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Upcoming Event
I hope to make an appearance at the Ottawa Romance Book Fair, when a date is officially announced for 2027. This is a one-day event held at the Conference Centre, so check back soon for updates.
I hope to make an appearance at the Ottawa Romance Book Fair, when a date is officially announced for 2027. This is a one-day event held at the Conference Centre, so check back soon for updates.
2024-01-30
I talk to the dead, rather than with the dead, because when I talk to the dead, this implies that I speak to them alone, rather than have actual discourse with dead folks. If the dead did in fact reply to me, I'd probably run and hide.
In my dreams, I have full-on conversations with loved ones who've passed and also with dead artists. I've had numerous encounters with Picasso in my dreams and they usually have something to do with his paintings or his penis or both. I don't seem to be fussy on which phallic symbol is being used, whether a c*ck or a paint brush. And these dreams got me to thinking about how nice it would be if I had the power to bring back even just three dead people with whom I could spend an afternoon. My choices are not what other famous people might answer when asked the same, to whom they would if they could talk to, such as Jesus Christ or Mother Theresa. I figure these dead persons are naturally profound and full of compassion but that wouldn't necessarily make them interesting. Nope. My list is better, if I may digress into a competitive posture for this post.
Firstly, I'd invite Walt Whitman, a man of poetic depth who held immense wonder for the natural world and who had bravely pursued free verse in a world that thought he was perverse. Never mind who he slept with because in the end that's all irrelevant between consenting adults. Walt pioneered free verse in the late 1900s at a time when his poetry was being banned in the United Sates. Walt would stand on the street corner in Philadelphia selling his monumental book, Leaves of Grass, to anyone brave enough to read his gargantuan collection. I keep my copy of Leaves of Grass beside my side table, next to my couch, and have thumbed through its dog-eared pages I don't know how many hundreds of times. Many of his works I've committed to memory because they've touched me spiritually and emotionally (and I suppose physically too if you acknowledge the fact that the body will involuntarily react when a particular passage of poetry reaches into your soul). Walt's collection of free verse is the one book of poetry that I would most assuredly take with me on a desert island if I was forced to spend the rest of my life by myself or with one other person. Leaves of Grass is like a field of ideas rustling in the breeze and each time you open its pages, you are bound to discover a new blade. And, when you place a wide enough blade of grass between your two thumbs, and press your thumbs tightly together, blowing between that tiny crevice formed between your two compressed thumbs, a sound emerges, like a whip-poor-will's call. Walt's poetry is sound, and feeling, a visual smorgasbord of well-placed words, if you will.
Secondly, I'd invite back my paternal grandmother, Gertrude. She died when I was thirteen but I've never felt like she has left my life. My grandmother gave birth to eight children, loved to travel, wrote limericks and poetry, played piano for silent movies, smoked cigarettes from the age of nine to when she died in her eighties, had a fondness for drink (rum), and even told fortunes using a regular deck of playing cards. I modeled one of my favourite characters (Auntie Aileen) after Gertrude, who not surprisingly I am told by readers that she is also their favourite character. In Newfoundland, where she raised her wily brood, she was considered a witch-lady because she had a special connection with the spirit world and shocked and surprised townsfolk with her prognostications. I know it would be a total hoot to spend time in her company as I am now, an adult, full of myself and thinking that I'm wise and mature. Nana, as I called her, would refer to me as 'child' and I loved it. We had a special connection and I know to this day that my Nana watches over me, to which I say, "Thank you, my darling."
Third and last is Picasso. The man never learned how to speak English because apparently the language confounded him. I don't know how to speak Spanish and I've only a rudimentary understanding of French, which means we'd require a translator but I actually wouldn't give a tinker's damn about speaking with Picasso. I'd simply like to sit back with a cup of strong coffee in hand, and watch him paint. I've read multiple biographies on him, and all state that he could paint for hours upon hours, never moving from his standing position. I would happily squeeze out paint from fresh tubes of colour for him, like some hopeless admirer and maybe some of his sparkle dust would rub off on me... just maybe. [Don't ask me why we are drawn to some artists and not to others. It's not always healthy to question the validity of everything].
