I’m honestly not sure what we deserve.

On Thursday, I was the foreman in a jury and delivered our verdict to the court.

After nine days of witnesses, evidence, argument, and deliberations, we found the defendant guilty on all five counts. It was a criminal case and the charges carried serious penalties.

It was not an easy role to fill, but it was necessary.

And then on Friday, I dug a grave.

It was hard work, harder than I expected.

A few weeks back, it became clear that age had finally caught up with our cat Chet. He was losing weight fast and there were plenty of signs that he was shutting down. Apart from a couple of days where he rallied briefly, Chet just sat and waited. There was a new tension in him that we hadnâ€t seen before.

We knew what was coming. I suspect he might have as well.

We had hushed conversations in the kitchen, my wife and I. We started to prepare our seven year old for what was coming. I called the older kids to let them know.

And I called the vet, made the appointment.

As the trial dragged on, I had to reschedule twice. At night, Iâ€d sit on the couch and run my fingers gently over Cherâ€s bony frame and hope that heâ€d find a was to slip out in his sleep.

But, in the end, it was up to me.

On Friday afternoon, I took Chet to the vet.

It was quick. He went easy. I knelt down next to him and stroked his cheek. I looked into his eyes until it was over.

I was the last thing he saw, the last voice he heard.

Two exceptionally kind ladies wrapped him up for me in his favorite blanket, his little face sticking out… gently cradling him like a baby as they passed him to me.

All of that thin tension, that waiting in his face… it was gone.

Inexplicably, he looked young again… happy. I was very grateful for that.

I drove him out to Aurohn Lake where a little patch was set aside for all of the family pets forty plus years ago.

It was early evening when I got there, the sun just starting to set. Golden light and very warm. Chetâ€s favorite time of day.

When the grave was dug I made sure he was wrapped up tight in his blanket with the other things Iâ€d brought for him: the little brush my wife used to brush him, the catnip mouse my daughter would toss for him to chase…

I also folded bay leaves into the blanket, along with the pomegranate and the wine Iâ€d bought on the drive out. Gifts he could take with him when he crossed over.

I laid him to rest with his face turned to the setting sun. I made sure he was deep and safe, placing a little wedge of limestone on top to mark the grave.

I said my prayers, asked my gods to take care of him.

And then I went home.

Miraculously, I was no longer sad. All of the effort to dig that grave had, somehow, flushed it all out of me.

None of this week was easy. It has left me exhausted, with a heavy heart.

I have two weeks worth of work to catch up on, a long overdue episode to finish, an even longer overdue book to write… and all I want to do is sleep.

The sun is setting as I write this, golden light coming in over the empty window sill where Chet used to sit in the evening.

And I find that I am sad again.

Itâ€s been nearly a year since last I posted, and it hasnâ€t been particularly good one.

In that time Iâ€ve laid off staff, been laid off myself, applied for hundreds of jobs, and managed to luckily land somewhat on my feet after a limited unemployment. But it was (and continues to be) tough going sometimes.

Over these past months, I found myself living under a shadow most days — one that itâ€s still difficult sometimes to get out from under, even now.

One of the perks of my new job means I get to walk to work, which is good for me as Iâ€m not typically the type that seeks out exercise on a regular basis. This commute takes me through the “Hearthside” district of downtown. So on a daily basis I get to see people living right on the margins, as well as those who are well past them.

It can be a distressing commute some days. But it serves a reminder of how difficult things are for a lot of people in the country, as well as a good reminder of how fortunate I am to have the job, home, and family that Iâ€ve been given.

Meanwhile…

On a brighter side… During these intervening months, two projects that were gestating for a long, long time finally got off the ground.

The first of these is the Find Your Gods podcast in which I explore the resonance and relevance of ancient myths in modern times. Itâ€s deeply personal and mildly informative. And most people seem to like it, so thatâ€s okay.

And I should mention that my novel The Red Boy was finally released in both print and audio formats. Iâ€m very pleased with both and deeply grateful to the kind support of designer Kyle Harris and award-winning narrators Tanya Eby and Neil Hellegers for helping to bring it to life.

Itâ€s a good book, I think. A little sad, but itâ€s well suited for this time of year, when October brings cooler weather, changing leaves, and darker days.

October.

Itâ€s been odd weather here in Michigan. Temperatures in the 90s a few weeks back brought out a literal plague of flies in my neighborhood. Fortunately it looks like cooler weather is here and the pests are on the wane.

Now that Iâ€m (hopefully) edging out from under the shadow cast by the previous months… In the evenings, Iâ€ve been equally dividing my time between work (thereâ€s always something to do in the evenings before the next day), researching and writing the next episode of Find Your Gods, or my latest book The Chameleonâ€s Dish — which is turning out to be a bit of connective tissue between the The Red Boy and The Cradle.

Iâ€m tentatively, cautiously hopeful that it might see publication before the end of 2018.

So thereâ€s that to look forward to.

—

(And yes, I’m aware that some of this — most of this — post is a rehash of an even earlier post from last year. I’m sorry for that. If you want to see what’s currently percolating, follow me on Facebook or Twitter.)

“Summer Salt”

by T.M. Camp

The aged oak trees line each side of the narrow dirt lane. The twisted boughs above me clutch at the flat, pale sky beyond.

I walk beneath them without knowing where I came from nor where I am going.

All I know is the heat and the slow, dark stain spreading across the right side of my uniform. Flies crawl across the rough wool tacky with blood.

