TThhee BB ll oo tt tt ee rrTThhee BB ll oo tt tt ee rrJune 2009 MAGAZINE

WWaa y too cy too c lose flose f or our oor our o wn good.wn good. Dona NoDona No vv a;a; Phi l JPhi l J ul iano’ul iano’s s ‘ toons;‘ toons;Five MinFive Min utes utes With and With and The Dream Journal .The Dream Journal .

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The B l o t t e r

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“Death of a Friend”I have trouble with relationships. I haven’t spoken to my best

friend from childhood in a couple of years. My college buddies and I haveonly recently connected once again, via e-mails filled with snarky juvenilehumor and metaphorical wedgies. My old co-workers and I rarely touchbase. My poker group finally played poker last month after a year of failedplans, hemming and hawing. So the truth is that most of my regularfriends hang out at the bookstore. Hanged out. Hung out. Because thegood old bookstore is going out of business. Will have closed by the timeyou read this. This is the bookstore where I sat and talked with my friends,drank my coffee, perused my reading material, read your stories and poemsand essays. Where The Blotter issues were planned. Where our little lit-erary endeavor was discussed, displayed prominently, found new readers,and received both constructive criticism and compliment in appropriateproportions.

So what do you do when your place – that comfortable, lived-inhangout of yours, goes away? The place itself was one of the old, bestfriends. I could pull wireless from someone’s un-firewalled network, anddo my e-mail and other work. Two old couches were positioned in thespringtime-morning sunshine, and I warmed my old alligator bones. Bysummer, this same seat would be shady and cool while the rest of NorthCarolina baked. Who else went to such Inca-exact-calendar lengths toensure my comfort? No one. Ceiling fans turned the air, a speaker some-where behind the counter dribbled Thelonius Monk or The Dixie Dregsor “Shotgun Wedding” out into the ether, not intruding on my thoughts,just tickling them. Folks came in, looked around, found what they werelooking for. Just sitting there, we asked otherwise strangers questions. Andwhat sort of novel are you looking for? How old is your sister? (the one whowants the novel, I mean.) Does she like history? Ah, she reads young adultfiction? How about Markus Zusak’s “The Book Thief ”?

We talked a lot. About books and authors and music and art.What we heard on the radio. Politics. The socio-economics of Publishing.How Harry Potter changed everything. Why “The Kite Runner” is differ-ent from anything by Jody Picoult. Sometimes we grabbed a little noshfrom the grocery down the street and nibbled hummus on hunks ofbaguette and just smiled at how nice a day can really be when you enjoywhat you’re doing and you’re hanging out with people you like. OnMondays a guy came in with his Tai-Chi class, little old ladies quietlybending and shaping energy in a corner of the store-that-wasn’t-really-a-store. On Tuesdays women painted, or young people from the Universitydid spoken-word. Fridays parents brought their kids pajama’d and teethbrushed for a story before bed. Saturdays we played with modeling clay,or listened to Trinity singing old-timey music or leaned back and let a poettalk to us. Mostly we hung out on the couch and wondered at how niceit is to do something you enjoy with friends. We recommended to eachother. We bought books, took them home and read them, then came backto shout about how “House of Leaves” or “The Raw Shark Texts” bend allof the rules of fiction writing.

We partied together, because a good fifty-percent or so of any partyis “location”. And you must know that I’m telling you the truth: remem-ber how much it sucked trying to have a party in your dorm because some-one wanted to study in their room? Please go to the library, Susan, won’tyou? Pleeeeze? Well, where else but our bookstore could you get an entireday dedicated to Marshmallow Peeps? Or “Displaced Northerner’s

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Cuisine”? Or have raucous book launches. (I’m going to miss canapés, I’lltell you that for nothing.) Or what other bookstore would just have apotluck supper for no reason and invite anyone that came in the door? Noother. On a sunny day, the bookstore was a shady, happy place. On arainy day, it was a nice dry island in the storm. It felt like it was just walk-ing-distance from home, like the old days when everything was just walk-ing-distance. Get yourself a cup of coffee, have a seat. What’s new withyou?

We didn’t do anything wrong. The world changed, in insidiousways that we probably could have predicted, argued about, scoffed at, butnot prevented. There’s no one to blame, and that’s a bit frustrating.Always nice to have someone to hang in effigy, I suppose. But this is justan oh, well, thing. I don’t know where I’ll go now, to sit and think andtalk. There’s a coffee shop nearby, but that’s different. No one wants totalk with a stranger in a coffee shop, someone with which you have noth-ing in common except, well, coffee. But when you’re in a bookstore, andthere’s someone else there — a complete stranger otherwise — you canbegin to intelligently assume important things you have in common. Thatyou both read, that you probably like books, and depending on what shelfthey’re perusing, that you may like similar genres. And how’s that for cut-ting to the friendship chase?

Now where am I supposed to get my books? From the Internet?From the big-box store? Who that I know and trust is going to give meadvice? How can I browse? The Library? If you don’t stop talking, I’m goingto have to ask you to leave.

When I graduated from high-school — way back when — I justwasn’t ready. Hadn’t made good plans, wasn’t prepared for the plans I didmake. There was so much more I should have done while I could. I hadso much more to say to my friends, who were now scattering on the fourwinds. I felt like I’d taken them for granted. I feel that way now, as thedoors will soon close, as people will need to find other jobs, as the magicof the place dissipates. I’ll probably hang around outside for a couple ofweeks, like a homeless man, my laptop open, pulling un-firewalled wire-less, sullenly checking my e-mail, staring unhappily at the glare on myscreen.