That's my list, kidlets. Of course it's not conclusive. I channel the dead too when I write. I'm aware that many writers follow this practice when writing. I channel four writers in particular: Robert Shaw (actor, novelist and playwright who died in 1978; he played Quint in Jaws, you may recall) because I consider his landscaping technique in his five novels to be superlative in their simplicity, literally placing me in his stories. I also channel Oscar Wilde (Irish poet and playwright who died in 1900) whose cynicism and wit are second to none. The man was a genius and a provocateur and society owes a great deal to his literary skill. And of course, I channel Walt Whitman, again to infuse my writing with a dose of naturalness that only Walt could convey. I shan't forget either to include my Nana, given that her limericks are gentle, and subtle in their humour, and eventually I will post individual ones from her collection on future X-posts.
There is no mystery to channeling the dead. You can either say the words aloud or in your head; you invite their spirits to join you as you write and thank them for their insights, which is to say have the decency you hooligan afterward to pour them a drink and leave it out on the counter overnight.
Talking to the dead is better than talking to the walls or a four-poster bed if you trip and hit your head on the way down to pull your drawers to your ankles, before you bend and offer yourself to your lover.
Here's a small taste from Leaves of Grass:
"O You whom I often and silently come where you are that I may be with you,
As I walk by your side or sit near, or remain in the same room with you,
Little you know the subtle electric fire that for your sake is playing within me."
In my dreams, I have full-on conversations with loved ones who've passed and also with dead artists. I've had numerous encounters with Picasso in my dreams and they usually have something to do with his paintings or his penis or both. I don't seem to be fussy on which phallic symbol is being used, whether a c*ck or a paint brush. And these dreams got me to thinking about how nice it would be if I had the power to bring back even just three dead people with whom I could spend an afternoon. My choices are not what other famous people might answer when asked the same, to whom they would if they could talk to, such as Jesus Christ or Mother Theresa. I figure these dead persons are naturally profound and full of compassion but that wouldn't necessarily make them interesting. Nope. My list is better, if I may digress into a competitive posture for this post.
Firstly, I'd invite Walt Whitman, a man of poetic depth who held immense wonder for the natural world and who had bravely pursued free verse in a world that thought he was perverse. Never mind who he slept with because in the end that's all irrelevant between consenting adults. Walt pioneered free verse in the late 1900s at a time when his poetry was being banned in the United Sates. Walt would stand on the street corner in Philadelphia selling his monumental book, Leaves of Grass, to anyone brave enough to read his gargantuan collection. I keep my copy of Leaves of Grass beside my side table, next to my couch, and have thumbed through its dog-eared pages I don't know how many hundreds of times. Many of his works I've committed to memory because they've touched me spiritually and emotionally (and I suppose physically too if you acknowledge the fact that the body will involuntarily react when a particular passage of poetry reaches into your soul). Walt's collection of free verse is the one book of poetry that I would most assuredly take with me on a desert island if I was forced to spend the rest of my life by myself or with one other person. Leaves of Grass is like a field of ideas rustling in the breeze and each time you open its pages, you are bound to discover a new blade. And, when you place a wide enough blade of grass between your two thumbs, and press your thumbs tightly together, blowing between that tiny crevice formed between your two compressed thumbs, a sound emerges, like a whip-poor-will's call. Walt's poetry is sound, and feeling, a visual smorgasbord of well-placed words, if you will.
Secondly, I'd invite back my paternal grandmother, Gertrude. She died when I was thirteen but I've never felt like she has left my life. My grandmother gave birth to eight children, loved to travel, wrote limericks and poetry, played piano for silent movies, smoked cigarettes from the age of nine to when she died in her eighties, had a fondness for drink (rum), and even told fortunes using a regular deck of playing cards. I modeled one of my favourite characters (Auntie Aileen) after Gertrude, who not surprisingly I am told by readers that she is also their favourite character. In Newfoundland, where she raised her wily brood, she was considered a witch-lady because she had a special connection with the spirit world and shocked and surprised townsfolk with her prognostications. I know it would be a total hoot to spend time in her company as I am now, an adult, full of myself and thinking that I'm wise and mature. Nana, as I called her, would refer to me as 'child' and I loved it. We had a special connection and I know to this day that my Nana watches over me, to which I say, "Thank you, my darling."