Soon the trees clear. I walk on through the dry fields buzzing faintly in the heat towards distant low hills, brown as bread.

I do not remember how long I walked.

I remember stumbling, clutching at the dull ache between my ribs blooming bright. My cracked boots season the afternoon light with dust, the spice of summer.

I did not recognize the faded name stenciled on the battered knapsack I carried, so I left it behind when I rose up from the ground.

I did not know my name. I do not remember thinking that this was strange.

___

Later, the slanting light of the setting sun, the rough wood of the gate under my hand.

Beyond the gate, a barren yard strewn with rusted farm equipment flaking away, scoured by time and misuse.

I remember the house, the woman standing on the sagging porch, shading her eyes.

Her voice, from very far away.

I remember the sudden shock of fresh blood soaking through my fingers, a taste of iron and dust.

A shout, the bang of a door. A man running towards me, his overalls stained with sweat wrung from him by summer and honest labor.

I do not remember if he reached me before I fell.

___

I wake in near darkness. A lantern flickers beside me, throwing shadows across the broad beamed roof over my head.

A man kneels at my side, older than me and dead of expression. He does not look at my face.

Three others stand behind him, watchful — a woman, two men.

They all have the same flat eyes, the same bony chin.

The kneeling man draws his hand up into the air and then down again. As it dips and rises, thereâ€s a flare of agony at my side. The dull gleam of metal between his fingertips, a thin shadow trailing from his hand.

I shift away from the brittle pain. The mattress rustles beneath me.

The woman and her brothers move forward.

On my brow she lays her hand, very dry and cool.

The brothers hold me down, hands heavier than stones. I feel the press of corncobs in my back, the blaze of agony in my side.

The kneeling man raises his hand and lets it fall, again and again.

Someone groans. Someone screams.

___

Dust motes drifting in the light streaming through an open window. Morning or afternoon, I cannot tell.

The older man is there, sucking his teeth over the wound in my side. He helps me rise. The movement is stiff, painful.

I run my fingertips lightly over the wound, tracing the thick dark yarn he used for sutures.

He hands me a threadbare shirt to cover myself and leads me out of the room.

The walls of the house are unadorned, save for a few faded photographs pinned haphazardly down a long length of hallway.

In the kitchen, he leads me to sit at the head of a long wooden table.

The woman rattles pots and plates behind me.

The man, the eldest of the family, takes a seat to my right.

Three brothers and their sister, he tells me. Their shared birthright amounts to no more than the drab clothing on their backs, their dust colored hair, and this farm. Like their parents, they scrape what they can from the dead earth and hope that the world and our wars pass them by.

The other brothers file in from outside and take their seats.

The sister sets a steaming plate before me, then for her brothers.

I cannot remember the last time I have eaten.

Ravenous, I take up my knife and fork.

The elder brother politely clears his throat. We bow our heads.

I do not remember his prayer, only the food in front of me. A simple meal of meat and boiled vegetables. My mouth is watering and, when the amens are said, I spare no time in digging in.

The first bite is oddly tasteless, bland. I ask my host to pass the salt.

No one speaks.

The air in the room goes dead.

I realize that there is no salt here. It is too precious, too rare, like life during wartime.

To barter with, perhaps, to preserve the dead. But not to season food at this meager table.

The family sits with their eyes down, staring at their empty plates.

I see for the first time that only I have been served.

Shame fills my mouth, thick as dust.

I do not remember what I said, but I did try to apologize.

The elder brother raises his head to look at me.

His face, expressionless.

The others sit stiffly in their chairs, still as the dead.

One by one they look at me, their eyes dull and flat as coins.

I shout. I leap to my feet. My hands pressing flat on the edge of the table, sending it flipping up and over through the air.

Empty plates scatter. Of course they are empty, even mine is empty. There is no food in this house, there is nothing wholesome in this dead place.

The table tumbles end over end in a somersault to land flat on the dusty floor with a hollow slap, like the lid of a coffin falling into place.

I stand, staring at the empty room: The stone cold stove, the rusting pots, the warped shelves — all covered with a thick layer of dust.

I am alone.

A single pair of footprints lead across the grimy floorboards. I follow them back down the hallway to the room. Next to the rotting corncob mattress, there is a dark sock, partially unraveled, matted with dust.

I stagger from the room, from the house.

The yard is choked with tall weeds. The rotting gate falls apart under my hand.

I walk up the dirt lane into the heat, towards the gathering darkness.

___

I awake in a military hospital.

Theyâ€d found me wandering the countryside, delirious with fever and weak from the loss of blood. They cared for me awhile until the wound in my side was clean and free of infection.

Even now, writing this with the war and that dead house many years behind me, I trace my fingers along the jagged scar that runs up my side from my hipbone, along my ribs, to end in a puckered depression to the left of my nipple. I rest my finger there. My heart beats beneath its tip.

I told them that I did not remember who had sewn it closed. I lied.

My time at the hospital was uneventful. The days a blur of clean starched sheets, bitter medicines, and bland food. The nights were mercifully quiet, broken only by the whimpers of the sleeping soldiers around me and the soft sounds the nurses made as they moved from bed to bed like pale, comforting ghosts.

— for Ambrose Bierce

My friend and designer extraordinaire Kyle Harris deserve a lot of credit for getting it there. It was his outstanding job on the design that finally got it over the finish line.

You can order it now, if you like. Otherwise, watch for more announcements in various corners of the web and social media spheres.