Garry - chief@blotterrag.com

June 2009

page 3

Mrs. Caxton’s house was wayacross a bluebonnet field that her hus-band prepared every winter, broadcast-ing horse dung with his old orangeMassey tractor. Wrapped up in hisGrand-dad’s old barn-coat, Jerichohad watched while the fertilizer wasshoveled by colored men from theback of an old deuce-and-a-halfJimmy onto Mr. Caxton’s drivewaylike a strange Christmas gift. Now, inMay, when the breeze blew right, youcould smell the field of flowers, andthe generations of manure helpingthem bloom. A good pungent sum-mery perfume – fair enough trade forthe holiday horseshit pong. The otherday Jericho had glanced out thekitchen-sink window to see on Mrs.Caxton walking her field, waist deep,her hands stretched out and palmsdown, patting the sky-and-ocean-bluewildflowers like they were her chil-dren’s heads. This morning, however,she was probably at Sunday-school.She didn’t attend church service, butshe loved Sunday-school, as she hadtold him on the occasions when theystood on line together at the HEB gro-cery.

Between the bluebonnets andJericho’s small side yard was a cowpond, its water still winter-cold. Thelimestone hills, Grandma told himlong ago, were capricious with theirhidden springs trickling frigidly to thesurface. Jericho could remember nocows, but there must have been once,for the slopes down to the pond wereunencumbered by Russian Olive orcattails, evidence of regular tromping

by cloven hooves. Jericho’s other next-door

neighbor, Mrs. Arnette, hid her small,neat house behind rows of carefullyplanted broomstraws and jack pinesthat struggled mightily with the Texassun and heat to give her privacy. Outof his bathroom-sink window Jerichosometimes saw her staring hands-on-hips from her side porch at his ram-shackle shot-gun house, of which sheseemed to disapprove mightily. Well,he thought. Fair’s fair. Call us all thebusybodies we are. Could you pleaseput curtains on your windows? her looksaid. And paint – you know, paint?Although she never told him directlyto clean up his act. Jericho supposedthat Mrs. Arnette believed in discre-tion as the better part of sensibility.She couldn’t be too pleased about theflower-horseshit stink from theCaxton’s bluebonnet field, either, buthe suspected that she would take on amouthful of it before she’d mentionanything to them.

Mrs. Arnette thought he wasgay. This tid-bit came from Willardwho worked short-order at the burger-and-Coke place near the turn for theairport road, where they were thinkingof building a Wal-Mart despite every-one in town’s apparent unhappinesswith the idea. Long ago, Willard andhe had gone to high school at the sametime, although not together as friends.

“She sez she thinks that you’reone of those ‘Things’” Willard hadsaid.

“Things?” Jericho repeated.“Yeah, that’s what she calls

them homosexes. Things. Can youbelieve it?” Willard was scraping thegrill with what looked like a sandpaperblock, so he didn’t see Jericho’s look ofbemused astonishment, not so muchat being considered gay, but byWillard’s own choice of pronoun.“She don’t understand, ‘cause youmoved away and then came back, andyou’re not married and she aint surewhat-all you do for a living.”

“Hmmm,” Jericho said, nod-ding slowly as he waited for his Frito-pie, because he couldn’t think of any-thing more to say to that. HadWillard always suspected he was gay?Was Willard himself gay and lookingfor…validation? Jericho was a writer.What’s not to understand?

He sat on the porch androcked in Grandma’s old chair. Therocker was comfortable but rickety;he’d had to fasten a couple of the legsupports with carpet tacks where theyhad wriggled out of their sockets withlong use. Summer’s humidity and thedry of winter shifting everythingaround were going to break the chair,eventually. He’d tried a new rocker forsize, at the I-20 Cracker Barrel on theway to Dallas, but it was made inChina for some stranger’s bottom. Heguessed that, like the chair, he was wellon his own way to being broken by theseasons. He wondered what wouldcome of letting the weather and timeand circumstances push him arounduntil parts of him, invisible maybe orperhaps not so, started to fall off orsnap away in the wind. Wasn’t thathow he’d ended up here? The househad also been his grandmother’s andhe hadn’t changed it too much. Aplace should eventually become yours,he thought. If there is a you at all.

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“Turtle Bite” by Garrison Somers

The bookshelf in the hallway betweenthe living room and the kitchen stillhad a rank of Reader’s DigestCondensed Books, with their fauxleather bindings listing the three orfour novels contained within that hadbeen heartlessly sliced like someLatvian Jew on Mengele’s operatingtable. He couldn’t imagine actuallyreading one, but hadn’t put them inGrandma’s old garbage pail in thekitchen. Maybe he’d do away withthem one at a time so the garbage mendidn’t start the rumor.

“You know, he’s a writer andhe’s one of those things, and he burnsbooks.”

“He burns books? The fiend.”“Well, not actually. But he

throws them out in the garbage, and youknow that can only lead to burning ‘em.”

“My God, you’re right!”Jericho stood and brushed the

hitchhikers from his pants, and wentin to get a cold drink. It was hot in theparlor, because Grandma’s house hadonly a window unit air conditioner,and it was a ancient hulkingWestinghouse that was noisy anddrank electricity like Kerouac sluggedgen-u-wine bust-head. Jericho saved it

for the nights when he was thinkingtoo much and the air was death-still,and he still needed to finish a coupleof pages to make his daily quota.Then the thing’s white noise — like acity bus parked outside — was anescape and the cool air blew over himuntil he could burrow down under theold mothball-smelling quilt that he’dfound on a closet shelf.