Third and last is Picasso. The man never learned how to speak English because apparently the language confounded him. I don't know how to speak Spanish and I've only a rudimentary understanding of French, which means we'd require a translator but I actually wouldn't give a tinker's damn about speaking with Picasso. I'd simply like to sit back with a cup of strong coffee in hand, and watch him paint. I've read multiple biographies on him, and all state that he could paint for hours upon hours, never moving from his standing position. I would happily squeeze out paint from fresh tubes of colour for him, like some hopeless admirer and maybe some of his sparkle dust would rub off on me... just maybe. [Don't ask me why we are drawn to some artists and not to others. It's not always healthy to question the validity of everything].
That's my list, kidlets. Of course it's not conclusive. I channel the dead too when I write. I'm aware that many writers follow this practice when writing. I channel four writers in particular: Robert Shaw (actor, novelist and playwright who died in 1978; he played Quint in Jaws, you may recall) because I consider his landscaping technique in his five novels to be superlative in their simplicity, literally placing me in his stories. I also channel Oscar Wilde (Irish poet and playwright who died in 1900) whose cynicism and wit are second to none. The man was a genius and a provocateur and society owes a great deal to his literary skill. And of course, I channel Walt Whitman, again to infuse my writing with a dose of naturalness that only Walt could convey. I shan't forget either to include my Nana, given that her limericks are gentle, and subtle in their humour, and eventually I will post individual ones from her collection on future X-posts.
There is no mystery to channeling the dead. You can either say the words aloud or in your head; you invite their spirits to join you as you write and thank them for their insights, which is to say have the decency you hooligan afterward to pour them a drink and leave it out on the counter overnight.
Talking to the dead is better than talking to the walls or a four-poster bed if you trip and hit your head on the way down to pull your drawers to your ankles, before you bend and offer yourself to your lover.
Here's a small taste from Leaves of Grass:
"O You whom I often and silently come where you are that I may be with you,
As I walk by your side or sit near, or remain in the same room with you,
Little you know the subtle electric fire that for your sake is playing within me."
2024-01-25
The other day, I laughed my ass off reading material I'd written a while back, like years ago. This little stroll down memory lane made me think of one of my principal editors, who I shall Mister Editor, to respect his privacy, as he's not offering services at present. Can't say I blame him. Too often, I taxed his patience with my dog-awful writing, such as when I had flipped to him my first attempt to write a limerick, as part of a contest, put on by Irish Spring. At the time, and after thoughtful consideration, he returned my limerick to me, but not before he pulled out his sharp machete, to hack it to pieces. You see, when in between writing novels, I like to switch up what I'm writing (this blog as an example) bcus it's healthy to trick your brain to change gears, to keep the wheels well-greased. So, I wrote my first limerick, those years past, in between writing novels three and four, despite being uncertain what the hell I was doing. My first try was clunky and stupid and Mister Editor had kindly deconstructed my work with such velocity and skill that my head spun to the far corner of the room, where it hung for a bit, until I pulled myself together and started again.
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2024-01-23
"I'm very scared," said Little Red Riding Hood as she tentatively knocked on the door of Mr. Wolf with her bread basket of warm, sticky pudding, hoping for the best. You just don't know what's on the other side of that door. One is meant to venture out into the world and discover new things, but knocking on the door of a wolf? How many would knowingly do so? Not many, I suspect. Not many because no one wants a wolf coming after them. It's like running into Dr. Lecter in a dark alley and asking him for directions. Maybe Dr. Lecter might point down the street and tell you that's where you should be headed, or maybe he just might decide to eat you with a nice Chianti and some fava beans (and no; this joke will never get old).
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2024-01-22
Were you there that day,
when the saintly smell in the air
made me fall in love with you?
Coming inside me
a singular night, a broken heart
alone, I conjured.