(Yes, Iâ€m aware that spheres donâ€t have corners.)

Somewhere in the midst of all of this, I sneakily started a new podcast called Find Your Gods. Iâ€d been thinking for a while now about a way to re-invent my old Gospel of Thomas show . . . maybe something to do with my writing and this ongoing near-obsession with mythology that Iâ€ve had since childhood?

Nope. Try as I might, I just couldnâ€t find a way into it.

That is, not until a number of new podcasts hit my radar screen all at the same time earlier this year. My subconscious coughed politely, tapped on the inside of my skull, and whispered “You know, you could always try something like this…”

And so, with the wax still a little wet on my wings, I took a running start and jumped.

Itâ€s been more than a little therapeutic, with all the doom and gloom of the year. 2016 has been a long, hard year for everyone I know. Including me.

So this new show is giving me the opportunity to dive deep into something I love: Mythology. And Iâ€ve been pleasantly surprised to find that almost everything I thought I knew was, in fact, quite wrong.

Weâ€re about seven episodes in now, with new ones coming every other week. The response has been slow, steady, and strong (insert joke about Your Mom here) and Iâ€m very interested to see how it grows and evolves over time. Head on over to findyourgods.com or subscribe on iTunes, let me know what you think.

A few months back I took a break from writing The Chameleonâ€s Dish (the next big book, one that crosses paths with characters from Assam & Darjeeling and The Cradle). It wasnâ€t so much a creative issue, but rather the ongoing stress of 2016 creating a lot of noise in my head…

But the cloud has cleared and now that Find Your Gods has gained some traction, the challenge now is to balance the time between these two projects — and, of course, balancing that against the normal day to day demands of my real life.

Fortunately, I still donâ€t sleep very much. And I kinda like sitting alone in the dark, talking to myself.

Watch this space, more to come…

Meaning me, meaning this here website.

I know itâ€s pretty common for people to post apologies for not posting very often. Lord knows Iâ€ve done it once or twice in the past as well.

Sorry about that. The signal-to-noise ratio has been way out of whack these past few months. Just when you think things are calming down… well, I expect you know how it is.

But Iâ€m back and here are a few things that are in the works, a few things to look forward to…

The Red Boy
At long last, this one is on track to publish in May (yes, this year). Weâ€re taking preorders now, if youâ€re interested.

The Chameleonâ€s Dish
This project has been coming together slowly but surely. I havenâ€t spoken about it much here (or anywhere, really) but it is set in the Underworld and fans of Assam & Darjeeling will be happy to know that some familiar faces put in an appearance.

The bad news is, Iâ€m maybe a quarter of the way through the first draft. So itâ€ll be a while before this one sees the light of day.

But you can get little glimpses behind the scenes over at Pinterest. Iâ€ve been posting theme and character inspirations there for a while now.

New Editions
Once The Red Boy is released, Iâ€ll be turning some attention back to Assam & Darjeeling, Matters of Mortology, and The Cradle. Each book will be re-released in a new, vastly improved edition. Apart from some long overdue cleanup and corrections to the texts, each title will also sport a spiffy new cover design and typesetting.

Iâ€m thinking we’ll have some of these ready for sale later this year, just in time for Christmas.

#fyg
For a while now Iâ€ve been tinkering with an idea for a new non-fiction project. Over the past few weeks, things have started to come together and it looks like I should be ready to go live with a new podcast a few weeks from now.

It’ll be interesting to see how it comes together.

A big open question is whether it will be weekly or biweekly but I think it’ll be the latter. Time is the main problem there.

Until then, secret project is still secret. Watch this space and stay tuned for details…

But, of course, itâ€s not all about me…

A few months back a friend suggested I check out the Cartoon Network miniseries Over the Garden Wall.

So I did.

Two little kids, lost in a dark wood… Encountering all sorts of odd characters, being pursued by a menacing figure as they try to find their way back home.

Itâ€s outstanding and utterly charming. Itâ€s now on my Top Ten list of all-time favorite things ever.

If you like the sort of things I like, you will love it.

I wasnâ€t familiar with Michael Pollanâ€s work before stumbling across Cooked on Netflix. Itâ€s not a cooking show or a travel show or a foodie show. But if you like those sorts of things, then you should check it out.

Iâ€d call it culinary anthropology.

Itâ€ll change the way you think about the things you eat, in a good way — and no, itâ€s not one of those guilt documentaries. Itâ€s a celebration.

Oh my god. Youâ€re not listening to the Lore podcast yet?

Stop everything, drop everything, go subscribe right now.

My wife and I tend to be homebodies (and we hate everyone) so it takes a lot to get us out of the house for the evening.

Early reviews and the trailer for The Witch had us both saying “Yeah, that one looks like it’s worth setting aside our misanthropy for a few hours.”

We were right. The Witch is easily one of the best films I’ve seen in a long time. It’s perfectly acted, and the writing and direction show a masterful amount of craft.

It’s not for everyone, though. It’s a period piece and shows a remarkable restraint in not letting modern horror sensibilities take the reins of what is a genuinely disturbing little folktale.

So it was surprising to hear how much other people hated it. As near as I can tell, they went into it expecting something a more conventional scary popcorn movie and the slow growth of the suspense in this quiet little story left them bored.

We loved it.

In some ways the negative response to The Witch reminded me of the response people had to Crimson Peak. Based on the reviews I read, most people seemed to go into Guillermo Del Toro’s latest movie expecting something entirely different.

