington state politician who I can only guess was throwing her hat into the ring to further her own agenda when it comes to gathering a larger constituency, went in a direction that I just have to call out.

I wish I could find the video clip, but I can’t. So I’ll have to paraphrase.

Buffeted by the passionate crowd surrounding her, she cried out that children were dying everywhere because of police. The tragic example she provided was a twelve-year-old boy who had been shot and killed when he pulled out a toy…but genuine-looking…gun and aimed it at an officer.

“I don’t want to have to teach my children to walk around with their hands raised!” she bleated.

And that’s where the match hit the fuel and my anger went through the roof.

How about you teach your kid NOT to pull a weapon on a cop, lady?

How about you teach your kid NOT to attack or threaten anyone carrying a gun?

How about you do that right along with teaching your kid to look both ways before he crosses the street?

Or does the logic escape you?

More and more in local news there are stories about home invaders and burglars getting shot and killed when the people they’re threatening react by using deadly force. Every time I hear of one, I think ‘When are they going to get it through their thick heads that there are consequences for their actions?’ It’s risky to steal, or break and enter, or pull a gun, or confront an armed man. It could get you killed.

So, Miss Politician, please teach your children what they should do to avoid having to put their hands up in the first place.

 

My circus. My monkeys. My opinion.

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Just bitchin'

Mischievous Marcus and The Once-and-Future King

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Shortly after informing me that Catholicism was a vampiric religion (see previous blog: Mischievous Marcus and Jesus the Undead), Marcus and I met again. But this time the discussion had more to do with folkloric legend than horror.

“Christianity is a fractured religion,” he began.

“Whatever it was supposed to be, it’s been shattered starting way back with a control-freak emperor’s obsession with forcing people to switch their belief systems. And the shards have filtered down, mixing with folklore and paganism until most Christians blindly follow what they’re taught. They’re good at reacting, if challenged, but most of them don’t know and don’t question their own religion’s origins.”

Considering the multitude of sects and creeds falling under the umbrella of Christianity, I could see where Marcus was coming from, but I was sure there was more…

“The emperor Constantine took a lot of artistic license with Christianity,” he continued. “Scholars say Jesus was born anywhere from April to November, depending on whose reasoning you want to follow, but Christians celebrate His birth on December 25th. Why? ‘Cause Emperor Constantine wanted to lure people away from the festivals surrounding the Winter Solstice. So…presto! Suddenly Christ gets a new birthday that has nothing to do with reality.

“And tell me if this sounds familiar: ‘Man, born of woman, with no mortal father.’ That describes Jesus, right? Well, it’s how Merlin the magician is described, too. And Christians, who refer to Jesus as their ‘King,’ expect a Second Coming. What does that bring to mind?”

I knew what he was going to say before the words left his lips.

“It has to remind you of the legend of King Arthur; resting somewhere, hidden from the world; just waiting for the time he’ll resurrect. Both of them…Jesus and Arthur are once-and-future-kings.

“Christianity is like a shattered mirror,” Marcus concluded. “You can see partial reflections everywhere a piece falls, but you’ve all lost the bigger, original image it contained when it first started.”

His smile turned wicked. “Maybe you guys broke the mirror because you couldn’t see your own reflections anymore…

“…you know…because vampires don’t have reflections.”

And somehow, Marcus and Christianity had come full circle.

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Just bitchin', poem

A Page Turns…

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A tiny thing has vanished.

Like the barest tip of an iceberg, its disappearance signifies something much bigger. Something as vast as sorrow and as limitless as history.

Every year, no matter where I’ve lived, the weekend of Veteran’s Day will find an elderly gentleman sporting a military hat, or sometimes a chest of medals, sitting at a small table, handing out red, paper poppies in exchange for a small donation. Often these simple tokens are handed out for free when  their bright color catches a child’s wide, untutored eye. It’s just a pretty thing to them. They don’t yet know what it means.

But this year there is no table at the usual place. No poppies. No veteran.

When I asked about it, I was told that there were no more of the old school soldiers left to take on the task of dispensing poppies at this locale. They have all passed on.

So for those children who won’t see the poppies this year, know that they were the first flowers to grow among the graves of soldiers in a faraway place called Flanders.

Remember…

 

In Flanders fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row,

That mark our place; and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved, and were loved, and now we lie

In Flanders Fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders Fields.

                     —– John McCrae, 1915

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