I LOVE IT, even though we have no furniture or lights.
I am seriously Jet lagged but happy -AND – I LUCID DREAMED last night- or rather today -it’s 11:00 pm here now-
I had to go to the police station to get fingerprinted ( just part of immigration:)at 10:00- got home around 2 and slept till 8. WHICH is when I lucid dreamed and am so excited! I have been trying to for years.
What do dreams and AI art have in common- (And why did the chicken cross the road?)
One way you know you’re lucid dreaming is to look at your hands because your mind can’t get your hands right in dreams – silly mind.
And one way to tell if Art is AI is to look at the hands because AI can’t get hands right –
I think this is really interesting (although no one else seems to:)
There’s a story in there somewhere.
And talking of stories… my novel, Gods & Monsters is coming out at last-
it was held by Tor for 2 @#$%^&* years!
The wonderful MetaStellar is serializing it over 44 weeks!
I’m narrating each section and illustrating it.
We are planning to start February 27th, so stay tuned- or tune in … or something.
here are some of the illustrations:
Mr. Max is adjusting nicely. He lived in Mexico for three years so already speaks Spanish. He doesn’t know Catalan, but is fluent in Cat.
Submissions to the 2024 Washington DC Science Fiction Association (WSFA) Small Press Award are now open!
They’ll close on March 31, 2024 at 11:59pm.
The award showcases the best original short fiction published by small presses in the previous year (2023). A small press is defined as a hard copy print or web publication house releasing no more than 45 titles a year, or periodicals with a circulation of fewer than 10,000.
Small Press’ can nominate three stories, writers can submit one.
All identifying information must be removed.
The winner is chosen by the members of WSFA and presented at Capclave (www.capclave.org), on September 27-29, 2024 in Rockville, MD.
I have a poetry group of 5 women- now 6–(we just inducted Tara Campbell into our sect- and a very fine addition she is)
I give a prompt and they send me lines which I weave together- and we just sold our first poem!
“Black Unicorn” to Star*Line.
We are @Addison, Flores, Goyan, King & Wong lawyers for the criminally poetic.
We will prosecute your Word crimes.
We are ambulance chasers of the soul.
No upfront fees
Contingency only until we get ahold of your trust –
And your trust account.
But the law is the word, or verse a visa with @Addison, Flores, Goyan, King & Wong.
THIS BRINGS US TO A QUESTION!
how do we divide the spoils?
The payment question (insert evil laugh and manic hand rubbing here )
AHA this whole idea was simply a plot to get rich off of the words of Addison, Campbell, Flores, Goyan, King & Wong. (and with ideas like these you will understand why I’m broke.)
It’s 4 cents a word.
I’ll let Linda D Addison do the math- She has a BA in Carnegie- fucking – Mellon in MATH! – If that’s not intimidation I don’t know what is
I was one of two Winners of the Art Contest: “Expressions of Gender Equity and Feminism”, organized by the Community Art Channel.
Because of this they awarded me a solo (online) show, both as a youtube and on google! They did a beautiful job and I’m so grateful to them. I’m so used to people trying to scam artists – or in some way benefit from/off them.
I had a crazy trip to LA which involved losing a tooth (very careless I know.) and two auto accidents.
On the way down I was rear ended- and on the way up I spun out on black ice and went wheeling across the freeway.
I’m fine though- packing for Spain! We leave on January 31st.
Max- helping pack.
And I have begin narration for my book, Gods & Monsters which will be serialized and published by MetaStellar this year!
here’s a tiny piece to peak your interest:
“Lake Merritt is a tidal lagoon east of downtown Oakland.
Long before man walked these shores, unnamed streams ran along redwood shores into an estuary. The streams were home to spawning salmon. And on moonless nights, you can sometimes still see a few pellucid salmon seeking lost gravel beds, listening to a song deep within their genes.
“I can see back to a time when grizzly bear and elk roamed the hills. Seals, sea otters and gray whales were common. The Ohlone fished, hunted, and gathered food along its shores. You would have loved it then. But people do not like the untamed things of this earth.
“By 1810, the last Ohlone had been relocated to Mission San José to serve the holy fathers. The Ohlone did not take well to captivity. They vanished like stars above city lights, perishing even more quickly than the wild creatures on the shores. Today they are ghosts, visible only beneath a dark star light, or a new moon.
“In 1849, Dr. Samuel Merritt came west searching gold. He combed the streams and broke stones looking for hidden veins of treasure. He found none. Some men succumb to despair, others mine their strength.
“The lucky may find gold, and the meek may inherit the earth,” he said, “But not the water rights. Water is more precious than gold.”
