What'd I miss?

Quite a bit, it seems. The second half of the Trump fiasco — and a pandemic. And that's just on the widest-picture scale. Life has changed so much, everywhere, for everyone, since Saturday the 23rd of June, 2018 (the date of my last post), that it feels herculean to try and catch up. Which is part of the reason I've let so much time pass without writing here. Every time I thought of doing so, the sheer amount of information I felt I'd need to cover just... tired me out before typing a single word. 

(Disclaimer: I'm not sure I will be posting with any semblance of regularity, even now.)

A shame. I've missed writing here. I've missed many of the people I connected with in the blogosphere (is that still what it's called? I feel so out of it, haha.). Friendships forged through distance, without ever meeting, and yet so powerful, so close. Some of those people I have still on Facebook (I've also almost forgotten Twitter exists), but... it's not the same. The connection feels... well, different. So I'm looking forward to reconnecting with some of them, if they're still around. And if they still find something interesting in what Quiet Laughter will be.

Because things are going to change around here.

This is another — maybe a larger — part of the reason I've been 'away': those Trump diehards. Some of the people I interacted with on a regular basis back in 2018, and earlier, would've been not just delighted but honored to be at the Jan. 6 attack on the Capitol — maybe they even were there. And that's not ok. Not on this blog. This blog is my space — mine — and I get to decide which voices (if any) besides mine are heard here. If you're one of those (or if you feel the need to speak out in favor of Trump, of antivaxxers, of QAnon, of lizard people, of...) please do that in your own space. Not here. And I'll tell you right now: any and all of those comments will be deleted. This is not a public forum. Not your cup of tea? Please unfollow / block / do whatever you feel you need to. For both our sakes.

My space.

(Aahhh, that felt good!)

About a year after I stopped writing here, I realized that I didn't actually miss blogging. And that kind of shocked me. I'd always felt I loved blogging; why didn't I miss it? Why did the thought of writing an update leave me so... well, indifferent? Back when I started blogging — 2011, if you can believe it — it held such joy for me. What happened to it? Where did it go?

I don't have the answers. Not all of them. But reclaiming this space as mine — where I don't compromise, where I can write if / when / what I want — feels like a good place to start if I'm going to find it again. Quiet Laughter began as a sort of journal... a writing journal, a life-in-Curaçao journal, an I-dreamt-this-last-night journal, a journal of milestones. That's what I want it to be again.

Coming soon (ish): an update on this new crazy hobby that's been eating up all my time since 2019 — and the business that's sprung up, kind of like a weed after a surprise rainshower, from it.

To Utopia or Not To Utopia? #WEP December Challenge

'Perfect Is Imperfect Is Perfect' — a tribute to imperfection, by Guilie Castillo
Created in Photoshop, December 2016

Utopia. To me, the word conjures visions of Huxley's Brave New World, Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451, Orwell's 1984. Manic, soma-induced smiles of what passes for happiness (because everyone has forgotten what happiness—that overwhelming, inimitable joy that rises like milk boiling over and fades just as fast—feels like. Thought control. Do's and Don'ts. A shiny happy surface, and under it a roiling swamp of cruelty, of intolerance... The prehistoric, scaly skin of human nature's underbelly.

Maybe I'm a product of my age; in my imagination, utopia decomposes into dystopia rather instantaneously. Perfect is imperfect. And imperfect is perfect. So, if I had to envision a 'perfect' world, it would have to be a place where there is no perfect. Where imperfection is not only tolerated but celebrated. Where differences, and diversity of all kinds, are the only rule. A world without xenophobia, and a society of tolerance, where no life is worth more than another, and all life is sacred.

Is that possible? Current events would seem to prove it's not. But then there's Neil Young...

Do you see people being led by the righteous hand,
Taking care of everyone like they're on a piece of land.
Show me.
Show me.
Show me.
Show me.
Do you see people's lives being lost on the sacred land,
and the battle over water being fought for the baby's hand.
Show me.
Show me.
Show me.
Show me.
When the women of the world are free to stand up for themselves,
and the promises made stop gathering dust on the shelf.
Show me.
Show me.
Show me.
Show me.
Well I hear you out there when you say what you have to say.
I know how you feel 'cus that's what made me this way.
When heaven on earth is improved by the hand of man,
and people everywhere get together and join their hands.
Show me.
Show me.
Show me.
Show me.
Show me.
Show me.
Neil Young - Show Me Lyrics | MetroLyrics 

"... in the grace of the world..." (and the close of the #MiracleTour)

Of course Wendell had to be a dog lover. Of course.