Which surprised me, because I knew exactly what I was getting into and I thought it was a terrific gothic story in the Hammer tradition. Apart from a minor quibble over casting Charlie Hunam in an admittedly already two-dimensional role, I really loved it. I think Del Toro perfectly accomplished what he set out to do, and he did it exceptionally well.

So there.

As long back as I can remember, Iâ€ve always been a fan.

There are lots of reasons why but, if Iâ€m being honest, the biggest one is probably that October is when itâ€s fairly safe to assume that weâ€re done with all the hot weather and summer nonsense. October is when youâ€re safe to mentally switch over to wearing long sleeves, sweaters, jackets and coats. All of which, thanks to decades of insecurities and body issues, I prefer.

October is when the wind blows cold.

October is brisk evening walks and cold cheeks.

October is when the moon shines brighter and hangs longer in the sky.

October is the hinge of the seasons, when the darkness slowly folds over on top of the day.

October is when the leaves start to turn, start to fall. Each one looking like they were dipped in fire or in wine.

October is apple cider. October is hot soup and fresh baked biscuits.

October is a warm house.

October is Halloween.

October is Ray Bradbury.

Make this happen, Internet.

Since the service, people who knew and loved Ken have been asking for a copy (including me).

I think it’s lovely.

(I don’t have a photo of Keeley and Ken together, but above you can see her in all her glory at Aurohn Lake — one of the many gifts he gave to us all.)

Grandpa was a lot of things.

He was Grandpa, he was a conservationist, a farmer, a boy scout, an ad-man, a teacher, a father, a husband, a faithful friend to so many, and of course, a writer.

He liked writing poems. He liked poems that rhymed. He would write an original poem every year for my birthday card and every year for Christmas cards (and Grandma helped too, I know).

He wrote much more, of course. Books and radio plays and essays and articles…

Writing has life. Everything written is a creation. Every letter is a seed that has been planted in a row.

Everything about Grandpa was full of life. His personality, his writing, and his land. He planted trees, he planted flowers, he planted memories in that land. He wrote some of the best chapters of my childhood.

Knowing that the place where he walked, where he worked, where he wrote… The place that he looked out across every day and said the blessing “Lord we thank you for this day, we thank you for the beauty that surround us…”

Knowing that that place will be preserved and protected… It’s as if we know our childhood will be protected, too. And what kinder gift, what better story, could ever possibly be written?

Every blade of grass is a noun
every flower is an adjective
every field is a paragraph
every tree is a line of poetry

And people will be reading the story of the land, as Grandpa and Grandma wrote it together, for generations to come.

Keeley Geary
March 10, 2015

…and when I was young, Iâ€d look out my window at night. There was this flashing clock on top of a building that I could see from my window. It flashed all night long. I used to watch it, counting. Seeing how long it would go on . . . just flashing the time away. Iâ€d watch this from my window, when I was young. And sometimes Iâ€d wonder, how long it had been going? How many years had it been there? How long would it keep going? And, maybe, thousands of years from now will it still be going? When everything else is cold and still, and the only sound is the wind blowing through an empty world. Will it stil be there? Flashing? And will it still have the exact time? And when it stops, finally, when itâ€s done, what time will it be?
— from Drawing Away

Apparently we never entirely shake off some of those little high school quirks — at least, maybe I didnâ€t.

Years ago, when I clumsily fired up the first version of this site, I had a little webcam that would deliver a static live snapshot every 30 seconds of whatever I was doing at the time. I usually left it on late at night when I was in my office writing — an odd blend of narcissism, introversion, and loneliness.

Over the years, the webcam captured a lot of unintended moments, like me obliviously singing my heart out…

…arguing with [redacted]…

…and obsessively checking to see if I looked cool in the latest snapshot…

It was a little one sided, but somehow it touched that same little nerve that watching that clock used to do for me, all those years ago.

“…the single assumption which makes our existence viable – that someone is watching…”
— from Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead by Tom Stoppard

Staying up late when the rest of the house is quiet is something that Iâ€ve been compelled to do since I was very young. I can remember being four or five years old and sitting up in bed, reading long into the night.

Iâ€ve never really stopped.

I have always loved being awake in a sleeping house. The secrecy of it. That stillness, the privacy. The selfish solitude of bare feet and cold floors.
— from The Whispering Boy

At a certain point, the night takes on a surreal quality and itâ€s difficult to shake the feeling that you are, in fact, utterly alone in the world.

That isnâ€t always a bad feeling. In fact, it almost never is.

But the clock reminded me that I wasnâ€t alone. Sometimes I would sit and fantasize about who else might be out there, awake in the night, watching it from their window.

When I joined Twitter, I immediately recognized that old familiar cocktail of narcissism, introversion, and late-night loneliness. It was like coming home.

A few weeks back I got wind of Periscope and, once again, I was instantly mesmerized.

Quickly, hereâ€s Periscope in a nutshell: Itâ€s a mobile app that allows you to share live streaming video straight from your phone. People can watch your feed, post comments in real time, and tap their finger to give you “hearts” (imagine if you could click the Facebook “like” button over and over again).

The potential impact of Periscope on every aspect of our culture was immediately obvious to me and I could not stop talking about it to everyone.

Itâ€s fun and frightening and downright amazing.

The people streaming live video of their cats purring one Saturday morning — delightful.

The countless pre-teen girls crowded around their phones on a Friday night saying “Ask us anything” — horrifying.

The bands, practicing set lists in their basements and living rooms — awesome.

