Ray Litt

Your comment on Receding Hairline was incredibly positive, and gave me a nice push of surety in my own work. Thank you. I did not forget, and wanted to show my thanks in the only way that I know how.
          
          Have a happy 2014, and keep those words flowing!

I have a keep-in-touch deficiency.  When I move–schools, cities, states, jobs–I inadvertantly cut ties with everyone.  I don’t do it for any real reason.  I’m not a phone person to begin with, and I have a love/hate relationship with texting.
          
          Most all of my relationships end on a bad note when my feeble reciprocity tapers out.  The only ones remaining are with those that know full well and have no problem that I will disappear for years at a time. Those girls are rockstars and don’t miss a beat.  Hey, how’ve you been?  Any kids?  Still married to the same guy?  Laugh laugh laugh, I love and miss you always, talk to you in a few years.  
          
          A few things persist from the past. On parents day at sleepaway camp, my dad (a former camper.  campers understand certain things about one another) took me to my favorite dock, sat me down and had me close my eyes.  He told me to sponge up everything about the moment and keep it locked inside.  I still have the key and can allay anxiety swells with an astral projection to that dock. 
          
          But memories are fleeting and far-between.  I barely remember my home addresses and can’t give an accurate detail about high school.  I think I may be living vicariously through my characters.  They are cool and sharp and have an answer to everything.  I hope I was like that, but I doubt it.
          
          I think that’s why I have such a hard time making and keeping many relationships.  So few people connect subcutaneously, in my opinion.  Please understand that I have fun and interesting times with people everywhere, and that I genuinely appreciate them.  But some people plummet into your life at just the right angle and burn a thumbprint into your timeline.  I can count these people on one hand and I think I’m out-of-this-world lucky to have that many.  No jealousy, no resentment, no unrealistic expectations. Just awesome conversations.  What the hell else is there?

It’s a full moon tonight.
          
          I struggle with worn-out narrative tropes.   I wonder if it’s zeitgeist that drives my plot–not that it shouldn’t, but I guess I’m wondering if I’m too influenced by advertised teen interest:  Witchcraft, supernatural twists, angsty teens.  Then I remind myself of a story I wrote over 20yrs ago, in which 5 witches drive off a fullmoon-lit cliff after picking up a ‘pusher’ (drug seller?).  The heroine witch survives, forever plagued by the screams of her late friends.  A clear mashup of D.A.R.E and Christopher Pike.  Pure poetry.
          
          Forget about the tragic death.  It’s an issue I addressed in my last post.  My point is: I always did, and still really enjoy writing and reading about this stuff.  I still blow a kiss to the moon.  I still jot down mini-spells and genuinely believe that I can alleviate booboo pain with the warmth in my fingertips.  Maybe my healing power is my-kid specific, but it’s reciprocal; my 5yrold can lessen sciatica pain with the palm of her hand.  She concentrates, she is purposeful, and she takes more time than typical for a toddler tornado.  
          
          We both surround ourselves with literary and cinematic magic.  It’s only fair that magic would wriggle its way into our real lives, also.  It’s our funky interface.
          
          I’m sure a Book of Shadows lives somewhere inside all of you, too.  Leather-bound volumes of imagination portholes.  Not everyone’s fantasy library is as accessible as, say, the ScreamFest Furry who stopped at our table and inspired a virgin Google search.  But from where do you draw serenity?  Excitement?  Answers?  Connections?  Do you use magic in real life?

You know, Candyman’s stomping ground?  My elementary school was the Fred Krueger equivalent.  Without the bee swarms and groin-to-gullet dismemberment.
          
          A slumber-party viewing of Nightmare on Elm Street proved way too premature, in the form of sleep deprivation for both kids and parents.  Freddy was my Night King; that famous laugh ruled from every shadow in my bedroom.  I don’t think I spent a night alone for two years.  And when I finally got the balls to try and ride one out, surfing late night TV like a geeked-out rehabber, what knives its way through the screen but the NOES series.  It didn’t matter that it was terrible.  For me it was unadulterated horror.
          
          Our parents hired a makeup artist to show us what was up.  He came to school and alchemized 9yrold Tamar into a Savini-inspired demon.  A well-intended charity that backfired by casting a Freddy army of elementary monsters in our nightmares.  It was a miserable time for all of us.  Do you remember what kid fear is like?  Not a night-light in this universe can remedy it.
          
          Some chemical imbalance of mine birthed a determination to overcome it.  Against parental ordinance I watched and watched and watched it.  Always during the day.  The time then came to draw the blinds for a practice run-through.  I did indeed make it to the end.  I was so proud of myself for not escaping into the sun.
          
          What that did was construct a psyche catacomb from where I extract courage and serenity on my most anxious days.  Horror–the most antithetical source for peace of mind–does it for me.  Gore, gloom, moody scores and death tolls right my upside-downs.  I brought Exorcist III to Labor and Delivery, I had Rosemary’s Baby on loop during a marital crash-and-burn.
          
          What’s your favorite scary movie?  Who’s your boogeyman?

I had a small argument with someone on the phone today. When he paused to converse with someone standing-presumably-next to him, I went berserk. I have a SERIOUS problem broadcasting real life. And when someone does it for me…watch out.
          
          Writing this blog seems like a contradiction, I know. But I get to craft this the way I please. I flourish some details, leave others out. My choice. 
          
          Fellow writers will get this: it takes me forEVER to write the simplest email. When you see 'Cara, SO good to hear from you. Let's keep in touch, have dinner soon', know that it took me an hour to write. I edit it a hundred times. I can't tell you how many drafts I have in my outbox.
          