In the spirit of this month's gratitude zeitgeist, here is a tiny beauty from poet Wendell Berry:

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

"... in the grace of the world..." That line gives me goosebumps. There is so much gorgeousness around us, so much to be grateful for, and so much of it we miss because we're too busy with larger concerns, with the big picture, worried about things that will never happen, things we can't control—and, yet, things that would never be a concern if we all devoted our time to "the peace of wild things".

This year has taught me a lot, far beyond what I expected, what I even imagined. Today is the close of the MIRACLE tour, and awesome friend and blogger Damyanti Biswas is hosting me on her blog to talk about these unexpected lessons—of which perhaps the greatest is precisely this: Gratitude. To you.

Thank you. You've made an enormous difference in my life. From now on, every day, no matter where I am or what I'm doing, you'll be in my thoughts. Because you cared, because you had a kind word for me, because you went above and beyond (even though you may not realize you did... even though you didn't really know me).

I will never forget that.

Gratitude is my religion

Join the Gratitude Circle!

I don't believe in much of anything, having grown up an atheist. Religion — of any kind — doesn't make sense to me. Neither does life after death, or the promise of rewards (or punishment) in some place beyond this world. I don't believe in a higher power, a mover and shaker that makes things happen or not happen. I don't believe in prophets or prophecies, or in angels, or in absolute good or absolute evil.

But I do believe in gratitude. I believe it's the single most powerful force we can harness to change the world. It's more powerful than hate, or fear, or even love. Gratitude is what makes a life worth living.

Which is why I love Thanksgiving.

No, we don't celebrate it in Mexico, or here in Curaçao, or pretty much anywhere else in the world other than the U.S. (and Canada, on a different date)—but we should. Actually, we should celebrate it much more often than once a year. Like every day.

We have so much to be grateful. All of us. There is beauty and wisdom and goodness and brilliance in every moment we're alive. Pain and helplessness and disappointment and fear and loss are also blessings; there can be no positive without a negative.

It's so easy to let the big stuff get in the way... It absorbs so much space, so much energy. But the choice is yours. I believe looking at the "big picture" may be a mistake. It's in the small things, the little pleasures and tiny details that surround me, that I've found the greatest joy.

Happy Thanksgiving. Today, and every day.

E-communications: A Reality Check

A friend asked me for some help with a project he's working on, a few suggestions for short stories that might be apt for sparking a child's imagination. I'm not an expert--not even remotely--on children's literature, and I told him that, but he wasn't interested in the traditional stories for kids, so I agreed to come up with some ideas. I compiled a list--dove into my favorites, reread a few (some as a refresher, some just for the sheer pleasure they bring), checked to see whether they were available online somewhere, etc.--and emailed it to him.

And waited.

I wasn't sure how helpful I'd be... Whether my suggestions were PG-13 appropriate, whether they were too long or too short, whether they'd serve for the purpose he intended them. So, yes, I was kind of anxious to hear what he thought. After two days, I went to my inbox and did a global search: could I have missed his response? Could it have gone into the Spam folder? Had I sent it to the right address?

Everything checked out fine. And no, there was no reply.

Before pulling out my violin and climbing up to the rooftop to bemoan my friend's ingratitude in hauntingly melancholic tones (no drama queen here; I'm the freakin' empress), in a moment of enlightened maturity I decided to ask. "Hey. Did you get my email?"

What email, came the response.

Turns out the only way this dude checks his inbox is if you tell him you sent him an email. So I resent it, told him I'd resent it, and he confirmed he'd received it. Yay.

But it got me thinking. Email is a central part of my life. Email, Facebook, Whatsapp, Skype, the blog, social media in general--they're how I stay in touch with the world. Not just with friends and family; my critique group, my publisher, my journalism contacts. Even my dushi Skypes me when he's at the office.

This friend of mine, except for Facebook, uses none of the above.

Perhaps it's my ex-pat status. Or the fact I live in a small island no one's heard of. A large part of the people I speak to every day are too far away for face-to-face contact. But--again, the dushi-with-Skype example above. And it's not just him; most of my island friends are either on Whatsapp or Facebook (or both), and that's what we use to communicate.

So tell me, then. Am I weird? How do you communicate with your world? Do e-communications play a large part in your life? Are they a good thing? Or are we, in Fahrenheit-451-dystopia style, trading real contact for cyber-versions of ourselves?

Lessons of 2014

1. Rhythm is the key to discipline. (Achieving that rhythm is on the list for 2015.)

2. Unconditional acceptance is the most beautiful gift of love.

3. Nostalgia is a powerful drug. It feels good (in a masochistic kind of way), is great as an excuse to avoid reality, is also great for writing fiction, and--because of the above?--is highly addictive. Do not exceed recommended dose. (Recommended dose still to be determined.)