And on and on and on it goes…

The writer side of my mind was working overtime: Broadcasting live readings, holding Q&A sessions with my fans… Forging immediate connections with new readers… Setting up a floating “salon” of like-minded writers…

So many great ideas to explore. At the very least, it gave me a new way to mix up my cocktail — but, better than the old webcam, now we can interact with each other.

Mostly, Iâ€ve just been telling ghost stories (true ones) or I only sit there and write while people watch and, in time, lose interest and leave.

So many ideas…

I work in Advertising, so Periscope represents a whole other world of opportunities and issues to explore for my clients — but thatâ€s a different blog post for a different website.

More importantly, I have become obsessed with the immediate and profound sense of connection that Periscope provides.

Another writer called it “teleportation” — the ability to be anywhere in the world. Someone in the UAE can walk down the street and give me (and everyone else) a real time look at life on the other side of the world. A side of the world that, admittedly, people in my country sometimes tend to demonize or disassociate from. But Periscope broke down those boundaries.

New York, Dubai, South America, the UK, Nepal… I started looking for as broad a range of people and places that I could find.

One of my favorites is @neilpande. His broadcasts of the sunrise and sunset in Kathmandu are stunning. As is his own enthusiasm for the world he lives in. I can’t help but be swept up by it all. The connection is so strong that, when I woke up to the news of the earthquake this past weekend, I immediately thought of my “friend” there and checked to see if he was okay (he is, but the devastation and tragedy there is staggering… please help if you are able.)

That point of connection, the awareness of a single world and the ability to see it all . . . amazing.

One feed I ran across was titled “Awake, Cancer” — just a darkened room, a digital alarm clock on a nightstand. And a flood of comments with love and support from strangers all over the world.

I watched a snail in France crawl across a leaf.

Another time I had the good fortune to see “Mama cat having kittens” and watch as, halfway around the world, a litter was born in the UK. The mama cat was named Snickers so everyone suggested candy bar names for the kittens. Iâ€m proud to say that somewhere in England there is a kitten named “Toby” because of me (short for Toblerone).

Thereâ€s a flip side to all of this as well, of course. And it can get a little ugly.

Politics, journalism, law enforcement, celebrity, sexuality… all aspects of our culture are bound to mutate under the gamma radiation of a live worldwide video feed.

As I started getting more and more obsessed, I made all kinds of predictions. “Itâ€s only a matter of time,” I told my remarkably patient family and colleagues. “Someone will broadcast a terrorist attack. Someone will commit suicide. Or a drive by shooting. Or a sexual assault.”

These things are bound to happen. Because the potential is there, for good or ill.

A few days ago, I found myself watching with equal parts admiration and dread as @paullewis of The Guardian UK ran a live feed from the midst of the protests in Baltimore following Freddie Grayâ€s death. I was watching, in real time and more or less unedited, an event that otherwise would be delivered to me in heavily produced and commented soundbites.

There was a freedom there but I was also well aware that Iâ€d added a dash of voyeurism to the cocktail.

I donâ€t know where Periscope goes from here. I think it has staying power and relevance. Itâ€s strong enough that Iâ€ve had to curtail my own use, because it was distracting me from my work.

As excited as I am to explore the possibilities, Iâ€m equally enthusiastic to see how other people put it to use as well.

But mostly Iâ€m just glad to have something that can remind me, when I’m wandering around the house in the dark hours of the night, that Iâ€m not the only one.

We hit it off. Not surprising, as we had a lot of things in common. Each of us had been lucky enough to fall into careers in Advertising. We both discovered a love of books and writing at an early age. And we shared a delight in the spoken word, particularly in the form of long, rambling conversations punctuated by bad puns and jokes. The badder the better.

I loved talking with Ken. Every conversation with him was a delight.

In fact, part of my “What if I win the lottery?” daydream included stopping by to talk with Ken every day.

I looked forward to our visits and, when it was time to go, I was always so grateful when he said “Come back and see me again soon.”

Early on, I recognized that the almost immediate rapport that developed between us was something rare and special.

Over the years, though, I realized that it wasnâ€t our bond that was rare and special… it was Ken.

He was rare and special.

His mind, his creativity . . . all of the things he achieved in his work.

His sense of adventure, his enthusiasm for the world. The places heâ€d been, the people heâ€d met.

The connections he made with friends, colleagues, and students — relationships that he valued and sustained for decades.

That lifelong devotion he shared with his wife. His commitment to his family.

His generosity.

The amazing provisions he made to take care of the people he loved, to support the causes that he believed in, and to cultivate and preserve the wonderful gifts that heâ€d been given.

Ken was rare and special.

He lived a rare and special life. And he knew it. He didnâ€t take any of it for granted.

And, because he was Ken, he made life rare and special for all of us.

He made it rare and special for me.

I feel so lucky, so grateful to be able to say that he was my friend.

Ken passed away last night.

Itâ€s not a tragedy.

We should all be so lucky to live such a rare and special life, to take our leave gently in the night holding the hand of our oldest, dearest friend.

We should all be so lucky.

And we are, because we knew Ken.

It’s been a while since I posted some music — hell, it’s been a while since I posted anything, I know.

This song has been with me for a few days now (my middle daughter is taking accordion lessons). I’d forgotten how much I like it.

And there’s an Underworld connection too, if you’re looking hard enough for it.

— William Shakespeare, The Tempest

(Photo by Tammie Bowden via Etsy)

One afternoon this past summer, my 19-year-old son was walking down the middle of the street in a neighborhood here in our town. 