“Dr. Merritt formed the Oakland Waterfront Company. Soon he controlled the entire shoreline. He built a grand house on the estuary.
“By 1867, Dr. Merritt was mayor of Oakland. By 1869 he had built a dam, creating the lake that still bears his name.
“The lake had thick wetlands fringing the shore. Its fertile, shelter attracted large numbers of migratory birds. The birds in turn attracted equally large numbers of hunters.
“Dr. Merritt didn’t enjoy the retort of weapons so close to his home. He didn’t like the shores of his lake stained with feathers. The scent of blood was more pungent than the climbing yellow roses curving over his doorway.
“In 1896, he declared the lake a wildlife refuge. A year later the state made it official. It was the first game sanctuary in North America.
“Some say, that on dark, still nights, nights when the moon is new or hidden by fog, Merritt can still be seen, walking the shores, gently puffing a cigar and surveying his creation.
“Like the migrating birds, People flocked to Oakland. Creeks became drains. Lake Merritt became a harbor for the necessities of nature. Sewage flowed into the arms of the lake covering it like a shawl across bare shoulders. The stench was terrible.
“The bloated bodies of Bass, once so plentiful they could be scooped from the Lake by hand, floated belly up on the calm waters and ringed the shores.
“Finally, the stink was too much to bear. City officials built new pipes, sending the sewage around the Lake directly, deeply into the bay. All sewage flows to the sea and yet it is not full, at least not yet.
“Without its burden of waste, Lake Merritt began to cleanse itself.
“A park circles the lake. It’s still as mirror, reflecting the recombinant juniper which edge the shores like twisted ropes, above them, white, green, and gold art deco apartments rise like imperial angels.
“You would like it River, seeing the resident small, back coot plunge beneath the surface like miniature submarines shattering the still water. Watching the gulls soar overhead, battle midair for scraps.
“Long necked, black-headed Canada Geese, float on the placid surface. Thirty years ago, people would flock from miles around to admire the stately Canada Goose, but now they are considered noisy messy irritants. Feeding is prohibited. Neighbors plot to drive them away. Preservationists destroy their nesting grounds. They are once-rare flowers, become weeds.
“Exotics have never bothered me much. Things travel and spread, always have, always will. Funny, that the most invasive species there is makes it their cause to combat aliens.
“If you visited the lake River, you might have given them with rolls so crunchy they would have never squawked again. They would have followed you silent as white cheeked shadows. But you remained in the city and the geese remained a nuisance.
“The fish, lizards and salamanders hiding beneath rocks and foliage, don’t mind the Canada geese. They would, however, if they could eradicate the Black-crowned Night Heron, who crouch secretly in the shadows, skewering minnows, and reptiles with dagger sharp beaks.
“Tall eucalyptus tower round parts of the lake. Like vampires, eucalyptus arrived during the Gold Rush. And like the vampires, eucalypts do not decay.
“Great and Snowy Egrets, white as dreams with serpentine necks and long questing beaks nest in eucalyptus, but songbirds find no purchase. They cannot make cavities for nesting in the firm eternally youthful wood. Short-billed birds poking for beetles or worms suffocate, their nostrils clogged with pitch.
“Like geese, the eucalyptuses have become pests. Residents wish them gone. Some have even smuggled in Australian insects to attack them. But, like the trees, like the geese, like the vampires, the bugs always prefer exotic sources of food.
“Black Cormorant reside at the lake year-round. Unlike most diving birds Cormorant do not have waterproof feathers. When they emerge from the water they perch, they extend their wings outward to dry, giving them the nick name Jesus Christ Birds.
“They are so buoyant they must eat pebbles to dive. In Japan, fishermen bind their necks with metal rings to prevent them from swallowing and scoop fish from their sealed throats.
“If an Ohlone’s guardian spirit was a Cormorant, he’d possess a knack for accomplishing what others could not. Cormorants are feathered reminders to dive without hesitation. But now the Ohlone have vanished, and the cormorants have been transformed from totems to fishhooks.
“It’s easier not to mourn the disappearance of the wild and the taming of the estuary when you can see the future as clearly as the past. I can see the concrete and metal collapse and crumble. Slowly, the lake will resume her old form, her true form, a creature of the tides, a mingling of fresh water and salt tears. The salmon will run again and the spirits of the Ohlone and elk will wander the shores.
“Of course, I also see its damming again, that is the way with circles, they never end. We can’t stop them where we want to. Space curves, even as we walk forward.”