When the lilac bud exploded,
that Spring, in your image I went to sleep
in the joy I felt.
COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy
when the saintly smell in the air
made me fall in love with you?
Coming inside me
a singular night, a broken heart
alone, I conjured.
When the lilac bud exploded,
that Spring, in your image I went to sleep
in the joy I felt.
COPYRIGHT © Patricia K McCarthy
2024-01-18
Here's the skinny on hiking Machu Picchu, from my personal experience. My friend and I visited this remarkable historic site in 2016, as part of a low-impact, tour group. We numbered no more than 13, which is a manageable size. I'm going to offer my advice, a few key pointers.
1. Tours: There are a variety of tour companies that'll happily guide you safely to the top (this is the ideal bcus approximately 5 people die each year, falling off the MP mountain). The classic tour that everyone wants is the Inca Trail, which is the busiest, requiring you to book six months in advance. Then there's a lesser known tour called the Salcantay Trek, not as crowded, more remote and off the beaten-path, as they say; the one my friend and I took — trekking 50 miles in four days, going up and up the Salcantay mountain, utilizing switchbacks (cutting sharply from one side to the other) and sometimes having to climb down before climbing back up again), and this was even before having reached Machu Picchu. The kind of tour you end up choosing, all depends on what experience you're looking for — a Classic one or something lesser known.
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1. Tours: There are a variety of tour companies that'll happily guide you safely to the top (this is the ideal bcus approximately 5 people die each year, falling off the MP mountain). The classic tour that everyone wants is the Inca Trail, which is the busiest, requiring you to book six months in advance. Then there's a lesser known tour called the Salcantay Trek, not as crowded, more remote and off the beaten-path, as they say; the one my friend and I took — trekking 50 miles in four days, going up and up the Salcantay mountain, utilizing switchbacks (cutting sharply from one side to the other) and sometimes having to climb down before climbing back up again), and this was even before having reached Machu Picchu. The kind of tour you end up choosing, all depends on what experience you're looking for — a Classic one or something lesser known.
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2024-01-16
We've all heard the expression that there's no one happier than a fool, which in effect means a fool is lacking in the brain power to fully comprehend situations; hence, their reason for being happy. A fool doesn't know what they should be worried about and more to the point, a fool isn't even aware of the fact that they're not even aware. One could argue that a fool is free to live their life worry-free. Wouldn't that be something, to never worry?
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2024-01-11
My X-friends, it is with a sad and weary heart that I say goodbye and good luck to my comrade, Tinny Peete, who very unceremoniously this past weekend had pulled up his tent pegs and left scribbled on a single piece of torn paper a poignant note with one solitary word, "Later." For those of you who knew the man Tinny that I knew; auteur, photographer, accomplished organist and purveyor of fine spirits, his presence shall be sorely missed, though not soon forgotten.
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2024-01-09
Poets especially will tell you that the sole purpose of existing is to be loved, to feel love, to give love to others. I've read the words of many poets, some Old English in style, others as modern as rigid plastic, and all have waxed philosophic on the travails of love as seen through their young, hopeful eyes. The older we become, or rather as I'm fond of correcting others, the more we evolve, the more our perception of love solidifies, often times into something that is pure cynicism and for the rare few an idyllic notion that is like everlasting hope.
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2024-01-04
It happened for me when I was young, barely two years old, I discovered the wonderful world of jellies and jams. It started with grape jelly, that wiggly, wobbly solidified mass of dark purple that came in an oddly shaped jar. I couldn't wait to knife out a globule and spread it across my burnt toast. Apparently, I was a master toaster at a tender age. Then the grape jelly became raspberry jam and soon this evolved into marmalade, though I didn't much care for the large pieces of rind. I ate it nonetheless if there was no grape jelly or raspberry jam.
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2024-01-02
"For the face, I grant, I might well blush to offer but the mind I shall never be ashamed to present," said Queen Elizabeth I, the virgin Queen, the heir of King Henry VIII, who ruled England with determination and panache, heralding a new era of English literature. Queen Elizabeth I is one of my female heroes, along with Catherine The Great, the wife of the last Czar of Russia who at the age of 55, took young soldiers into her bed as lovers, several in fact in their 20s (puh-lease... no horse jokes).