          My point is that I like to project my thoughts and purpose a certain way. And I take that seriously. So when personal stuff gets to the outside through an unfiltered conduit without my approval, I lose my sh*t. 
          
          I've been around the drama block and have reserved most details for my family. This is a Too Much Info kind of world. Some things need to be sacred. You like that last episode of Real Housewives? Super. Praying for your dying father? Doesn't seem like it should be mentioned on the same forum. I think people have lost their sense of time and place entirely. So I go overboard keeping the real stuff in my life hashtag-free.

nice to meet you.

People die, energy remains. A lot of people believe it. I'm on the fence, to be honest. I'd love (I think) to see a ghost, but I wouldn't bet anything important on it being possible. 
          
          However...I don't feel comfortable inheriting trinkets. For the same supposed energy. Thrift shops, neighbor street-donations--I take things, but I feel strange about it. 
          
          Have you seen The Conjuring? First, that was a VERY scary film. A child purchases a box (within which is a dybuk--a Jewish, malevolent spirit) at a yard sale. Horror and mayhem ensue. Excellently acted, unique take on possession mythology. 
          
          Against all cynicism, I think it can be true. 
          
          Hear me out: implanting energy is an innately human talent. We leave impressions on each other--memories, emotion, influence..if we apply the same mental affection to, say, a necklace, or a stone, wouldn't the implant remain indefinitely? What if that affection was born in anger? Desperation? Fear? What does that mean for subsequent owners? 
          
          As a preteen, I once soaked a pouch-ful of stones in a bowl of water and rose petals overnight. To 'clean' them. I may have gotten that from the Secret Circle, or something. 
          
          Anyway, 20+ years later, they still smell like roses. I didn't even remember my witchy cleanse until I opened it a long time afterward. One whiff, I remembered it clear as day. Isn't that crazy?
          
          So I have a grandfather clock in my kitchen that a neighbor left for trash. I couldn't pass it up, but now I'm scared to go in the kitchen. And I'm convinced that if I spend too much time around it, I'll end up killing my cat.
          
          I'm just kidding, Mallory. I love you.

I never felt quite right in higher-level English Lit. People were so brilliant: bespectacled philosophers of all ages were plentiful and had deeper understanding of the coursework than I. I didn't know to laugh at their jokes and dreaded getting into a conversation. Peer review was a nightmare for me. It made me want to run like my arse was on fire to the nearest ESOL class, five minutes prior having believed I'd written an A+ report. I was intimidated by my classmates.
          
          But NOW. I love those people now. It has much to do with being older and feeling more comfortable in my own skin. Not being afraid to ask questions or sound like a doofus. Artists are scrumptious sources of inspiration and entertainment. Talking with one is like jumping into a short story. The smarter the better.
          
          Spooky Empire's Screamfest (look it up--it's NOT Halloween Horror Nights) was this past weekend. I can't begin to describe the gloriousness of its patrons. Fully dedicated, head-to-toe costumed horror lovers, there simply to pay respect to it's family and seek out new talent. 
          
          My fellow exhibitors were equally wonderful. There were a few prima-donnas (the caricaturist with an encyclopedia of dirty looks for anyone disturbing his creative space, the comic-hound insanely protective of his display), but mostly they were awesome. 
          
          What having an explosive imagination does is bump you into needing to express it. When gumption eventually manifests--or when the right people fall out of the sky and into your life--you take a chance promoting it. Enter the vortex of characters: fascinating entrepreneurs rolling up sleeves, creating new hallways for the zeitgeist honeycomb. I adore them. 
          
          One day I'll quit work and write full time. I don't need to balance creativity with a blazer and high heels. I'm good walking at an angle.

I'm having a food mood swing. 
          
          I love meat. I love meat bloody. I like to chew the gristle when I'm done with meat. I'll order twenty wings for myself without pause. I've been a happy carnivore for thirty years…until now.
          
          I'm having a food mood swing. I'll admit to having felt guilt before this--it's a hard thing to be an animal lover and animal eater. How to reconcile when I'm not stranded on an island and forced to hunt? Recently, that guilt took space on my shoulder and fired a moral shotgun into my ear. The same chicken wings came with a flash of cruel imagery--cages, blood, pain…I can't cook eggs for the kids without suppressing a sob. I'm a wimp.
          
          I'm not saying I won't have meat again someday, so I won't get preachy about it. I've done minimal research (don't have the stomach) and have limited fact-ammo so won't take up a picket, but for musing's sake: isn't it just one of the most awful things we do? As humans, shouldn't we treat animals well? What's the benefit to not? My jury's still out on an afterlife and judgement gate, but it's hard to deny that evil has residual consequence. Do we really want to put that torture out in the universe? If we simply don't want to be good just for the sake of being good, let's be mindful of a very good principle: 
          
          Ever mind the rule of three, what ye send out comes back to thee.

I had the moment at Disney. The one where all stress flees and leaves only happiness. I didn't know that was still possible. I watch the kids embark on mini-adventures via whatever's available--dolls, spoons, pencils--and am sure it's an unacheivable high. Even at my calmest I'm suppressing a tooth grind. Bills, books, laundry, failure…I lose my mind at least five times a day. I've come to accept that as adulthood.
          
          But is it? Might unadulterated happiness be attainable in your thirties? And must the catalyst be a $15K firework show? Close proximity to Hogsmeade and a Dippin' Dots concession stand? 
          
          It may be possible, friends. I'll tell you what: it was magical. It was the simplest my thoughts have been since I wondered how NKOTB would ever make it if Donnie left the band. 
          
          It's my new go-to. When I feel that horror coming on--buyer remorse on the pound of dehydrated green beans, anxiety over whether I really deserve 2-ply, daymares of alien war--I inhale the moment at Disney. I wish I'd had it captured on film.