A car pulled up behind him. 

My son did not move out of the road, just kept walking.

After a moment the driver honked his horn.

Without turning around, without missing a beat, my son flipped the bird over his shoulder and kept walking.

I have no doubt that, had the car behind him been a police car, my son would’ve had a pretty uncomfortable afternoon after that.

I also have no doubt that my son would not have been arrested, let alone shot. 

Because my son is white.

As the news comes in from Ferguson that a grand jury has declined to indict Darren Wilson for the murder of Michael Brown, I am reminded that context is everything. 

And I am profoundly dejected.

Finding the right comic book store is like finding the right church. And more difficult in a town where there is a church approximately, seemingly, within a quarter mile of wherever you happen to be standing.

But I digress.

It’s all about the people. A good comic book store is a place where you can count on the people who work there: They’ll hold your stuff for you… They’ll make suggestions based on what you like… They’ll talk to your kids and give them little toys or comics.

After a few weeks and a lot of really bad comic book stores. The owners were, mostly, the typical stereotype: Guys so loaded down with their own snark that they couldn’t help but sneer at everything, even things they liked. They lived The Simpsons cliché with a remarkable lack of self-awareness.

There was the guy who had a great little shop in the hip pre-hipster part of town with all kinds of rarities, pronounced “manga” properly like he was correcting the rest of the world, and refused to get me something so mainstream as Batman Animated Adventures for my two year old son. But he had no problem putting “recommendations” into my weekly pull bag and expecting me to buy them.

At another shop — the biggest one in town and possibly one of the best stocked comic stores I’ve ever been in — the guy behind the counter clearly had a large base of return customers with overstuffed pull bags . . . so he couldn’t be bothered to remember my two or three measly issues every month.

To use a technical term, they were all assholes.

I got lucky when someone pointed me towards a little rundown shop called Tardy’s Collectors Corner. The minute I walked in, I knew I was home.

Comic books have been a part of my life since I was very young. I’ve got my older brother Scott to thank for that. He had two big cardboard boxes of comics that I’d dig through, reading them over and over again.

Every so often, I would walk up to the local 7-11 where I’d paw through he rows of comics. I’d buy however many I could with the dollar my mother had given me. Or, if none caught my eyes, I’d get a slurpee and bubble gum. The slurpees sometimes came in collectible plastic cups with different comics characters on them and they were very cool.

I was probably five years old. It was different back then. I wandered around on my own all the time. And they sold comics everywhere: Drug stores, grocery stores, liquor stores, gas stations, toy stores — everywhere but book stores, oddly enough.

I remember the first time I went to an actual comic book store a few years later. It seemed… exotic. I’d never heard of such a thing before. I remember the bagged comics hanging on the wall behind the counter — stained glass windows behind the altar.

I read comics all through grade school and junior high. I don’t think I ever knew another kid who read comics. They’d read them when they came to my house. Same thing in high school, in college. Most of my friends read a comic for the first time, went to a comic book store for the first time, because of me.

I read an article recently about the social and economic impact of Frederic Werthamâ€s impact on the comics industry. In the 1950â€s, 95% of of elementary age kids were reading comics and sales topped 1 billion in sales. Thanks to Wertham and his trumped up witch hunt, most of my friends never read a comic before they met me. And the industry today is struggling with sales of only 7 million.

I donâ€t know how those numbers break down between Amazon and other online retailers, brick and mortar book stores selling the popular “graphic novels”, and the always-struggling independent comic book stores. But Iâ€m guessing the comic stores are the ones who are seeing their numbers dropping year after year.

My first comic book store was a place in Orange County, California. Freedonia (after the Marx Brothers movie, of course) was where I bought my first issue of Cerebus. I met Chris Claremont there and he signed my copies of the Wolverine miniseries. I bought Frank Miller’s The Dark Knight Returns there.

The guy who owned the place — I can see his face but I can’t remember his name — usually nodded approvingly over what I bought and made suggestions. Thanks to him I bought the first issues of Sandman and Hellblazer there. I bought my first issues of Alan Moore’s Swamp Thing there. I bought Watchmen.

That was a good place. I spent years looking for another one in two different states, three different cities. And failing.

So when I walked into Tardy’s, it was a relief.

The guy behind the counter was gruff, curmudgeonly. But he knew his stuff and clearly loved comics. And he had a little twinkle in his eye when he saw my son looking in awe at all the posters and naming each of the superheroes he saw.

There was a stuffed Cerebus on a high shelf behind the counter. Someone had thoughtfully put a pair of lace panties over one ear, a slightly disturbing but clever little nod to issue #95.

There was a custom sketch by Bob Burden (titled “The Girl with the Radar Shoulder”) on the wall behind the counter. Itâ€s still there.

And, when my son asked to use the bathroom, I spied a little stack of those old collectible plastic slurpee cups by the sink.

Home.

Kirby — that was the owner’s first name, I later learned (and is there a better name for a comic book store owner than that?) — ran the place with his wife. They were friendly and welcoming, keeping their shop going in a neighborhood that had seen . . . well, maybe not better days but, at least, cleaner ones. Their store was the safe haven. A warm little corner of color and fun.

As near as I could tell, their shop and the bail bondsman on the corner were the only two ongoing survivors in the local retail apocalyptic landscape.