There had been few real sur-prises when he moved in. In one cab-inet, however, it appeared as if hisgrandmother had been squirrelingaway her lifetime one small trinket at atime. Here was a child’s shoebox, thecardboard as fragile as graham crack-ers, which held ranks of old bakeliteroll-on deodorant tubes. At first hethrough that Grandma had savedthem because they were Grand-dad’s,from his days as an industrial abrasivessalesman, on the road trying to marketsand in a desert. But the box was inor-dinately heavy, as if it had a magic falsebottom full of lead. He hefted one ofthe deodorant containers, and thentwisted off the top. Silver dollarsspilled into his lap, with that satisfyingclinkity-clink that old silver coins havewhich makes newly minted money

seem like crappy children’s toys madein Taiwan. Another twisted toprevealed similar results. HolyGuacamole! Jericho had thought, as hecounted the coins. He netted a couplegrand selling them to a dealer, whogently explained that Jericho wouldnever get retail for them. Then aphone call from a friend back in thecity taught him that for crying outloud he should have sold them on E-Bay, that he would have been happy tohelp him with setting up an account,and how Jericho could have madeabout fourteen per coin, depending ofcourse on age and quality. Anybodyknew that, said the faceless voice of hisfriend. So Jericho decided not to talkabout it anymore, because he’d beenpleased with his discovery, and he wasstarting to feel a niggling resentmentat not getting enough money forthem, and hadn’t they been penniesfrom heaven, so to speak. Instead, hekept Grandma’s cabinet closed andjust left the bookshelves and air-condi-tioner and pots and pans the way she’dhad them, smelling of dusting powderand cedar boards and Bon-Amicleanser. There wasn’t enough of himyet to start changing her and Grand-

June 2009

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dad’s old world, anyway.The can of Dr. Pepper he

pulled from the old fridge crackedopen with a Pffffft! He sipped andstalked the rooms of the house. Thiswas what he did sometimes, when hewasn’t sure what he should do eventhough there was work to be done. Itwas an old writer’s problem.Suddenly, as if he had left a pot ofbeans on the stove, he startled. Realheat. Witching Hour had begun –that moment when the early summersun finally climbed above the big side-yard oak tree that shaded the house formost of the morning. Grand-dad hadbuilt the house carefully, planning onthis. If you wanted to sleep late onSunday, you could, but by the timeworship started at the First BaptistChurch you’d better be there, becauseat home the oven would be on.Jericho didn’t go to church andGrandma’s parlor was already toowarm to sit and read in, and he wasn’tprepared to wage war against the cos-mos with an antique air conditioner.

He pulled a beach chair downfrom the garage rafters. The alu-minum was pitted and white with oxi-dation. The nylon webbing lookedOK, but it was brittle from years ofsun. Ah, well, Jericho sighed, for anafternoon it would have to do. Downto the cow pond he trooped, toting histowel and chair and Dr. Pepper. It washotter out here, but Jericho told him-self that it seemed cooler. Unfoldingthe beach chair beneath the branch ofa lone willow, whose new leavesalready curled in the sun’s rays, hedraped his towel over the chair andstood still, because a tiny swirl of abreeze had skittered over the water andcaressed his face.

With a glance at the Caxton’sdriveway, Jericho shrugged off his tee-shirt and jeans and tucked them underthe chair. He wore no undershorts.Aint that just like a writer, he mut-tered. Another tiny warm breeze tick-led the hair on his privates and madehim shiver. He hadn’t shivered outsidein more than a month, and it was areal pleasure. He looked down at him-self, the hair patchy on his legs fromyears of trouser cloth exfoliating hisknees and calves. His soft gut, round-ed from lack of motion on his part. Iam lumpen proletariat, he told him-self. Oh, well. Then he realized thathis pasty white butt was facing Mrs.Arnette’s pine trees and he duckeddown into the cool murk of the cowpond.

“Ah,” he sighed again andarched his back, letting his cool-shrunken pecker float on the surface.This beats all, especially for a Dr.Pepper drinking, gay book-burner. Heused his hands to paddle around in acircle, then back over to the bit of dap-pled willow-shade and relaxed hisneck, letting his ears dip under thewater, cooling his skull and promotingthe general approach of Nirvana thathe had stumbled upon this Sundaymorning.

What Jericho heard was:“Hugo, salvo gain sun-tea

something gets something underWillie.” Which made no sense at all,and so he continued floating on hisback, trying to connect a couple ofthoughts beyond how comfortablycool he was. Then, suddenly, Dive!Dive! Bow Planes full down, Aye!

He came up sputtering cow-pond-water and algae. She repeated

herself.“You know, it’s all fun and

games until someone gets a sunburnon their Willie.”

He wiped the goop from hiseyes and looked. At first it was a visionof loveliness, then he wiped his eyessome more and it was a young woman,not all that visionary after all, but notexcessively hard on the eyes, either.Tall and thin, she wore a short sleevedwhite blouse and pants and a burnt-orange Longhorns baseball hat over ablonde ponytail. He squinted, andsaw that she was grinning at him.Pale. Like a Hollywood bit actressworking doughnuts at a canteen dur-ing the war. Where in the world hadthat obscure reference come from? Hewas staring. Time to say something.Nothing came to him.

“Willie?” he sputtered.“Not my personal choice. I

prefer tally-wacker, because that’s whatAuntie calls them, when she calls themanything,” the girl said. “She actuallytold me a joke with the word tally-wacker in it, once. If I think of it, I’lltell it to you.”

“Ah, ha,” he said, as he alwaysdid when he was slightly confused orhad nothing more to say or wishedthat he didn’t have to say anything, butcould just observe from a comfortabledistance.

“Auntie. You know, blah blahblah Arnette,” she turned and pointedwith a long thin finger past Jericho’shouse. Staring, Jericho completelymissed Mrs. Arnette’s first name,which he still didn’t know even afterhaving lived next door for half a year.

“Of course,” he said.“I’m just visiting for the week-

end, and Auntie has headed off forchurch,” the girl said. “You must bethe book burning ‘Thing’; the sinnerthat doesn’t go to First Baptist.”

“Guilty,” Jericho croaked, sti-fling a laugh that would have proba-bly been a guffaw, embarrassing in itsabandon. At the same time he keptpaddling in place as carefully as hecould so that the water didn’t waftaround his privates. He assumed thatat some point he would have to comeout of the water. A silly song about apolka-dot bikini entered and exited hisconsciousness with frivolous abandon.

“Auntie has concluded thatyou’ll probably go to hell,” the girlsaid, with a mock frown.