To be queen means to rule in a world that is predominantly run by the penis. Yes, we are now full-on into the new year of 2024 and as much as I hate to admit, we are still coping in a man's world. But the power of the minx shouldn't be understated, and Queen Elizabeth exemplifies this fact. So, if I were made Queen for a day, week, month, Heaven forbid one full year, I would pen with great consideration and most thoughtful care a list of aristocratic decrees in black script on sacred parchment, tied up with silk, then cast them out my window, from the tower of my Scottish castle, and give them to the people.
Henceforth forever more shall these decrees be heard and observed:
a) All doggies and kitties are permitted to run free and wild and no more shall a pet-owner be permitted to drop off their beloved so that a vet can cut off, cut out or remove a perfectly good set of testes or a fertile womb. People who protest eating meat confound me, as they're paradoxically against feral populations, but in order to do so they have to knowingly mutilate what is natural.
b) Wine, spirits and chocolate shall pour liberally from running fountains in city centers thereby allowing the houseless and less fortunate to imbibe in the same manner as our politicians do so behind closed doors, metaphorically speaking — to plan the next tax attack on an unsuspecting public, always in the new year, always during the big fanfare of releasing a budget, while never actually balancing said budget. [2024 began on Jan 1st, but in Canada new calendar year budgets for the Govt take effect April 1st, so Jan to end-March is the last quarter of the previous calendar year for spending what's left. Our politicians don't waste the opportunity to waste every last red cent, and I say this while gritting my teeth. I've yet to hear of one single government that doesn't operate with a deficit, which represents the interest accruing on the total national debt].
c) Jeans, leggings, wide-legged slacks, comfortable clothing is any shape or form will be encouraged in the workplace vs closed-toed shoes, starched shirts and suits and ties, skirts below the knee, all of which shall remain as optional yet are no longer mandatory.
d) The five-day work week shall be shrunk to four days. If this means working until 7 PM at night, you should be given the option to do so because it's not a terrible trade-off. It's a luxury to be able to enjoy three days off each and every weekend. Meaningful decompression takes time.
e) All national holidays will be doubled for adults and all P.E. days (physical education, apparently) for pre-high schoolers and high schoolers will be cut in half, to teach them what it means for their parents to work and work and work, only to receive zero appreciation from their offspring for sacrifices made to give them a cushy life, while trying to get ahead in life.
f) A parade will be held in the streets every quarter to commemorate artists and their dreams. Life without art is tasteless, meaningless, lacking in grandeur and vibrant sound and colour. Every culture that is revered is known for its art and architecture, not for having waged war. Living amicably with Artificial Intelligence, on the other hand, will be the real surprise for us all going forward.
g) Every billion dollar-plus corporation is obligated to cough up more in taxes. Getting these monster-sized companies to pay their fair share in taxes has been an exercise in deep-fake, thanks to the ease of being able to shelter hundreds of millions each year in profits into off-shore tax heavens. Slippery buggers.
h) Cashews and walnuts and peanuts shall be offered in abundance in parks for squirrels and chipmunks and groundhogs because these little critters are just trying to survive, like the rest of us.
i) Cyclists will be rewarded with an environmental incentive bonus, paid out quarterly. Biking to work, rather than driving, means less motorists who create more pollution. It's OK if the pace of life is slowed, to harken back to a period in the very old past when people enjoyed a picnic in a graveyard with the family. Take a moment to look at the gravestones, the next time you're whistling past a cemetery, and remind yourself that one day you, too, will be pushing up the daisies. Maybe if you're lucky, someone will stop at your headstone, point their finger and say, "Here lies quietly a really cool person who made plenty of noise when alive."
So endeth my decrees, which not surprisingly look an awful lot like ideals. But as I'm fond of saying, perhaps all too often, "Ideals are illusions."
To all who came before me, to all who come after me, follow me and I shall lead you to the Kingdom of Wisdom, wrapped up pretty like a chocolate truffle drop, sitting beside a sharp-tasting cider that is crisp, and poured to the brim. May you drink-in the new year in style.