Next year I have a novel, Gods & Monsters, being serialized, illustrated and narrated in segments by me, E.E. King
“The Miwok and Ohlone who inhabited California thought that the redwoods housed evil spirits,” a voice in the wind says. “They wouldn’t live beneath the towering giants that kept sun and stars from shining on them. They feared the perpetual twilight of the forest. The dampness crept into their dreams. The wind was trapped in the giant branches, sounding like unseen monstrosities. They preferred the rocky coasts full of sun and seafood, or the open oak lands where they could see approaching food or danger.”
But River is not afraid; he feels protected in the redwoods’ shadow. They are love without argument, relationship without compromise. They climb up toward heaven reaching the stars, straight and unafraid. Under their boughs, he is part of the earth. He likes the constant evening, feeling most comfortable at the vespertine hour when dawn kisses night. He loves the rich damp moss, the mushrooms lurking in shadows, stained with lurid colors, a warning to hungry mouths that they might be deadly.
Hi! Happy holidays to everyone, whatever holidays you celebrate – or even if you don’t celebrate any holidays at -all celebrate life!
Great advice from me !
Also, great advice for me.
I’m like Alice in wonderland -Alice often gave herself good advice, and seldom took it.
It’s easier to give advice, isn’t it?
Well – I said I would try to blog once a week, so I am . Yay me.
Today I’m going to offer you more snippets of wisdom.
First – if you’re trying to take a pet to Europe, it’s hard. You should start planning at least three months in advance. They have their own microchip system so you have to get their microchip put in your pet even if your pet has a microchip.
Then you have to get a rabies shot even if your pet is up-to-date on rabies shots. And lastly, you need to get a vet check up two weeks before you go.
Then they have to send the vet form to San Francisco (if you’re in the west) that is because there are only two vets for the entire United States who can certify the forms! This was changed recently, there used to be a lot more. But if you’re on the West Coast, everything needs to go to San Francisco and it will take them at least 10 days to get them back to you, which is very scary because it’s such a tight window before flight.
Here is Max preparing for the trip .
Yes. he has his own heater.
This isn’t Max, but the sentiment is the same.
I got a painter commission which is great, but really tight timing. Here is the beginning of my painting.
I’ve got some stories coming out soon, which is always nice.
Also, a book of mine, Gods & Monsters, that has been a long time and making it out into the light of day, is finally going to be coming out this next year. It’s going to be serialized on Metastellar. https://www.metastellar.com/author/ee-king/
Funny to say, the light of day, as it takes place mostly at night.
Each section will be illustrated and narrated by me. Hooray. I hope you will listen. or read it. I hope you like it and buy it and review it.
There are strange teeth in the story-hence the image below.
As I mentioned, I have a couple of other books that were tied up with a really bad man/publisher. Dan Kalin of Feral Cat Publishing was claiming that he and his daughter, Sarah Kalin, were the authors of my book!
I contacted the distributors, and they took the book down. After some bullying about sending me to prison, because that’s the kind of guy he is, Mr. Kalin gave me back my book. So Authors, if you get taken advantage of in this way, consider going straight to the distributors.
And lastly, here’s a Christmas story for you. If you enjoy it, of course, please comment and share and do all that great stuff it was so helpful
I’m pasting the beginning in hopes it will entice you enough to read this short Christmas tale.
“This year I got a gig as a Che Guevara Christmas Elf at Happy Family Skating Rink. My friend plays a Chairman Mao elf. We don’t really have to do anything but glide around and look cheerful.
It’s a new kind of Christmas, more modern, more edgy. Most of the kids have no idea who we’re supposed to be. They wave and point, as if we were Goofy, or Pluto.
Mao’s got it tougher than I do. Our employer, Margi, scion of Happy Family Skating Rink, is very “into authenticity,” so Mao has to skate around in the classic “Mao suit,” which has a long jacket and is difficult to move in.
Margi dots her name with a happy face, “Just like Happy Family!” she says.
Margi is home from college for Christmas, where she’s been studying new media, which is a lot like old media, but more irritating.
“Having Che and Mao as our Christmas elves is all the new aesthetic!” Margi squeals.
I don’t think Margi knows who Mao or Che were, but she sure knows what they wore… “
Nothing quite says Xmas like Mao!
Happy Holidays and have a fabulous, healthy, happy 2024!
PS. I am pasting Max’s journal from 2023 below:
The Journal of Max the Cat -2023
First of all, I wish to be known that I max the cat have come to Bonaire against my will. Catnapped if you will, without consulting me. The authorities never consult. Usually, they just dump me somewhere.
Catnapped! It’s very different from kidnapped…
Don’t let me talk about babies on airplanes.
I would have joined my voice in protest with their cries, but I’m drowsy, and woozy and too tired to howl. Why, because the large ones have DRUGGED me. Again.