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“No doubt, for one reason oranother,” he said, patently aware thathis was a heretofore undeveloped abil-ity to verbally joust with a womangrowing more attractive with eachpassing moment.

“Mind if I sit down?” she nod-ded at his beach chair. “Oh, but wehaven’t been properly introduced. I’mHope, the too-tall, too-forwardThespian niece from Austin.” Shebowed theatrically and sat down onJericho’s towel. The chair gave a groanas the nylon webbing began to tear.

“Oh, shit. I’m sorry,” Hopesaid, shifting her weight onto the alu-minum frame.

“No, please, don’t be. It’sAnnette Funicello ancient,” Jerichosaid, grimacing at his metaphoricallameness.

“Do you mind?” she asked,picking up his can of Dr. Pepper andtaking a sip before he had a chance tosay yeah or nay. Eyes closed, shesighed as loudly as he had earlier as sheswallowed the pop. Then there was nosound at all for a while, except his pad-dling as he tread water.

“Thespian?” he said, finally, ashe registered the verbal oddity.

“Auntie thinks I play for theother team,” Hope said with a sneakysmile, like she’d been waiting for himto catch up. She belched aloud fromthe Dr. Pepper and without missing abeat, or excusing herself, leaned over-confidently back on the aluminumchair and began talking. Jerichogrinned and listened. How can younot like a burping Thespian?

She was a Tudbull, she said,which apparently meant something intown. What that was she neitherknew nor cared. She was only Tudbullby marriage, anyway, and the connec-tion hadn’t lasted. Hence, everyone’s

suspicion of Thespian tendencies.Auntie had said that Thank The GoodLord she was not a Kilgore Tudbull.This was crucial, Auntie had clarified,because she didn’t want to be associat-ed with the Kilgore Rangerettes, abaton twirling team of local reknown.The Kilgore Tudbulls, you see, set a lotof importance on being Rangerettesand held not being so against all otherTudbulls.

“Rangerettes,” Jericho chuck-led.

“I know, right?” Hopegrinned. “The best I could ever hopefor was being in the Flag Corps.”

“Mm-hmm,” Jericho said;this time because he really was inter-ested and wanted Hope to go on talk-ing.

“Yeah, I know,” she said, smil-ing brilliantly. “The other girls inschool used to call us the ‘flag hags’.”She laughed at that. So did Jericho.He was happy and couldn’t under-stand why the girls had called themthe flag hags. If the others in the FlagCorps had looked anything remotelylike Hope, they weren’t hags in theslightest.

“So, I’m just a run of the millTudbull,” Hope said. “‘Course, beingD-I-V-O-R-C-E-D doesn’t helpeither.” She chuckled, spelling out theignominious word.

“Auntie doesn’t want to cometoo close to me, like whatever I gotthat made me leave my husband mightrub off on her. Like it’s contagious.She’s a little bit confused, and it’sworse when I come to visit. I couldeven see her trying to hook me upwith Mr. Singh.” She closed her eyesand shook her head slowly. Jerichohad not yet met Mr. Singh, the Indianman who drove Mrs. Arnette whenev-er she went anywhere. He’d waved

through the dying pine tree wall to theneat little man while Mr. Singhdetailed Mrs. Arnette’s Caddy.

He could well imagine Mrs.Arnette being simultaneously con-cerned and confused. Once, enteringthe local Blockbuster out toward theairport, he had seen her perusingposters of current releases. Despite hisbetter judgment, he’d waved hello andasked her what she was planning torent.

“Well, I don’t normally watchmovies,” Mrs. Arnette said, as if mak-ing a judgment against everyone whodid. “It’s a sin to sit for two hours anddo nothing like that.” She shook herhead slowly. Jericho nodded, becauseit made sense to agree rather than toask what she was doing in a movierental place if she didn’t like movies.Maybe she was protesting or plantinga bomb or something.

“But there’s one film that I’vebeen waiting for and they don’t seemto have it here. It seemed to be worthmy time. Finding Private Nemo.”

Jericho choked on his ownsaliva. He nodded again and struggledto say something.

“Hmmmm.” It was all thatcame to him. He wondered what Mrs.Arnette imagined the plot was behinda movie title like that. Rescuing a lit-tle clownfish on Omaha Beach. Herecovered enough to tell her good luckand good hunting and moved on.

Hope opened her eyes andleaned towards Jericho.

“Why she’s worried about thatI can’t say. She’s been a widow forumpteen years, you know? What doesshe think she’ll catch? She’s in hermid-eighties, for crying out loud. Arethere even any available men around?”

Jericho thought about the col-

June 2009

page 7

“Best In Show” by Phil Juliano

www.blotterrag.com

Above: Sushi Pool

Upper Right: Does Not Compute

Far Right: Low Pop Lounge

Right: The Best Love

Left: Green Beginnings

Dona NovaDurham, NC

ored men who drove the horse-manuretruck. They were elderly gentlemen.With Mrs. Arnette? Probably not, hemused with a wry smile.

Hope looked around from herperch on the chair, at the bluebonnetsand the fluffy clouds in the white-bluesky.

“It’s right hot. And I drank allyour cold drink, I’m sorry to say,” shesaid with a glint in her eye.

“There’s more in the fridge, ifyou want to run up…” Jericho started.

“No, I just want to cool off,”Hope said. Tossing her ball cap ontothe grass, she carefully stood up fromthe rickety chair and tugged her blouseup over her head. Jericho started toturn his head, some archaic chivalryhard-coded into him, but Hope wasstaring right at him and somethingabout that look kept him from mov-ing, other than to continue treadingwater. Pale skin, nearly translucent,marvelous even from out here. Shewore a sheer, lacy bra that was bothdainty and sexy. Her breasts weresmall but aggressive. Strange wordchoice. Time seemed to hold still forhim as he looked at her looking athim. He expected her to make a facethat would cause him to turn, but shedidn’t. It’s because we’re strangers, hetold himself. She’s very pretty, and I’mno great shakes and therefore harm-less. She’s seen my pecker, so what’sthe big deal, as it were.

