Fascinating courtly intrigue and bloody power games set on a generation ship full of secrets―Medusa Uploaded is an imaginative, intense mystery about family dramas and ancient technologies whose influence reverberates across the stars. Disturbing, exciting, and frankly kind of mind-blowing.” ―Annalee Newitz, author of Autonomous

Thursday, February 6, 2025

Michael's Chronicles: Rummaging


I know for a fact that my brother Michael is, indeed, a rummager. I have personally observed him rummaging through thrift stores and antique shops on our roadtrips every year, and I think it's not unreasonable to assume that he also rummages when he's on the road between art shows, tucking his finds between the drums he's planning to sell. After all, rummaging is a disposition, not something that one only does when one's sister is present. 


Rummaging

I don’t know “why we’re here”
I really don’t
But as long as I am
I’m going to do some rummaging around

I’m pretty sure
I’m not looking for clues
To life’s mysteries
I’m not much of a detective

But consciousness
If we may call it that
Exposes great wonders
If that’s what one’s looking for

I have no compunction
To tell others what they are seeing
If asked I will share my view
Knowing all along about life’s parallax

How about we just get together
Over a good cup of coffee
And share some thoughts and amusements
And let the absolutists sit in the sand

I have no gripe with dogmatism
Save the tedium and bland taste inherent
In servicing some need to ignore
The glorious beauty of imagination

If life is to breathe
And I believe it should
Then perhaps we should pick our minds
Up off their duffs and take them for a little walk

Tuesday, February 4, 2025

Michael's Chronicles: End of January


A couple of friends of mine have had knee surgery recently, and one of them is having terrible, persistent pain at night (though it seems to be not so bad during the day), but the most interesting thing he told me is that the body apparently has some reactions to major surgery that no one tells you about. For instance, his sense of smell has gone AWOL. And so it is with great interest that I note my brother Michael's reference to a similar loss of smell after his heart surgery. Will either or both of them regain this sense eventually? I suspect that they will, once they've healed from the tactical outrage perpetrated upon their persons, but I'm taking notes for when I get the hip surgery I suspect I'm eventually going to need. I really like my sense of smell. It's almost as much fun as my sense of taste.


The whole Sense of Smell thing wasn't even the main point of Michael's latest installment, written while on the road to sell drums, but it has twinkled at me among all the other ideas. What twinkles at you? (Or honks? Or tweaks that sense of smell Michael doesn't currently have?)


End of January
2:30 a.m.

Here I am again. Middle of the night. Not really awake but not really asleep. I am a pillow flipper both in the real and in the allegorical sense. Looking for the cool side. Always chasing that. 

They’ve given me four at the Quality Inn this time. Four great ones. Perfect shape, size and feel to go along with the perfect shower head under which I luxuriated for way too long tonight. After all it’s their water bill and not mine. Yeah, I know, good old eco-conscious Michael assuming these guys have an efficient and functioning gray water system nourishing the local flora……. 

 

To be truthful though, I’ve been traveling for several days, and this is the first shower I’ve taken. My sense of smell was queered by the heart surgery so I can’t tell, nor do I care what I smell like. The shower decision was driven far more by tactile than olfactory preferences.

Cool sheets, cool pillows. I know I should be sound asleep if all that’s being served is a value judgement. Problem is, moments like this toss me about from pad to pad on those little ponds of self-reflection. 

I have no answers and, frankly, don’t crave them at all. Everything seems like hypothesis to me. I have no fear of not knowing. I’m simply afraid to stop asking. I know life is finite. I could have given this truth more reflection before the operation, to be frank, but I didn’t. All I could think about was the strangeness and the wonder of it all. I witnessed vast and brilliant colors as I was coming out of the anesthesia post-op. I’d heard of people’s descriptions of witnessing a bright white light when passing on from this life, only to return. Never heard of a technicolor show. Certainly not that. All I could think of was that if this was “passing,” it was pretty damn beautiful and pretty damn painless and cool. Then I heard the voices. I was waking up.

My life as an artist over the past fifty years has been arguably nomadic. I’ve turned a lot of pillows far from home. Driven a lot of back roads through small towns in quest of God knows what. I’ve talked to so many strangers that I’ve grown convinced that there really is no such thing as that. Strangers are just people I’ve not yet met. Cool sides of other pillows. 

I don’t consider myself a hoarder, but I’ve gathered large numbers of artifacts along the way. I often as not tell myself that they’ll be incorporated into some art piece, which in some cases they have been. Some of them. Most have not. Perhaps I just want them near me to remind me of the hunt. I don’t spend much time reflecting on it. 

