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This building on the island of Procida, Italy, reminds me of 28 Barbary Lane for some reason.
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Yves Saint Laurent owned a garden in Marrakech, Morocco, known as حديقة ماجوري, or Le Jardin Majorelle, where he would go to be inspired and alone, to think.
Everyone knows what his thoughts looked like. Sometimes he would show what those thoughts sounded like, though, by writing.
( Click here for more )
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Here's a
review that has
some really nice things to say
about my short story,
"As Sweet By Any Other Name"
from
Best Gay Romance 2009:
"...If I had to pick a favorite amongst the stories here, it would be a tie between Adult by Natty Soltesz, an hilarious and occasionally sexy excerpt of the life of a recent high school graduate working as a porno clerk in the town of Groom, Pennsylvania, and As Sweet by Any Other Name, by Mark G. Harris. That last story is about a delightfully bitter, love-stung guy called Ralph and his friend Yolanda, who tries to set him up with a blind date, to his dismay. It's a story about friendship as well as love; it's sweet and real, and it might me believe that yes, you can meet love like that. It happens every day. Even if you’re bitter and a bit slow."
You can
click on this link
to read
the full review:
The Short Review by Stefani Nellen
I managed to type
this entry
with a blown mind.
I didn't do too badly,
if I do say so
myself. : )
(wow-w-w-w-w...)
Edit: Here's a review written by writer 'Nathan Burgoine, which says:
"...For me, the two tales that stole the show were Jay Mandal's "Chiaroscuro" and Mark G. Harris' "As Sweet by Any Other Name." Mandal's beautiful progression through a relationship born, bloomed, and fallen, and the connection to a younger generation, was a delight to read. Harris' doughty ability to spin prose with a sly humor turns even the wounded and love-shy hero of his tale into someone you admire, and his witty plot leaves you grinning."
: )
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In the romantic short story
I wrote called,
"As Sweet By Any Other Name"
there's a treehouse...
...where two men
meet while working
on the treehouse
as a community project.
Is it heady stuff?
I use convoluted
in relation to a body feature,
if that's any indicator.
I wanted to use
doughty elsewhere
but my editor's
red pen said,
"Aw, hayull naw,"
and I still haven't
quite gotten over it.
[sniff]
There was a treehouse in my childhood, too. A treehouse; a farm for a couple of years complete with private lake and rushing creek; puppy after puppy; a bike... you know, a childhood with such ingredients should have produced the local pipe-smoking font of knowledge/mayor/sherriff/doctor shucking peanuts at the general store. Instead you got me. Feeling cheated, yet?
We built the treehouse. My mother drove me and my brother and sister to an abandoned house nearby, both for lumber and because it was 1975 and dumpster-diving had yet to become a fad and we had to do something for crying out loud.
The abandoned house looked a bit like the one featured in that R.E.M. video, or the finale of that movie that scared me.
I sometimes think nothing is creepier than an abandoned house.
Then I get a good look at John Davidson.
Anyway, it was while building our treehouse that I fell out of it and landed flat on my stomach on a floor of orange hard packed clay and tree roots. I'm lucky I didn't bite my tongue off. The air in my lungs expelled involuntarily in one large- or medium-size rush. Who else has had the air knocked out of him or her? show of hands? isn't it weird?
I might have featured a treehouse in my short story in order to exorcize some of the unpleasant, for me, psychological associations... because treehouses are neat-o and everyone likes them and I ought to be allowed to like them, too, all nice and unhindered and such.
But I'm no shrink, in addition to being
no font of knowledge/mayor/sherriff/doctor.
"As Sweet By Any Other Name"
(by me!)
can be found in
Best Gay Romance 2009.
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More fun stuff from
Edith Head...
I post this
for two reasons.
1) Because it's
beautiful and camp
at the same time,
which is nigh impossible
to achieve.
2) Because
David Puterbaugh
didn't use his
Edith Head
User Photo
yesterday
in comments,
and I've been
miserable about
that ever since.
Ooo, wait.
Hang on;
I need
to jam
for a sec:
If you wanna hang out
you've got to
take her out,
Miss Head.
If you wanna get down
[umph!]
down on the ground,
Miss Head.
She don't lie she don't lie she don't
lie...
[total silence]
...Miss Head.