Bending at the waist, theyoung woman stashed the blouseunder the chair with his kit. Jerichoalmost feared to blink, watching theskin of her belly as she folded andtwisted. It was taut, though it seemedto be from not eating rather than run-ning or stair-climbing or whatever

people who were slightly crazy didwith time that really wasn’t free at all,but rather squandered on some fleet-ing fingernail-grasp to hold ontoyouth.

With that thought, he felt thebeginnings of a cramp in his side fromtreading water in the cool. That’llteach you, he told himself.

Hope unfastened her pantsand nimbly peeled them over her hipsand bottom and let them fall to theground, which they did. Stepping onefoot out of sandal and pants, she letthe other kick them under the willowtree. Her legs were as long as a race-horse’s. If she was considered some-thing less than a cheerleader or pom-pom girl back at her old school, wellthen to hell with them. Maculardegeneration was too good for them.Yes, they were gams, no doubt aboutit. He tried to keep his eyes from zero-ing in on her breath of silk undies, off-white by the grace of God and someparts per billion of the color of a newlyblooming bluebonnet. Oh, my,Jericho thought. Please let this not besome kind of air conditioner died dur-ing the night and I’m hallucinatingfrom the heat underneath the oldmoldy quilt dream, and I hope shekeeps her undies on if only so I’mdon’t have a heart attack right here, inthe middle of this cow-pond, and whyis she here, anyway? – if this is the wel-come wagon six months late, well thenpleased to meetcha! Or maybe she wasjust one of those women that liked theidea of writers because they think we’remore sensitive and clever, and thatmakes up for a great deal of less thanphysically attractive. Oh, but then shedid slip off the panties and unsnap thebra in front and let it slide, and Jericho

went under like a rusty bucket.

“Are you alright?” she asked.“Was that a joke? You didn’t take onany water, but you felt heavy as a sackof groceries.”

Jericho was sitting in the mudof the shallows and Hope was behindhim, over him, holding him up. Hishead, he realized, was resting againsther flat belly and when he tried to turnhis head, his face bumped a chill-spring-water hardened nipple.

“Stitch,” he grunted. “Fromthe cold.”

“That’ll do it,” she said, wip-ing water from his face with the softside of her hand.

“I’m Jericho,” he said.“Pleased To Meetcha.”

“Likewise,” she said, and theyburst into waves of laughter thatflushed a handful of doves, sendingthem whickering out of the bluebon-nets.

The laughter and nuditymight have assisted in the deteriora-tion of the situation into some itera-tion of passion (oh, for crying outloud, Jericho rolled his mind’s eye),except that Hope wanted to swim andhe had recovered at least enough tostand waist deep in the shallows andcovertly get the mud out of the crackin his butt. Then, because he did stillfeel that he was no great shakes, hedidn’t swim over to Hope or, alterna-tively, get out and go wrap himself in atowel. He allowed himself to sort offloat in the shallows, watching herwhile she swam and talked, hoping forand occasionally getting glimpses ofher firm pale bottom and perky boo-bies while she splashed around in thecool, still clear enough water. As sheswam she sang snippets of songs, none

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of which were immediately recogniza-ble to Jericho, until he realized thatthey were his high school’s fight song,sung for him, he presumed. Suddenlyshe squealed; one part fright and onepart laughter. She jumped in thewater with a strong scissor kick andflailed for a second.

“What happened,” Jerichoasked, standing, lumpily ready to res-cue the fair maiden.

“Something bit me on thebutt,” she replied.

“Hard?” he asked.“No, not hard. You know, a

nibble. Like it was…tasting me.” Shewinked. He pretended to fall back, hishand over his heart. Hope guffawedin a very unladylike manner.

“Turtle,” he said after amoment.

“Oh,” she said, with mockdisappointment.

That cracked him up again, sothat he was stomping in the mud,which was stirred up enough now tocreate a curtain of modesty for the twoof them beneath the water. Hope wassmiling as she sang and swam andflashed herself at him at delightfulintervals.

Of course, they didn’t hearMrs. Arnette stomping through thegrass in her high heels, aeratingJericho’s yard with each off-balance,potentially hip-breaking step. Hope’sAuntie was huffing so hard that shecouldn’t get the words out of hermouth, which would have undoubted-ly been…

“Hope, what are you doing inthat pond?”

…so Hope obliged her unspo-ken question as she stood hands onhips, swaying on the grassy bank fromher exertions.

“I’m swimming.” Which

Hope was.Mrs. Arnette took a full

minute and a half, by Jericho’s owncount of his pulse, slowed again by thecool water after being surprised by hiselderly next-door neighbor and judgeof all things in her scope of existenceand span of control. Finally,

“Get out of that water,please,” Mrs. Arnette said.

Jericho looked at Hope whoright back looked at him. Neither wascertain that the command had beenfor them and not the other, so no onemoved to extricate themselves fromthe water.

“It’s nice and cool, Auntie,”Hope said.

“I can see that,” Mrs. Arnettesaid, still huffing a bit. “There aredays when I’m not sure we shouldn’thave a law that makes young womenwear those clothes the Afghanistanwomen wear.”

“Burga,” Hope offered.“Chador?” Jericho added

helpfully.“That’s right,” Mrs. Arnette

said with a glare at him that kept hisanswer to one word. She looked atHope.

“You’re bare-naked aren’tyou.” More statement of fact thanquestion. Hope nodded sweetly.

“He’s gay, you know,” Mrs.Arnette said as if Jericho wasn’t there,like this wasn’t a pond in his own yard,and if he was, and if it was, well per-haps he didn’t understand English andeven if he did, then at least she’d saidgay and not thing, and it was just thetruth and she was not the first personto report it.