I’m not fond of children at the best of times.
We have come to Bonaire I am told, to go diving and work on coral restoration. I hate coral.
I would’ve been content to stay in Utah even though I don’t like the white sky flakes.
When they fall on the front patio, I run downstairs to check if they’re there too.
Then I run upstairs and cry at the front door until the authorities open it to see if they’re falling in the front too.
Then I repeat the route one more time, just to make sure there’s no door into the sunshine.
Be careful what you wish for. We’re in a sunny place now, but it’s all strange.
I croak my unhappiness to the world in protest.
Dutch Spca!!!
2 1/2 months ago I was catnapped and taken to Bonaire against my will. There is no catnip and no greenies here! The authorities have had to order it from the USA. How barbaric the Dutch are!
Still, I have grown to like it here. I think it’s Stockholm syndrome.
There’s good birdwatching. The Dutch have OK cat food with lots of gravy.
I am now ready to go explore the night.
I call to the authorities, singing the song of my people – people- or rather cats- who need to be free to explore the night. When they rise, I run with my tail way up toward the door, plainly showing them what I need.
But still, they ignore me. I think this calls for a case of intervention from the Dutch SPCA.
Today the catnip arrived. The authorities were as proud as they’d grown it themselves. But it was too early in the day for me, I’m no addict. So, I ignored it and refused to go near my scratching post until a civilized hour for imbibing, 2:00 am.
Then, after a few exciting races around the apartment, I called the authorities to feed me.
It took forever! So, when they wanted me to come to bed, I hid in my cat carrier, someplace I have never gone willingly before, and watch them search.
I especially love it when they invoke the aid of deities they claim not to believe in. All in all, a pretty good day.
I was happily living in my home in Bonaire enjoying the fine Dutch gravy cat food, watching the birds, and spending the night looking at the glass through my Dutch rodent friends and figuring out how to kill them.
When, with no warning, consultation, or consideration the authorities drugged me and locked me into a small, black box. It was like a coffin with windows and treats! Then we went on a plane. Again.
I hate planes! Even though she’d drugged me, one of the authorities pretended to comfort me by holding me on her lap. Even though I was drugged, I managed to pee on her lap and made her sit in it for the entire trip!
Then we went on another plane. though offered litter boxes, I held it till on the second trip the authorities picked up my box and pretended to try to comport me again!
I peed on them again, just to freshen up the scent.
Then, at about 4am, just when it was just time for me to be waking up they drugged me again. I think they are trying to kill me.
They piled me into a car for when I should’ve been playing with my Dutch rodents.
It was hard to fight sleep, but I did.
I sang them the song of my people for four hours straight, all the way to where they are now keeping me captive.
I believe it’s a place where hardened criminals are sent to repent before they die. It’s called La Jolla. Please help!
I promised to blog daily and have realized that ain’t gonna happen.
So now I’m scaling back to once a week.
What’s up?
I am rolling up paintings to take to spain and for a secret project here in the states. It’s a LOTTA rolls.
I placed second in an art contest yesterday and they are giving me a solo show online!
I had a xmas story come out – and today I’m thrilled to have a piece on the TERRIFYING NO SLEEP podcast- the podcast is for the paid members only so I can’t share it here.
This year I got a gig as a Che Guevara Christmas Elf at Happy Family Skating Rink. My friend plays a Chairman Mao elf. We don’t really have to do anything but glide around and look cheerful.
It’s a new kind of Christmas, more modern, more edgy. Most of the kids have no idea who we’re supposed to be. They wave and point, as if we were Goofy, or Pluto.
Mao’s got it tougher than I do. Our employer, Margi, scion of Happy Family Skating Rink, is very “into authenticity,” so Mao has to skate around in the classic “Mao suit,” which has a long jacket and is difficult to move in.
Margi dots her name with a happy face, “Just like Happy Family!” she says.
Margi is home from college for Christmas, where she’s been studying new media, which is a lot like old media, but more irritating.
“Having Che and Mao as our Christmas elves is all the new aesthetic!” Margi squeals.
I don’t think Margi knows who Mao or Che were, but she sure knows what they wore.
The collar of my olive-drab army fatigues is left open, practically to my naval. Margi considered having me leave it completely unbuttoned, but luckily my physique wasn’t up to her standards. At least I get to cover my ears and face with hair and wear a beret. Poor Mao doesn’t even get to cover his ears.
“Note the boxy cut, short collar and single layer of fabric. So authentic!” Margi yips. She pronounces auth-en-tic like it’s three words.
Mao’s more popular than I am. His round, flushed face seems jollier, more Christmas-y. Parents, holding skittering toddlers in each arm, turn to point and wave.
