Not that long ago, I took a short writing holiday in Albuquerque when I had to travel there for other undisclosed reasons. I was supposed to finish my book entitled The Minäverse. I didn’t. When by “edit” one means write the whole damn book from scratch again, finishing becomes a task that is forever on the edge of the mirage horizon. But while I was there, the gravitational pull literally sucked me over to the May Cafe, a Vietnamese restaurant I frequented for the nearly twenty years I lived in close proximity to the Duke City.
My book has a twisted sports theme. Balls, being dangerous, have been outlawed in primary school sports, and there’s a conspiracy afoot that professional ball players don’t actually have them…or use them, I should say. If that symbolism isn’t 100% obvious to anyone who has his head half in the gutter, I don’t what is. Balls, however, haven’t been outlawed in society in general. Balls are simply highly suspicious. Arms have been outlawed, or regulated to the point that there’s little reason to try to obtain one.
To sum it up, kids don’t have balls, adults are highly unlikely to use them, and a baseball bat is the most dangerous weapon the average joe has easy access to, if by easy access one means he has only to fill out the fronts and backs of fifty sheets of mandatory paperwork asking him important questions, such as, has he engaged in porn, hetero, or gay sex in the last thirty days; does he want to; how many meds is he taking; how many does he want to access through the Homeland Security protocol for all meds to all citizens all the time. As I’ve been rewriting and deleting my first chapter all day today, I had a sudden flash image of the May Cafe.
It was one of those moments of quantum access into my own subconscious. If you don’t know about quantum magic, I’d suggest looking into it. That aside, the May Cafe has been guarded for years and years by a twenty-seven foot lumberjack, complete with beard and very, very big axe. Recently, the lumberjack lost his axe and arms in a storm. Nature defeated the giant, as Nature is wont to do. Sadly, and I’m sorry, Nature, the image of the lumberjack is greater than you are. Suddenly, I imagined a refurbished lumberjack rebuilt in the image of my hero, who is a New Mexico native, very large — though twenty-seven feet tall is pushing credulity — and the type of guy for whom shaving is a wasted effort, as he always has a 5 o’clock shadow.
So now it’s nearly midnight mountain time, and I haven’t rewritten the last spate of words I erased. What a crappy day. Honestly, it wasn’t bad, as it was my day off, and I had a nice walk with the dog and kiddos. Also, I wasted some pleasant time putting together an image of a hippy-looking Jesus surfer riding the Hawking radiation right out of a black hole to contribute to this nerdgram before I smacked myself out of it. But still. The angst. I can’t get over the angst of my never-finished book. At least I have a lumberjack in my head, though. At least that.