( More! )
There. That ought to scare
an Edith Head
User Photo
out of David
Puterbaugh.
I've know him
so long,
and we're in
an anthology together...
I almost feel
like calling him
"Dave Puterbaugh."
You know, like some
guest on a talk show,
ankle crossed over knee,
corduroy lapels spread to
reveal chest hair and
gold medallion
to the late-nite
American
television viewer...
...saying stuff like,
"Yeah, I
was dunebuggying
with Nick Cage
the other day."
...or,
"Chris Atkins
thew this far-out
luau the other night."
It's enough
to make me
wonder if
I could
get away with
uttering, 'Than Burgoine.
: )
In other
news,
my computer needs
a new mouse.
grumblegrumblegrumble
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| » Mail call |
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Listen up, mes anges.
Of late,
and of no
real importance to you,
of coffee I've been
drinking. See?
...whaddup, Abigail! Oh, that miserable
end...
It says it contains
half the caffeine.
But I drink two cups in
the morning, to
get the full dosage.
See how that works?
I'm tapping my forehead.
Now that I have your attention, here's what some rascals did to me.
In yesterday's mail I received
a hardback copy of
Fool for Love. [Click me]
Inside I found the precious autographs of:
Timothy J. Lambert and Becky Cochrane
David Puterbaugh
Shawn Anniston
Famous Author Rob Byrnes
Trebor Healey
Jeffrey Ricker
'Nathan Burgoine
Greg Herren
Included in the envelope was a placecard
with my name on it. It was from the
reading I was supposed to attend,
but couldn't.
It's hard to describe what seeing that
did to my emotions. If it were easy do
you think I'd be running off at the mouth
about coffee? No, I wouldn't.
...what might've been. I don't have to tell you about
that, Abigail, now do I...?
Who's responsible for doing this to me? I'll find out. And
I'll find you heathens. I'll know just where to look,
too, since clearly you're all going to heaven.
Thank you. : )
(Also, I got the freaky voodoo stuff, Lisa. Kiss.)
May. 28th, 2009 @ 10:09 am
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| » I've been in the same room with a star |
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Henry the boxer, limited engagement, appearing nightly in Fool for Love: New Gay Fiction.
May. 23rd, 2009 @ 02:35 am
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| » More about "Love Taps" |
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There's a lot of fucking good music mentioned in "Love Taps," my short story in Fool for Love: New Gay Fiction. It goes like a little something like this. A-one-and-a-two-and-a...
( Hit it! )
Apr. 30th, 2009 @ 11:05 am
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| » "Love Taps" |
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I thought I'd talk a little about my short story, which appears in Fool for Love: New Gay Fiction.
My story's called, "Love Taps,"
and a couple of my dolls are here to illustrate, in a tasteful manner, of course.
( More about Love Taps here! )
Apr. 27th, 2009 @ 12:04 am
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| » Root-job |
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Before Barbie there was Bild Lilli.
Before "Material Girl" there was "Diamonds Are A Girl's Best Friend."
(And before this entry about the oldest book I own came Becky Cochrane's entry, the charm of a book that apologizes for itself, while we're occupied with citing which-came-first.)
The predecessor to all of these and more came to life aboard a train in the 1920s, when a young and pretty brunette noticed that the men were too busy to help her with her luggage-- too busy assisting an equally young and pretty woman with her things, a woman with blonde hair....
( More! )
Jun. 10th, 2008 @ 01:11 am
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| » Poetic navigators |
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Among the many writers who I recently shared oxygen and square-footage with at this year's Saints & Sinners Literary Festival in New Orleans were two I'd never met.
He's Robert McDonald. She's Kathie Bergquist. I'm the clod who took their picture, but you knew that already.
Together they wrote A Field Guide to Gay & Lesbian Chicago:
For those planning a trip to Chicago (Hey, Lisa!), this guide is the very thing for tracking down all the big shoulders which that toddlin' town is famed for, according to Carl Sandburg.
But don't listen to him. Don't listen to me, either. I haven't had the pleasure of visiting. The only thing I know is it's allegedly windy there. It's blithering idiots like me that make a book like this the more preferable source of information, and a Chi-Town-bound traveler's essential reading.