The End: 2014 A Year In Stories

After twenty-one months, the 2014 A Year In Stories project has finally wrapped up. The last three volumes (October, November, and December) are available for purchase and/or download. All twelve volumes--a volume per month, a story a day, 31 novellas--are now out.

Yay!

The Meaning of Cuernavaca

The city of memory, the city of nostalgia, of everything that's been lost, and found, forgotten, remembered.

We--my father, my mother, and I--moved from Mexico City to Cuernavaca in December 1975, when I was two months shy of three years old. I have fragmented memories of that December. For instance, walking around the pool wearing corduroy pants and a woolen sweater (yes, winters in the central altiplano of México can be cold), but my parents were wearing swimming suits, and I remember remarking on that, briefly, internally.

View of the house I grew up in, from the carport. The deep end of the pool is just off-frame to the right.
In the back you can see half of the sandbox I played in for hours, the tree where I had my treehouse
(long gone, rotted or something, before this photo was made), and a corner of the tennis court
(you have to look hard).
My father made this photo five months before he died.

A brief intro to my life in #Mexico

Visitors to this blog might wonder why Derain's "Bathers" get place of honor on the header of this blog. What do three nude women have to do with Quiet Laughter? For those familiar with fauvism, the connection might seem even more bizarre--or, maybe, not.

Neither the nude women, or fauvism--or even Derain--is the connection. This is a photo of the living room in the house where I grew up in. I just took it today. That painting--a copy, obviously--has been hanging in that spot for as long as I can remember--and we moved into this house when I was three. That painting--not even the original, but the copy--symbolizes this house for me, and everything in it: the memories, the drama, the fun times, the losses, the safe haven, the letting go. That painting is, at a profoundly personal level, my history.

One day, it--like me--will have to leave Cuernavaca (Mexico) behind and move to Curaçao.

We'll have to build it a special wall, though.

A whole month off...

Where did May go?
(Image credit)

May flew by and--not a single post. Oops.

Yes, the A-to-Z took a lot out of me this year. Never again with more than one blog, never again in the middle of another project...

'S a matter of fact, maybe never again. Or maybe just not next year. It would be nice to just spectate for once. Get to visit blogs instead of stressing over my own posts or about not keeping up with the lovely comments y'all leave here. Which I love, and which I'll miss...

Well. We'll see. I love being a part of the A-to-Z, but I feel I miss out a lot. Yes, pre-writing is the key. (Why the hell is it so hard to follow one's own advice?) If I'm able to get at least half the post prewritten by January, when the sign-up list opens, maybe--maybe--I'll consider having another go. Right now I'm simply too exhausted to consider it.

What's been happening here over the last 30 days? Well, my laptop broke down mid-March. (The fact I did the A-to-Z on a borrowed computer might've contributed to the aforementioned exhaustion.) No, it's not fixed yet. It's a 2007 MacBook, and one of the fans is shot--but Apple doesn't manufacture it anymore, which means the pseudo Apple store here can't order it. They told me it's available on eBay or similars, but they've failed to give me (in spite of numerous calls to remind them) the specifications on what, exactly, I need to order.

Perhaps a new laptop is the solution. Sadly, seeing as I'm a starving artist (ahem) with a copious family of dogs who cannot starve, that solution isn't much of a solution at all.

Then the washing machine broke down. And then my car broke down.

This sounds like the beginning of a bad joke.

I'm done whining, though. I have this awesome borrowed laptop (borrowed from an even awesomer person--thank you, Cor!) to keep me connected to the world and--most importantly--to keep writing. The washing machine couldn't be fixed, so said Awesomer Person bought a new, supersonic and super quiet, one (thank you, Cor!)--and, as an added brushstroke of the Universe's goodwill, the delivery guys even took the old one away. And my car has been fixed. It was expensive, and it's not perfect (yet), but it drives. (Thank you again, Cor!)

It's possible the dogs might've missed the car more than I did. Which is saying a lot.

Awkword Paper Cut

Another marvelous thing that happened in May: I was featured all month on Awkword Paper Cut, in the Writers on Writing section, along with two other (pretty fantastic) writers to talk about Mexico and why we writers must (sometimes) leave our countries to find our writing. Awkword Paper Cut is a beautiful literary journal, and the Writers on Writing pieces provide powerful inspiration--as well as much-needed diversification--every month. Bookmark them, visit often, and enjoy.