“Auntie, you are a piece ofwork. Hey! Didn’t you know, it’s OKif two gay people fool around, becausenothing can happen? Two wrongs

don’t make a right. Anyway, he’s awriter. You should be more worriedabout that than which side of the platehe swings from.” Hope was treadingwater in little circles so that she lookedlike she was performing water ballet.Jericho caught himself spying for littlevisual gifts whenever she kicked, risingout of the water enough to flash hersmall but perfect breasts for him. Mrs.Arnette caught him watching, too.

“Enough,” the elder ladysnarled.

Her cheeks were red andJericho was worried. It was damnedhot, outside this oasis.

“Mrs. Arnette, would youplease have a seat?”

“Auntie, are you alright?”Hope asked from the middle of thepond.

Mrs. Arnette took the adviceand plumped herself down on Jericho’sbeach chair, the webbing of whichparted with a Rrrriiippp! The towelcovering the seat slid along the frame,and Mrs. Arnette’s somewhat amplebottom sank ungracefully into thehole in the webbing so that she wasfolded into thirds. She was also quitestuck.

“Oh,” said Mrs. Arnette.Jericho began to climb out of

the pond, but realized he could not, ashis clothes were underneath Mrs.Arnette. There was no way. Heturned to Hope.

“Go!”He scrambled out of the

pond, mud and algae clinging to hisskinny shanks and water streamingfrom his balls and buttocks. Mrs.Arnette’s eyes grew, fearing some hor-ror never before experienced in hereighty-something years. Her cheekswere deeply flushed, but the rest of herwas white as the proverbial ghost. He

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grabbed her arms, which were slowlyflailing in the air. Her butt was downon the ground, well, on the clothesheaped beneath the chair. Jerichograbbed her arms and tried to lift herout of her constraints, but she washeavier than she looked.

“Aaagh!” Mrs. Arnettescreamed weakly, her face merest inch-es away from his damp and danglingtally-wacker.

“Oh, Christ!” Jerichoexclaimed, as he noticed this.

Hope was there at his side,coolly naked.

“Tip her over, and we’ll yankthe chair off of her,” she said over Mrs.Arnette’s howls.

The two of them gently tiltedthe chair onto its side, putting Mrs.Arnette in the soft sunny grass.Jericho tugged the broken beach chairby the legs and it came away fromMrs. Arnette.

“She’s too hot,” Hope said.“Singh!! Singh!!” she shouted for thefamily driver. She carefully rolled Mrs.Arnette onto her back. The womanhad stopped shouting, but was stillpanting like a bulldog.

“No, let’s cool her off,”Jericho said, grabbing the towel anddunking it in the muddy water at thepond’s edge. He gave it a half-twist toshed some of the water and handed itto Hope, who dabbed at Mrs.Arnette’s face. Kneeling, Jericho liftedthe woman’s legs by the heels of hershoes to elevate them. Mrs. Arnettestruggled, trying to kick him in theslats with her high-heels, but he heldher calves firmly. Hope smoothed herAunt’s skirt and the three of them rest-ed, looking like a scene from a Boschvariant on “The Sinners ArriveExhausted at the Nether Gates.”

Singh came, left, came backagain with the Eldorado, driving care-fully over Jericho’s lawn. He assistedthe nude man from next-door withlifting Mrs. Arnette by the shouldersand half-walking, half-carrying her tothe back seat of the car. Mrs. Arnette’sniece – such pallid skin and so muchof it – stood holding a damp towel,which she pressed against Mrs.Arnette’s forehead.

“Do you want to get dressed,Ma’am?” he asked her.

“No, just go, Mr. Singh,”Mrs. Arnette’s niece said. “I’ll be alongdirectly, if Mr. Jericho would be sokind as to drive me?” She looked atthe nude man from next-door. Henodded at her without speaking.Then Singh drove carefully to theemergency room where they checked

Mrs. Arnette for heart attack and heatstroke, neither of which, it turned out,she’d had.

Hope sat next to Jericho inthe waiting room. He sniffed thefeathery perfume of her, limestonespring water and mud and algae andWhite Linen. He almost reached outto hold her hand. We’ve swum nakedtogether and rescued a family memberand everything. She drank my Dr.Pepper. What does this all mean? Hedidn’t though, relaxing his hand intohis lap. They sat without talking for awhile, as the hospital activity tookplace around them, sneakers squeak-ing, medicine odors wafting, automat-ic doors opening and closing. Thenshe took his hand instead.

“You can’t make up stuff likethis, can you? Just gotta let it hap-pen.” Squeezed.

“Mmmm-hmm,” Jericho said,this time meaning yes and oh yes.

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P

Stepping into Dona Nova’s studio atGolden Belt is an intense experience.Every wall is covered with canvasessplashed with a riot of colors, as well asmany items you don’t normally findaffixed to paintings. Bits of scrap metalare embedded in numerous canvases,creating an army of humanoid robots.Christmas lights poke through anotherpainting, creating a glowing constella-tion amid a dark, swirling dreamscape.From every wall, animals stare at you:Stark black and white penguins, giraffesthat appear to have mated with lavalamps, day-glow octopuses, dancingdogs filled with fire, countless owlswith dark and knowing eyes. I recent-ly got to pick Dona’s brain on what liesbehind her distinctive and daring work.

James Maxey: I’ve been a fan of yourwork for almost a decade. During thistime, I think I’ve spotted some trends. Iused to think of bold lines and bright,strong colors as being defining featuresof your style. Lately, I notice that you’vemoved into much more organic shadesand blends of color, with many imagesand patterns laid over one another.Some of your hexagonal paintingsremind me of patterns found innature—shades of wet and dry sand ona beach, for instance, or swirls of oil onwater. Do you have any thoughts onthe way your work is evolving? Do youhave ideas of where it’s likely to go?