For over eighteen years I’ve been going to Tardy’s. Kirby and his wife have watched my kids grow up. My son, now twenty, has his own pull bag now. My four year old likes Adventure Time. My sixteen year old daughter just bought the first issue of Wytches and the lastest Batman/Superman there. I’m proud of all of them.

Comics are touchstones in my life. So is Tardy’s.

I bought the final issue of Sandman there. I bought the final issue of Cerebus there. I bought the final issue of Hellblazer there.

I sat in my car outside the store with each issue . . . having a little wake each time, saying goodbye to characters I’d loved for years.

I bought the first issue (and, then, all the issues) of Promethea at Tardy’s — thanks to recommendation from Kirby, of course — a book that would end up resonating through my life, beliefs, and work in ways I would have never expected.

The last few years, I’ve seen my share of hard times. Tardy’s has always been there, letting my pull bag go more than a few months past due when money was tight. And, in good times, they’ve always been glad to try and find some rarity or special order for me.

Yesterday at Tardy’s there were a few new faces behind the counter — at least, I didn’t recognize them. But that’s probably because, as I’ve gotten older, people tend to blur together a bit.

I didn’t think much of it. Kirby’s staff has fluctuated over the years. There were a few forgettable kids who came and went. But it was cool to see his son working the counter sometimes. Of course, Kirby and his wife were usually, almost always, there. And it’s always a lucky day when my visit falls on the same day when the excellent and friendly Tim — the Flying Dutchman of Tardy’s — is there.

Yesterday, my pull bag was empty (alas) but I found that issue of God is Dead that I’d heard about — the one with Alan Moore’s Glycon essay in it — so that was good. While Julia helped her little sister find a missing issue of Fiona and Cake, I looked around for some kid-friendly comics to hand out on Halloween.

I overheard the guy behind the counter talking to another customer. He was saying something about Kirby selling the business to him.

And my heart just fucking sank.

Omnia mutantur I reminded myself as I made my way to the front. So it goes.

The guy must have seen what I was holding (or he saw Julia’s comics) and said “Have you read Birthright?”

I hadn’t. He gave me a quick synopsis and it sounded like something I’d like. So I went and grabbed it.

While I was paying, I had to ask: Were they really buying the place?

They were. The two of them — Gavin and Deanna — were long time customers and, when Kirby started talking about retiring and selling off the stock, they stepped up and worked out a succession plan with him. It’ll take a couple of years but, in the end, the store will remain.

Somehow, taking with Gavin, my dread shifted over to relieved optimism. He’s enthusiastic and friendly, he’s got good ideas, and he clearly loves comics. He seems cut out for the challenge of keeping a somewhat anachronistic business in a marginalized industry up and running.

Omnia mutantur, nos et mutamur in illis.

One can only hope. If (fingers crossed) things work out, Gavin and Deanna just might be selling comics to my grandchildren.

Thanks, guys. May your gods bless you.

I’ll see you next week.

Still holds up, yeah? There’s also a very nice acoustic version of it out there as well.

It occurs to me that this song relates to a new project I’ve been working on for a while now. Maybe that’s why it’s been in my head lately. I’ve mentioned the project here before but the only thing you can see related to it is a Pinterest board showing some of the inspiration, imagery, and themes.

Recently I dug them out of a box in the basement. They’re now my youngest’s favorite books.

She’s reading them over and over again, much as I did at her age… over forty years ago.

She was excited. She was ready.

It was a good morning, lots of memories.

A bit fraught, a little bittersweet.

We did okay.

We watched her walk to the door.

So confident.

Sheâ€s my hero.

But there were tears in the car and, later, more at home — ours, of course.

She was ready. We werenâ€t.

A flood of feelings while we watched the teacher walk our daughter up to the door.

Later, I thought about the times Iâ€ve watched my children turn their backs and walk towards the future, watched them walk away from me.

Itâ€s hard.

With the older ones — one is twenty and the other is almost sixteen, now — I remember them little.

I remember the feel of their small hands in mine.

I remember their voices.

Itâ€s hard.

Iâ€ve stood there in the night, countless times, and watched over them — watched the gentle rise and fall of their chest, watched the tide move in and out as they slept.

I stand there now, tonight, watching while my youngest rests after her very exciting first day.

And, well, itâ€s hard.

As hard as anything.

Maybe even harder than with her older brother and sister.

Because I know whatâ€s coming. I know what sheâ€s walking towards.

What she’s walking away from.

And, honestly, itâ€s a little bit like mourning.

Thereâ€s a death in there, somewhere . . . somewhere in me.

I remember the life thatâ€s passed. I hold onto the hope of the life thatâ€s to come.

They turn their backs, they take their steps.

I let them go.

I pray theyâ€ll come back.

— — —

Thatâ€s what I want to be for them, as their father — a safe harbor to return to when they need it, a touchstone they can carry along the way.

I donâ€t feel any compulsion to guide their steps, to point them in the direction I think they should go. I donâ€t feel a need to shape them, to mold them in my image.

Their own images are so much more interesting and wonderful.

Itâ€s more rewarding for me and, really, more useful for them to just watch and marvel over who they are and what they become.

I know lots of parents who talk about how proud they are of their children. Most of the time, what I hear is how proud the parent is of themselves.

“Look at what I made.”

So I donâ€t say that I am proud of my children — I am proud of them, of course, but not because I think I had anything to do with how wonderful they are.

No . . . what I am, is grateful.

Iâ€m grateful that they were given to me, grateful to have so much that I really don’t deserve.