To be queen means to rule in a world that is predominantly run by the penis. Yes, we are now full-on into the new year of 2024 and as much as I hate to admit, we are still coping in a man's world. But the power of the minx shouldn't be understated, and Queen Elizabeth exemplifies this fact. So, if I were made Queen for a day, week, month, Heaven forbid one full year, I would pen with great consideration and most thoughtful care a list of aristocratic decrees in black script on sacred parchment, tied up with silk, then cast them out my window, from the tower of my Scottish castle, and give them to the people.
Henceforth forever more shall these decrees be heard and observed:
a) All doggies and kitties are permitted to run free and wild and no more shall a pet-owner be permitted to drop off their beloved so that a vet can cut off, cut out or remove a perfectly good set of testes or a fertile womb. People who protest eating meat confound me, as they're paradoxically against feral populations, but in order to do so they have to knowingly mutilate what is natural.
b) Wine, spirits and chocolate shall pour liberally from running fountains in city centers thereby allowing the houseless and less fortunate to imbibe in the same manner as our politicians do so behind closed doors, metaphorically speaking — to plan the next tax attack on an unsuspecting public, always in the new year, always during the big fanfare of releasing a budget, while never actually balancing said budget. [2024 began on Jan 1st, but in Canada new calendar year budgets for the Govt take effect April 1st, so Jan to end-March is the last quarter of the previous calendar year for spending what's left. Our politicians don't waste the opportunity to waste every last red cent, and I say this while gritting my teeth. I've yet to hear of one single government that doesn't operate with a deficit, which represents the interest accruing on the total national debt].
c) Jeans, leggings, wide-legged slacks, comfortable clothing is any shape or form will be encouraged in the workplace vs closed-toed shoes, starched shirts and suits and ties, skirts below the knee, all of which shall remain as optional yet are no longer mandatory.
d) The five-day work week shall be shrunk to four days. If this means working until 7 PM at night, you should be given the option to do so because it's not a terrible trade-off. It's a luxury to be able to enjoy three days off each and every weekend. Meaningful decompression takes time.
e) All national holidays will be doubled for adults and all P.E. days (physical education, apparently) for pre-high schoolers and high schoolers will be cut in half, to teach them what it means for their parents to work and work and work, only to receive zero appreciation from their offspring for sacrifices made to give them a cushy life, while trying to get ahead in life.
f) A parade will be held in the streets every quarter to commemorate artists and their dreams. Life without art is tasteless, meaningless, lacking in grandeur and vibrant sound and colour. Every culture that is revered is known for its art and architecture, not for having waged war. Living amicably with Artificial Intelligence, on the other hand, will be the real surprise for us all going forward.
g) Every billion dollar-plus corporation is obligated to cough up more in taxes. Getting these monster-sized companies to pay their fair share in taxes has been an exercise in deep-fake, thanks to the ease of being able to shelter hundreds of millions each year in profits into off-shore tax heavens. Slippery buggers.
h) Cashews and walnuts and peanuts shall be offered in abundance in parks for squirrels and chipmunks and groundhogs because these little critters are just trying to survive, like the rest of us.
i) Cyclists will be rewarded with an environmental incentive bonus, paid out quarterly. Biking to work, rather than driving, means less motorists who create more pollution. It's OK if the pace of life is slowed, to harken back to a period in the very old past when people enjoyed a picnic in a graveyard with the family. Take a moment to look at the gravestones, the next time you're whistling past a cemetery, and remind yourself that one day you, too, will be pushing up the daisies. Maybe if you're lucky, someone will stop at your headstone, point their finger and say, "Here lies quietly a really cool person who made plenty of noise when alive."
So endeth my decrees, which not surprisingly look an awful lot like ideals. But as I'm fond of saying, perhaps all too often, "Ideals are illusions."
To all who came before me, to all who come after me, follow me and I shall lead you to the Kingdom of Wisdom, wrapped up pretty like a chocolate truffle drop, sitting beside a sharp-tasting cider that is crisp, and poured to the brim. May you drink-in the new year in style.