This restlessness - this endless turning of life’s pillows in pursuit of the “cool side” - came from somewhere, I know. It is not an emulation of the “cool” envisioned by Jack Kerouac. It is merely a comfort thing with me. It makes me happy. I’m going to flip them again, nestle on in and go back to sleep. Perhaps I’ve gotten it out of my system for the moment.

Sunday, February 2, 2025

Michael's Chronicles: Ostrich


The two novels I've been working on for the past few years and my energy-sapping day job hav e conspired to keep me from writing much in this blog, but fortunately my brother Michael is feeling prolific, despite the heart surgery he had in December and a demanding art fair schedule for selling his wooden drums. The tap has been turned back on. However, the well is a bit weird . . .


Ostrich
Two A.M.
BEAUMONT, Texas 
January 29, this year (I think)

I had never seen an ostrich at the Arctic Circle. Two reasons mostly covered this truth: I’ve never been to the Arctic Circle, and I would bet no ostrich has either. This had to be a dream. As such, all bets were off. I couldn’t say how long I’d been standing there watching the ostrich and pony show (sans the horse) before I’d realized that the whole scene was pretty unlikely. I wondered for a brief moment if I had popped out of some Randy Newman song and was expected to know what to do next. No such luck. I began reasoning. As always this was a bad idea but, as in every preposterous dream I can remember having had, I forged ahead as if explaining to a group of bald faced idiots why the whole thing was highly unlikely. I could hear myself talking. I’ve been told that I talk out loud and in complete sentences during these dreams. Told by whom? Eavesdroppers, that’s whom.

Dreams are precarious enough without voyeurs watching us systematically saw off the psychic limbs upon which we are perched. Arctic Circle. Ostrich. Really? I wanted to ask him what he was doing there but I speak no Ostrich, and I couldn’t bear the thought that he (an assumption, of course, because I’m not trained to determine the sex of one of those things) might actually answer. In English. At that moment he raised his head suddenly from the ice upon which he’d been pecking and fixed me, large dark eyes and frowning brow, with what seemed for all the world to be a severe and accusing glare. The thought hit me: there I was stuck in a dream at the Arctic Circle with a large pissed off bird. The dream evolved. He suddenly broke out in uncontrollable laughter. He laughed so hard, in fact, that his knees buckled, and he keeled onto his ass and began coughing. He pointed at me. It was only then that I realized I was wearing only shorts, a T-shirt and low cut tennis shoes with no socks.

I was speechless, yet I talked on reasoning the whole thing out. I asked him what the hell he was laughing at. After all, I said, look at his skinny ass legs and feet. At least I was wearing shoes. He was not. And he, just as I, had no socks. He laughed on and pointed now at his feathers. My teeth began chattering. Hope no one was listening. Joah was in the next bed snoring, but we are in a budget motel with those notoriously thin walls. 

Suddenly the Ostrich stood up, fetched a huge Cuban cigar from between his feathers, wicked it up with an invisible match and turned away chuckling and blowing smoke rings. I felt lonely, isolated, embarrassed and - oh yeah - cold as hell. Fuck you Randy Newman. And fuck your stupid songs. I need a Rolaid. 

Saturday, February 1, 2025

Michael's Chronicles: Joah the Unjust


I wondered how long it would take my brother to start writing again after his heart surgery. Apparently not long at all. Some people get knocked for a loop for months, even years, and I don't blame them for that, but I was pretty sure Michael would make his own path. That's just what he does. Check out his site for Hardwood Music Company to see what else he does.


Joah the Unjust

As I lay on the pillow last night attempting to drift off to sleep Joah (four feet away in the next bed) lay down a fart so heavy with stench that it fell to the floor, shattered into pieces each of which sprouted little legs and scurried off to find hiding places from which it could exact olfactory vengeance upon innocent passersby. I, locked in the motel room with him, was its only victim. Things went downhill from there.

A recent survivor of open heart surgery, I was certain that I would be found dead the next morning or in some irreversibly catatonic state that would be mistaken by paramedics for a stroke. Clearly, not only uniquely venomous snakes shut down the central nervous system. As they began to burn I closed my eyes - to very little avail.

The front desk had exacted a hundred dollar damage deposit from me upon my arrival. Said it would be returned to me if, upon inspection, the room were to be found “in good condition.”. Easy come easy go. They’ll need a restoration crew in hazmat suits to deal with room 119 on the east side of the building. Can’t wait to see the bill.

Since mine was the only face the clerk encountered at check-in I know who’s going to take the blame for the peeling paint. Thanks Joah. See if I ever travel with you again.