Dona Nova: You’re exactly right; mywork changes and evolves a lot. I havealways been attracted to visual bold-ness, which is where the intense colorpalette comes from. The bold lineswere a significant element in an earlierstyle where I was focused on simple,graphic elements. Now, I am interestedin more complex compilations, very

ethereal, layered moments. Many ofthem are a reflection of a singlemoment where something liquidbecomes trapped in one fluid momentforever. The work now has a lot ofmovement created as I allow the mate-rials to dictate the final form. They’restill modern and bold, but they aremore natural and hopefully evoke thecomplexities of nature.

I suspect the layers will become moreand more complex. I also know I’vealways been drawn to pattern, and I dosee that some of my recent work couldbe translated into fabric. I’m very intothe graphics of the decorative 1960’snow, and that will also be showing upmore in my work.

JM: I was looking at your painting“Red Dog” on your web site and there’ssomething totemic, almost supernatu-ral in the attitude of the dog. The dogis surrounded by images of the naturalworld—an owl, a bird, flowers andmushrooms—yet the colors are drawnfrom a palette of fire tones. Is there asymbolic significance to the creatures inyour art? Like, what’s up with all theowls?

DN: Yeah, I do get obsessive about cer-tain things (owls, birds, robots, mush-rooms,) and I don’t always know why.It’s an urge to play with those subjectsthat usually lasts for a good while andthen changes into something else. It isfunny, though, that when I do that, Ifind that people really respond to thoseimages as a group. For instance, I usedto paint a lot of moths and dragonflies,and everyone bought the paintingswith those elements in them. Now, I’vebeen consistently selling robots, owls,and birds for a couple of years now. I

wonder if it’s some kind of collectivesubconscious phenomenon.

The color palette of “Red Dog”, forexample, is just related to my mood.I’ve been using oranges and other “hot”colors for the past few years, to theextent that I feel I should buy somenew paints to drag myself away fromthem. I did the same thing with bluesand greens before that. I am intenselydrawn to interior design, and the colorsin the paintings are always present inmy living space decor. I must be tryingto envelope myself with the colors thatmake me feel good. I’m very sensitive tomy color surroundings.

JM: Since many of your paintings dotake up residence in your home for aperiod of time before you make themavailable to the public, do you ever feellike you’re saying good-bye to an oldfriend when you sell a painting? Afterall, when I sell a book or a story, I getto keep the original manuscript, and it’sonly copies that make it out into theworld. Selling your paintings is thereverse process: You sell the originals,and only keep photos to rememberyour own work by. Do you ever seeyour paintings in someone else’s livingroom and feel wistful?

DN: There have been a couple of timeswhen I first began selling paintings thatI had a moment of remorse... but notfor long. My favorite works are usuallythe most recent, and I always knowthere’s more where that came from(with luck). Mostly I just want peoplewho love my work to be able to have it.That’s why my prices have remainedaffordable. I’d rather my work beenjoyed in people’s everyday lives thanfor me to keep it.

I have, however, seen my work in peo-ple’s homes and felt like I was seeing anold friend. Sometimes I’d forgottenabout that piece, and seeing it is alwaysgreat — seeing people enjoy it is evenbetter.

JM: You have a lot of paintings ofhumanoid robots. While your animalsare often depicted in very bright andplayful shades, I notice that yourhumans often are charred husks againstchaotic landscapes. I’m thinking of“Robot Box,” “Electric Girl,” and“Skull and Bonex.” All are hauntingfigures with the most prominent facialfeature being a dominant glowing eyemuch larger than the other eye. Is theresome underlying message or philoso-phy underlying your depiction ofhumans?

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Five Minutes With: Dona Novaby James Maxey

DN: Hmmm, that’s a very insightfulobservation. Do I do that on purpose?Maybe... I do the eyes as weirdly as Ican, partly because they are such aprominent feature of facial composi-tions. I try to always be pushing theenvelope of visual reality. I want to beas unique as I can be, and I also loveasymmetry. I’m also blind in one eye,could that be related? I believe that eyesexpose a lot about their owner. I likethe viewer to wonder what in the hell isgoing on inside that head

As for the charred figures, they were alldone around the same time and aremeant to juxtapose with very brightbackgrounds and grafitti-esque scrawl-ings. I alternately love huge contrast inmy work as well as the smooth, blend-ed layers of the more natural works. Ioscillate between these issues. I have tosay, though, that I am very contentwith my relationship to nature, but notso much with my relationship tohumans. (No offense to any humansreading this, of course).

JM: You mention being blind in oneeye. I know that you’ve dealt withimpaired sight since an early age. Doyou think that since sight isn’t some-thing you’ve been able to take for grant-ed, this has influenced your percep-tions?

DN: I’ve asked myself this question alot. It has to have had an impact. It’shard for me to say what that might be,since I’ve been legally blind all my lifeand can’t compare it to anything else.But, I do think I have a heightenedsense of visual awareness, which Iwould have had regardless. The factthat I don’t take sight for granted prob-ably enhances the happiness I feel whenI see something amazing. I’m constant-ly amazed that I notice visual detailsthat other people sometimes miss. Howis that possible? It feels good.

There’s also the factor of how I see

things.... I see the overall picture, notthe minute details. Maybe that con-tributes to the fact that I am attractedto bold visuals. Those are the ones thatget through to my brain.

JM: In some of your work, I can seeimages that remind me of things onemight see under a microscope. I havean octagonal painting of yours, allblack and white, with a lot of swirls androds that are reminiscent of images ofbacteria in a petri dish. Is this deliber-ate, or am I just imposing my owninterest in the scientific world ontowhat are simply abstract images?

DN: I’m enamored with tiny micro-scopic worlds. It’s no accident thatthose types of subjects live in my paint-ings. Little single-celled organisms areso bizarre and beautiful. You know,there again is the “pattern” thing.Under a microscope they look likenature’s fabric. Same thing with thosebioluminescent oceanic creatures. Iwish I could have those as pets. SeaMonkeys don’t really cut it.