“Look Josh, look at…” they say, losing confidence halfway through the sentence.
On Sunday the rink is crowded. Mao is having trouble staying upright. His jacket is too tight and he’s not a very good skater. Margi had to take what she could get. Mao (a.k.a. Tommy) was the only Asian who applied. In fact, he was the only person who applied. She was lucky to get a male Mao.
A small, blonde princess twirls past Mao, her arabesque whacking him smartly in the back of his knees. Mao sways and topples, falling beneath the shining blades of an enormous woman in red spandex. She skates over his thumb. Blood spurts onto the ice like an animated Rorschach test.
Mao stumbles to his feet amongst huge applause. The families think this is part of the act. They have seen so many bogus butcheries they don’t recognize the real thing.
The mother of the pink, twirling princess motions her over to snap a photo with Christmas Mao. I don’t think she has any idea that this jolly, red-faced, bleeding-thumbed man is supposed to be the architect of the Great Leap Forward, which killed about forty-five million people in four years.
But maybe I malign her. Maybe she knows, but doesn’t care.
Today I am called into the office. Margi has her iPhone out. That is a bad sign.
“Look,” she yelps. “There were twenty-five Instagrams of Mao on our rink posted today and none of Che! Now what is Che going to do to make more of an impression?”
I hate it when she talks to me in the third person.
“Maybe I could slice off my finger?”
“That is so — whatever.” She flips her hand outward. Her voice does not lilt upward. This is not a question. It lingers like a foghorn on a cloudy night.
“Or — wait —” I say. “How about if I skate around saying famous Che quotes?”
Her eyes narrow, which either means she’s thinking, or that some Styrofoam snow from the great, flashing Teflon tree has drifted into her tear ducts.
“Like what?” she says.
All I can think of is, religion is the opium of the people, and I don’t think that’s Che.
“I’ll google it,” I say.
The next day I blade around crying out, “Democracy is not compatible with financial oligarchy!”
A couple of goth teens give a ragged cheer, but mostly I’m ignored.
Mao gets toppled by a toddler, bloodies his nose and is applauded. I wonder if he’s doing it on purpose. I consider casting myself under the blades of a skinny four-year-old, but lack the nerve.
“Maybe you could try caroling his quotes?” Margi suggests.
On Saturday I slide around humming, to the tune of “God rest ye Merry Gentlemen”:
Bet-TER to diiiie sta-an-ding than to live-ive on your kneeees.
It’s a sad thing not to have friend-end-ends, but even sadder not to have enemies.
I am not Christ, I fight for the things I believe-eve in, and try to leave the other man dead, so I don’t get nailed to a cross-os-os-os
Parents make a wide circle around me. I don’t know if it’s my voice, my message, or that in an effort for verisimilitude, I haven’t bathed for a week.
“I know you’re here to kill-il me,” I croon to a passing pair of nine-year-old twins dressed in identical fuzzy blue jumpers. “Shoo-oo-oo-ot, cow-ow-ard, you are only going to kill a man.”
They giggle nervously.
That evening, the last day of the season, there is a check waiting for me. I have been given a five dollar Christmas bonus.
“Whilst contemplating the final defeat of capitalism, we must decide who is at its head, and it is Margi,” I yell. “Margi with a happy face!”
The round, bruised head of Christmas Mao peers cautiously around the edge of the locker room.
“Get a grip dude,” he whispers and slinks off to change.
Maybe, he’s right. Maybe I’ve become a bit overcome by the spirit of the season. I hear that Holy-Roller Rink is hiring an Easter Marx. If I dye my hair, maybe I can get the job.
Writing/Painting/Pilates/Scuba/Travel and animals...anything that won't pay the bills. I'm an unintentional nonprofit
I've worked with children in Bosnia, crocodiles in Mexico, frogs in Puerto Rico, egrets in Bali, mushrooms in Montana, archaeologists in Spain and planted butterfly gardens in South Central Los Angeles. The butterflies wish I had chosen a different location.
Check out my website and read a story, or better yet buy a book, painting or audio. UnfortunatelY, All of the profits go toward animal rescue.
Annenberg’s Beach=Culture July 30, 2013 event. Again, the ticketing portal is http://www.eventbrite.com/event/7092890025/eorg# .July 31, 2013
The New Short Fiction Series presents an evening of short fiction through the spoken word, exploring how our dreams of life in summertime play out by the sea and sand. Tales by some of L.A.'s hottest fiction writers cross styles from reportage to magic realism, with characters that journey through love, work and adolescence against the backdrop of the Southland shore.
E. E. King 