Iâ€m grateful to have such wonderful people in my life, grateful to watch them grow and become even more wonderful.

Iâ€m grateful that I didnâ€t do too bad a job with what the gods gave me.

Iâ€m grateful that I have had each of them there to walk with me for a while through the highs and lows of my own life.

And Iâ€m especially grateful that theyâ€ve let me tag along as theyâ€ve made their way through the world.

I pray that it will always be so.

— — —

The same day that my youngest started school, my oldest invited me to come by and see his new apartment.

This is his first place, a place of his own.

Heâ€s working very hard. Itâ€s a struggle, sketching out your own little piece of the world.

I remember his first room, the little apartment we lived in when he was born. I remember putting his crib together.

And now…

I was impressed to see how heâ€d made a place of his own — something I was far too immature and weak to have done at his age.

Heâ€s always been stronger than me. Heâ€s always been my hero.

Iâ€m glad heâ€s doing it. I think itâ€s outstanding.

And, yeah, I still mourn . . . probably more than a little.

But Iâ€m grateful that he invited me.

— — —

And that same day…

The same day my youngest started school…

The same day my oldest invited me over for a visit…

That same day, my middle child — and the middle is sometimes such an awkward place to be, but sheâ€s exactly the younger sister that her brother needs and the big sister that her little sister loves . . . and I love her for it — she reminded me yet again of how glad I am that sheâ€s my daughter.

Sheâ€s funny. Sheâ€s kind and sensitive.

Sheâ€s boldly talented, writing songs and recording them and setting them free into the world. She has far more bravery and creativity than I had at her age — maybe even more than I do now.

Sheâ€s my hero.

And Iâ€m grateful for her, grateful that I have a teenage daughter who actually talks to me.

I’m grateful that she shares her ideas and songs with me, grateful that she trusts me and shares her life with me.

I canâ€t wait to see where her path takes her.

— — —

I canâ€t wait to see where all three of those paths lead.

I pray they donâ€t go too far.

— — —

I am rich with children.

And I am grateful.

Sleep well, Endymion…

Here’s David Bowie and Queen (of course).

(This one goes out to the rest of the people on the edge of the night. I’m right there with ya.)

A bat showed up in the house this morning. He was hiding in the bookshelves.

I assume it was a harbinger of prosperity and long life for my birthday, and not because, yâ€know, we donâ€t have a belfry.

He was a little brown bat, very cute. I got him out, safe and sound.

I expect heâ€s posting to Twitter right now about it.

(Bats use Twitter. Obviously.)

So here’s Curtis Mayfield’s “Pusherman” for your listening pleasure.

It seems like songs — well, some songs — are more like places. They occupy a physical place in my mind. They’re snapshots of the geography of my dreams. And I find myself returning to them again and again — a place where I’m safe, protected.

The word haven means “a place of shelter and safety; refuge; asylum.” It comes from the words for port and harbor — it means a place you can go, to escape the stormy seas.

At any rate, here’s “Sleep” from Amanaska…

Happy Tunesday everyone…

I wrote this a few years back. For what it’s worth, you can see the bowl of grapes in the photo…

“Big Pop”

A plastic bowl of grapes.
The dusty, almost-black globes
polished by our fingertips.
The tart snap of the skin between my teeth.
He teaches me to spit out the seeds,
the stones bitter on the tip of my tongue.

She in black, long hair pulled back.
He already under his stone, so long.

For me, the standout is his work on the Micronauts title. In lesser hands, that book would have never been much more than a crass and cynical marriage between Comics and Marketing/Merchandising.

In Bill’s hands, however, an entire world took shape.

Thirty-five years later, I still have that world inside me. Thanks to Bill.

My old Micronauts toys are posed on shelves in my office. And those comics Bill wrote are there along with them.

Bill did the same for ROM: Spaceknight — a flop of a toy but a longstanding fan favorite that made a significant contribution to the Marvel Comics Universe.

And I’m told that I am missing out by not having read Bill’s run on The Incredible Hulk.

Bill was important. He is important.

I’ve been nerding out nonstop since I saw the recent trailer for Guardians of the Galaxy. I know nothing about the characters, I’ve never read the comics. But I’m mildly obsessed with Rocket Raccoon and I can’t wait to see the movie.

FanTAStic.

Come to find out, Bill Mantlo also created Rocket Raccoon.

In 1992, Bill was struck by a hit-and-run driver. He was comatose for a period of time and suffered irreparable brain damage. Since then he has lived in a healthcare facility in reduced circumstances, struggling with his disabilities and depression. He is no longer able to write.

Bill created heroes for the rest of us. We need to return the favor.

You can make a donation that will provide direct and immediate assistance to his care. Bill’s brother and legal guardian Mike Mantlo has a Paypal account set up to take donations for Bill’s care.

I’ve made my donation. I plan on giving more, as I am able. I’m asking you to do the same.

Even if you’ve never heard of him, even if you’ve never read a comic in your life or have no interest in a doublestuff kickass laser-blaster toting spce raccoon, please consider helping out with the cost of Bill’s ongoing care.

What happened to Bill could happen to anyone. It could happen to any one of us. It could happen to me.

If you like my work, then please consider helping one of the people who had an influence on it.

Thanks for listening…

—————————–

As he gradually lost his ability to write, Bill managed to capture some of his final words. You can read them here. They are heartbreaking.

If you want to know more about Bill, his legacy, and the accident that took it all from him (and took him from us), read this article by Bill Coffin. It too, is heartbreaking.