The Mountain Ritual

I have not been writing anything new. I have not allowed myself the silence. I am afraid of my own mind and cannot tell you why, so I have filled my waking hours with podcasts, music and video games that I am no longer even really that interested in. A strange feeling but nothing unusual. I occasionally cycle through, usually to books or tv, but  mostly have no interest in these other forms of media either. I want to be clear that I am not unhappy. We have moved, my best friend in this whole world, Allison, and I to a place we chose, we were allowed to choose and it is a gift to be here. It is a community that is beautiful and alive, filled with art, culture, accepting people and so, so much tea. We live within walking distance to dozens of diverse restaurants, and today we went to our first local farmers’ market where we bought the most beautiful fresh scallions I have ever seen. Did I mention we live about two blocks from a freakin’ comic book shop? Prime real estate, I am tellin’ yah.  

Yet, I do not allow myself the silence. Until this moment, while I ignore my phone, my podcasts, Facebook and tell you why I fear stopping the noise. In the quiet there my voice…so much of my voice. My voice that is mine but does not belong to me, telling me many many things, but mostly, and on loop “You are not good enough, in so many ways, you will never be good enough. You are doomed.” I understand enough to know that we all have this voice, it ebbs and flows, and that it is time to confront it again. It is time to pony up and write. I want to write things that matter, and make people think and feel, even if it is just one person because maybe then they can change the world.

I am concerned about the future of this world. Here is the beginning of what I am hoping becomes a short story called “The Mountain Ritual.”

“Pops used to tell us stories about when the air was clean. He told us that there was a time you could go outside and the air around you wouldn’t make your eyes itch and burn. It wouldn’t creep into your nostrils, your lungs, and leave you feeling like a human oil slick.  We either didn’t believe him, or couldn’t fathom it, I can’t remember which. Why should we have? It was the only air we had known, and while it admittedly was getting worse, even in our own short years we could see that, we had never known a breath of fresh air. You go outside, you wear your respirator. That was just life.  So we older kids took what Pops had to say with a grain of salt, but my little brother Peter, he would get so excited by the stories he would begin to wheeze, his smell chest heaving and Pops would have to stop until Peter calmed down enough to go on.

It was from these stories that I assumed the dreams had come. The first one was the best and I remember it the clearest…I think that is why I ended up here….”


Also, as a side note we have started another blog for more day to day activities. We will probably cross post pretty often.

And check out the Flickr Alex finally got around to getting together.



The Great Ivory

Inspired by "The Great Ivory" written by ALD
Inspired by “The Great Ivory” written by Alexandra Lane, Illustrated by Allison Kittredge

If the mammoths were still alive we would use their tusks to make piano keys.  We wouldn’t remove the tusks, but carve the keys right in. The music played by the man sitting between the tusks would reverberate hollow through great halls, where audiences would sit, breathless. Sometimes, the mammoths would cry (because the music is so beautiful, the composer would say), and their tears would be bottled and sold to ladies of high rank and great wealth after the shows. The mammoth’s tears would be said to have magical properties, like adding years to your life, making you more beautiful, desirable, and if you were particularly lucky, happy. Any mammoth that would cry, would not live long after, and its body would be discarded without ceremony.