JM: What do you think is the mostproductive state for producing art?Happiness or hardship?

DN: I’ve definitely had both andthey’ve both had some merits. I preferhappiness. When I’m feeling good, Iget excited about going into the studio.I’m working with pleasant energy, andit’s fun. I let go, try not to over-think it,and just have fun painting. When Irelax I get the best results. On theother hand, hardship does give fodderfor new subjects. After my divorce Ipainted a lot, and in a style I hadn’tused before. It was successful, but nowwhen I see those paintings I feel thatI’ve moved on from that place. I’llchoose happiness for me every time. It’scathartic either way though.

JM: You recently moved from a ruralstudio to Golden Belt in downtown

Durham. Has there been a culturaladjustment for you, from working inrelative isolation to working surround-ed by other artists?

DN: I was comfortable in my ruralstudio. I used to only work alone, andover the years I worked around otherartists enough that I now find it ener-gizing. Working at Golden Beltrequired me to adjust to a much small-er work space, and to have a presenta-ble public space most of the time. It’spart working studio and part store,which takes some juggling. The bestparts about working at GB are, ofcourse, the other artists and the publicvisitors. A collective group of creativepeople is a great catalyst for new ideasand energy. The fact that the public cannow see our work on a daily basis isamazing. The Third Friday OpenStudios (every 3rd Friday of eachmonth) are my favorite event. There isa great festive atmosphere and we’vehad amazing turn-outs every time. Itgives us all an event on a regular basisthat we can work toward. I change mypaintings and studio arrangementsevery time, so there’s always somethingnew.

For the next 3rd Friday I am starting asilent auction for one painting eachmonth. I’ll be announcing the paintingvia email weeks before the event, andwill accept bids via email until thenight of artwalk, where I will have sub-mission forms. There will be no mini-mum bid on this piece, and we’ll seehow this works out. I do send out spe-cial discounts to my email list patronsalready, but I’m thinking of expandingthis to include more discounts andmaybe door prizes on 3rd Friday. I justwant my art enjoyed by the world, notstored in a studio. Like I said last Fridayto one customer “You should spreadthe coolness”.

JM: Thank you very much.

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The B l o t t e r

“Best In Show” by Phil Juliano

Ed: To see Dona’s work in personvisit:Golden Belt Studios, 807 E MainSt, Building 3, Durham, NC 27701,Dona Nova studio #140Dona’s phone is 919-933-4477 (call ifyou would like an appointment)

Golden Belt Studios are open 10am-7pm Monday-Saturday, 1pm-5pm onSunday.

Third Friday Artwalk occurs everymonth from 6pm-9pm with lots ofdrinks, food, and live music.

You can also see Dona’s work on the web:www.donanova.comwww.goldenbeltarts.comwww.myspace.com/donanovawww.cafepress.com/donanova

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CONTRIBUTORS

Garrison Somers Yes, it’s all about me. Alwaysabout me. Ha!

Dona Nova - see our “Five Minutes With” interview!

Phil Juliano has been doodling on napkins, schooltable tops and bristol board sincehe was twelve years old. Afterco-founding an independent comiccompany, Luchador Enterprises,with his good friend Alex Dorantesin 1991 Phil was able to channeland focus his love of drawing intothe black and white panels of acomic book page. They went on

to create such diverse titles as “Stone Parker, P.I.”,“Captain Whamo” and the grim noir classic“Retribution.” Phil’s comic book interests shifted in2004 when he was able to fulfill one of his lifegoals...to be the proud owner of a Chocolate Lab,whom he named Spencer, after Robert B. Parker’shard-boiled private investigator. The challengesand follies of raising a puppy, coupled with a brain-numbing solo drive from his home in Herkimer, NYto his guest table at the Small Press Expo inBethesda, MD, led to the creation of Phil’s first solocomic project “Best In Show”, a cartoon strip chron-icling these new responsibilities as a respectablepet owner. Since it’s launch in 2004 “Best InShow” has seen print in various media outlets,including Lisa Wogan’s book “Dog Park Wisdom”published by Skipstone Press. Phil is looking for-ward to being a regular cartoon feature in “TheBlotter” magazine.”

James Maxey of Hillsborough is the bestsellingunknown author in the free world, the author ofBitterwood and Dragonforge and the cult superheronovel Nobody Gets The Girl and those are mycopies, go get your own!

.

The DreamJournal

real dreams, real weird

Please send excerpts from yourown dream journals.. If nothing

else, we’d love to read them.

We won’t publish your whole name.

mermaid@blotterrag.com

Hell is a freight train, pulled into amany-tiered station, and you are theengineer. The station-master is theworst bully from your childhood, andhis instructions are shouted in yourface. You have to help all of theacquaintances from your childhood,people you knew but weren’t reallyfriends with, go downstairs in the sta-tion and gather all of the things youneed to fill your train. He gallops off.Your childhood-acquaintances climbdown from the locomotive and begin todisperse – to find the necessaries foryour boxcars. Suddenly all of the peo-ple from your adulthood, when youwere in the military, your first jobs – theones that you kind of knew but didn’tkeep up the relationships after youmoved on – are there asking you if youwant to go get a beer. You are tornbetween doing what you’ve beeninstructed to do, which you don’t com-pletely understand. Fill the train? Withwhat? Supplies for a hurricane-hit city?War-materiel? Gold bars melted fromthe spoons of Aztecs for the King ofSpain? Wouldn’t it be easier to go withthese almost-friends and have abrewskie than go look for the facesfrom your childhood and try and com-plete the assignment? You decline thebeer, and climb down from the train,running off into a Mall-of-AmericaHell.The really bad part is you see anotherperson from your childhood, can’tremember his name. Shouting somecompletely wrong name you ask him ifhe’s seen Steve, which isn’t the nameof one of the people you’re looking for.He says yes, and points over his shoul-der. You thank him for the information,and continue on your way. It’s going tobe a long day.

KH - cyberspace