Dear Mole: How’re Ya Now?


How’re ya now?


Not so bad.

While you’ve been productively prolific in the dispensation of the written word, I’ve been watching TV.

Since Suzanne alerted me to the existence of a show called Letterkenny the other dayee, staring at the tube has once again become my veritable raison d’etre.

I predict that watching these 2 clips is all it will take for it to become your new favorite thing, too:

Even though I have nothing of substance to say anymore, you still let me spew it here on your site, Mole, and that’s what I appreciates abouts you.

That’s all I’ve got this month. See you in October.

Pitter Patter,


Writer’s Log: 2311

Coming up for air was a mistake. I should have stayed submerged, chipping away at my rock of fiction, my own way, my own tools. But the shimmering mirror above drew me to break the surface and gaze about. Toxic reasoning, broken ideologies, plain wrong thinking found me struggling in the froth at the top. Best to sink back down and return to rooting among the muck and sludge that is my domain.

But isn’t it the affectation of all creators to seek affirmation of their work?

Are there truly artists in the world who work solely for the work? The painters and sculptors and potters who toil away in their hidy-holes, furiously producing piece after piece? Producing with nary a thought as to their creation’s effectiveness, impact, or value?

Perhaps those types of art differ from lexical art like writing & songs. Why communicate through words (the foundation of a society) if those words might never be read or heard by another human? Music? I think music might be somewhere in between.

All artists no doubt suffer the burden of mediocrity in concert with self-doubt. Word artists seem unique, however, in their suffering. Failing to communicate through a communication medium must be the ultimate of failure.


If y’all are about sick of this daily barrage of content from me, worry not, September will come to an end soon and so too this flurry of activity.

SepSceneWriMo #17

“I can only sit for an hour today.”

Gaella flung her clothing over the tri-fold screen, an Asian hand-me-down with long green blades of grass and skeletal cranes stepping through marsh. I watched the shadow of her, her flowing curves and angles. I could see her select the period clothing I’d provided for this portrait. They would be loose but would reflect the mood I sought to evoke, extravagant wealth awash in famine.

“I’ll take what I can get.” I pointed to a set of false stairs. They would be my model of ancient, plague-stricken Athens, the temple steps of Athena Nike. “There’s a goblet, if you could… Yes, that’s it. You can rest it on your knee.”

Gaella draped herself drunkenly across the wooden stairs. I grabbed my spray bottle. “It’s just water. I need you to look as if you’ve just struggled through an illness.” She nodded and I pumped the trigger misting her face, chest and legs. The skin of her dark thighs glistened as if due to exercise, or stress.

She shivered at the touch of the spray and spoke through her face mask, still attached. “Why is it so cold in here?”

I’d set the thermostat to seventy-eight. I’d rather sweat than hear their complaints. “Cold? Have you been feeling this way for a while?”

“What are you insinuate…” She unhooked an ear. “Damn, masks. I’ve been careful. I don’t want this cursed disease. I’ve even sent my housemaid away. My home is filthy, now.”

I’d gotten used to my own, home-made cotton mask, a Gaughan printed colorfully across the smile. “Of course not. I’m sorry.” The trouble with models—neurosis strolled hand-in-hand with beauty.

She couldn’t get comfortable. I arranged a few stained pillows and still she squirmed. The piece was earmarked for a pharmaceutical’s marketing plan, that is, if I could get it finished. Gaella’s fame and notoriety were to elicit empathy, no, not empathy, sympathy maybe, for the corrupt corporation that had theoretically suffered at the hands…

“Gawd! I’m burning up, now.” Gaella stripped off the robe and mask and started spraying herself, strutting around naked, Athena herself, brazen and indifferent to the mortal who sat waiting for her tirade to end.

“Perhaps, you should see a doctor.”

“Can you please turn the fucking heat down?”

She faced the bottle and squeezed a cloud of mist that detonated against her face.

“Do that again.” I grabbed my camera and maneuvered to position her between me and the setting sun that had drifted into the remnants of smoke from a fire that burned a hundred miles away.

“Do what again?” She spread her arms, the bottle in one hand, a question in the other. Christ, she was beautiful.

“Spray your face, throw the bottle down and surrender to the moisture embracing your heat.”

Gaella cocked a hip. “You get this right, I want my cut.”

“Yeah, yeah, just do it.”

She did.

Lyrics – Just take my love

Don’t take my whiskey,
don’t take the air that I breathe.
Don’t take the things that I own,
don’t take the money that I need.

Just take my love,
I said take my love,
cuz’ that’s all I got.

Don’t take my car,
don’t take the hat that I wear.
Don’t take boots that I kick,
don’t take my lounge away chair.

Just take my love,
I said take my love,
cuz’ that’s all I got.

The things you want you don’t need,
the things you own but don’t feed,
the things you cut that don’t bleed,
all them things, now, don’t. you. see,
just take you down, down, down, down, down.

down, down, down, down, down

Don’t take my mind,
don’t take the schemes that I scheme.
Don’t take the songs that I sing,
don’t take the dreams that I dream.

Just take my love,
go on take my love,
cuz’ that’s all I got.

Cuz’ that’s all I got.
And that’s all you need.

So, just take my love,
I said take my love,
cuz’ that’s all you need.
[fade: repeat]

Lyrics – Away

Only clouds and smoke surround me.
The angry sun won’t look my way.
Blind, the people scream and tear free.
From the Earth, though children play.

And sing their songs of falling, falling, falling.
While I’m calling, calling, calling.

The winds will blow and shed no tears.
For lovers howling in the night.
Torn apart they drown in fears,
Of losing touch, of losing sight.

And all the children crying, crying, crying.
As I’m begging, begging, begging.

Will no one hear, will no one speak,
will no one seek to find?
The broken hearts, the broken dreams,
the broken, shattered minds.

When morning comes, the sun still hides.
As bed sheets flutter torn to ribbons.
At tender touch, all night she cried.
For battles lost and battles won.

And still the children lying, lying, lying.
While I’m flying, flying, flying

[repeat bridge]
Will no one hear, will no one speak,
will no one seek to find?
The broken hearts, the broken dreams,
the broken, shattered minds.