Further essential reading, for me, was the poem Dear November, which I found by Googling the words "Robert McDonald" and "poetry." Now that I've read it, I ought to try Googling the words "brief," "brilliant," "beautifully captured" and "moment," just to see if I again am returned, via the Internet, to Dear November or not. Those who've read the poem know that this is quite likely.
As much of a thrill as it is, meeting good-vibey and thoughtful writers, it's also nice to meet two people who are friendly and tactful enough to refrain from snickering when I "boast my blog" and ask to photograph them and end up pulling my cellphone out of my shorts' pocket to achieve the feat.
May. 26th, 2008 @ 12:24 pm
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| » Spinetingler |
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Get a grip, Chanse, get a hold of yourself, don't go into that dark place
~from page 174 of Greg Herren's Murder In The Rue Chartres:
Oh, Chanse is going to go there, all right, and thrilled readers, like me, get to go there with him, no matter how much we cower at the prospect.
I've tagged along in main character, stud and private detective Chanse MacLeod's footsteps before, in Murder In The Rue Dauphine and in Murder In The Rue St. Ann, and this third trip was no less "a trip."
Seeing the movie is one thing, but reading the chapters of Margaret Mitchell's Gone With The Wind, that detail the ravages done to Clayton County during Scarlett's slow wagon ride from a still-smoldering Atlanta to what she hopes is her still-standing home, spooked me enough to cause a lump in my throat. Those solemn chimneys...
One thing the author of these mysteries is dynamite at is atmosphere, and the opening chapters of his latest book were just as spooky as Mitchell's, to me. He's taken me away from the lush strings of New Orleans' former party, and stranded me in the newly devastated cityscape of post-Katrina, with pizzicato dissonance as the scratchy and warped soundtrack.
Emphasis is placed right where it should be, to my thinking, in a mystery-- right on my spine. The writing, in the novel, is the sort that made my mind's timid voice yell at Chanse to turn around and not pursue unraveling his mystery, particularly during the final scenes, which spin madly to the sort of climax unsettled by the movement, mood-lighting, and sensations of terror.
For more, and to read Greg Herren's true pre- and post-Katrina accounts, visit ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) scottynola's Live Journal.
Jan. 11th, 2008 @ 02:09 am
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| » ...a very strange, enchanted boy... |
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This is to document a journey down the street I took, today. It's photo-intensive--20 pictures-- and might bog your computer down, so it's up to you if you want to go further. If you're at all squimish about cemeteries, or don't like people poking a little fun at the dead, you might want to skip this one as well. Ye Be Warned.
( more )
Jun. 23rd, 2007 @ 12:14 am
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| » I can't believe I know her |
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Romance was born thousands of years ago, on a Thursday, I think, and chivalry on the following Saturday. It is still alive to tickle and protect my heart, as exemplified with flair by this: http://www.amazon.com/Coventry-Christmas-Becky-Cochrane/dp/0821780425/sr=8-1/qid=1163354388/ref=pd_bbs_sr_1/102-9374848-0957736?ie=UTF8&s=books
Becky Cochrane, who stops by here and warms the place up periodically, is one of the current torchbearers, but she wields it a little differently than I'm used to, with an arch manipulation of language I can't help but dig. Put "various" and "nefarious," not only in the same sentence, but side-by-side, and I'll label you arch. Do with that piece of info what you will.
During a scene at the vet's, the main character, Keelie, is confronted by the sight of a young, handsome Texas horse doctor, and experiences a moment's pause while discussing her hamster's bedding: "' I usually use shredded toilet paper.' Wait. That sounded wrong. Keep going. He knows you meant for the hamster." Devilry.
I was reading this book in an earlier entry, the one with my clodhoppers, and its timing couldn't have been better. A good book is rarely late, though, it's usually us stupid readers. I haven't scratched the surface of what makes this book (arch) good, but that's what bookstores are for, and I wish this thing mileage to reach hearts not born yet, the way romances older than me patiently still wait. Becky, if you're reading this, a quick question. That quill you write with is a dangerous viper of subversion masquarading as sweetness and light, and I want to know: where can I buy one?
By the way, I wonder how many Fern Michaels fans will experience a happy accident in the coming months and years....
Edit: It sounds like I'm wishing something sinister on Fern Michaels' fans. I'm sure you know I meant, I wonder how many of them will experience the happy accident of bringing home this book instead of Fern's.
Oct. 24th, 2006 @ 10:28 pm
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