2014 A Year In Stories
A 12-vol anthology
published by Pure Slush Books

And then there's the Pure Slush 2014 A Year In Stories project. Yesterday was the deadline to deliver all 12 stories in our cycles. I've delivered 9, have #10 in an almost-workable draft.

(Today, by the way, my June story is happening. Want to read it? You can, for free. It's part of the Amazon preview for the book. Just click on the Look Inside link and... enjoy. If you do like it, please remember I'm the ugly duckling among these swans of writers. Their stories are so worth your time. And money.)

As of last count, there's 315 stories (out of 365) delivered and approved for print. The July volume is now out, too, and volumes January through May have a 20% discount on Lulu.com.

Aaaaaaand... The fantastic Susan Tepper, another of the magnificent 2014 authors, has snagged a reading date for the project at the KGB Bar in New York's East Village. Talk about illustrious venues! We'll be there on Wednesday November 5th--so if you're in the NYC area, it would be a super treat if you stopped by.


All right. You're all caught up. Now it's my turn to catch up with you.

Pleased to have met you, Sochi

I'm a fan of Olympic games. I rarely watch sports (live or otherwise), and I've never been much of a (sports) player, although I did win silver in a 1.5 km race back when I was... twelve? First race I ever ran. Last, too.

But I love the Olympics.

It's the dreams, I guess. The hope in every face, spectator or competitor. The coming together. I know--cheesy. I choke up with the first strains of the Chariots of Fire theme (yes, even on the Carnival Cruise ad).

I watched the Nadia Comaneci movie dozens of times. And Ice Castles? Hundreds.

I probably learned to skate more from this movie than from the lessons I got at the Galleria rink every time we were in Houston for vacation. (Disclaimer: I can't skate to save my life. Do not try this at home.)

The rink at the Houston Galleria where I learned
 to skate (humming Through The Eyes Of Love)

So the past two-plus weeks have been a mix of heaven and frustration for me. Heaven because--well, see above. Frustration because of TV coverage, or lack thereof. But I managed to watch some events, not as many as I'd have liked--not, for example, nearly enough figure skating, or skiing--but still.

And beyond the sports, what struck me was how different Russia seems to be from the idea I had of it. Yeah, I grew up in Cold War times.

Being Mexican, I'm no stranger to the lengths a country will go to in order to put on a show worthy of international Olympic coverage. Still, Russia's presentation to the world was impressive. How real it was, what it cost (I'm not talking about money here), whether it was a sweeping-under-the-rug or the proof of a true desire to move forward, rise above... Well, time will tell. There's that LGBT issue, for example, that shows no signs of changing in the near future. But this article in the New Yorker added a level of depth to these XXII Winter Games that make them a greater part of history.

Are you an Olympic fan? Did you watch the Sochi games? What did you think about Russia's image?

The Watcher of Vowels

A bit of inspiration goes a long way, especially on Monday morning. Enjoy.

The Watcher of Vowels from Catalina Kulczar-Marin on Vimeo.

“Literature gains its universality by being very specific.” ~Junot Diaz

The search (words) for Quiet Laughter

2014

Happy 2014!

Who was Ad van Berchum?

Ad and me celebrating the completion of the fence's
first panel.

Many things: father, husband, friend, DIY master, harbinger of good humor and incisive wit. The saddest, by far, is that he now Was. That he Is no more.

Imagiste Manifesto

1. To use the language of common speech, but to employ the exact word, not the nearly-exact, not the merely decorative word.
2. We believe that the individuality of a poet may often be better expressed in free verse than in conventional forms. In poetry, a new cadence means a new idea.
3. Absolute freedom in the choice of subject.
4. To present an image. We are not a school of painters, but we believe that poetry should render particulars exactly and not deal in vague generalities, however magnificent and sonorous. It is for this reason that we oppose the cosmic poet, who seems to us to shirk the real difficulties of his art.
5. To produce a poetry that is hard and clear, never blurred or indefinite.
6. Finally, most of us believe that concentration is of the very essence of poetry.

~ Ezra Pound, H.D., Richard Aldington, & F.S. Flint, circa 1912.

On Fear & Other Crutches

We hold on to our fears because they define us. They, we believe, keep us safe. Overcoming fear--of the dark, of scorpions, of speaking in public, of change, of no change--isn't easy, but we make it harder.

Because we hold on.

The Thing About Camouflage

It can save you, certainly. But--save you for what?

Original image here.

Mimesis is your thing, right? Pavement gray, autumn-leaf brown, technicolor lawn green, even the occasional metallic Honda or Toyota hue.

You're so good at this that even people who have you pointed out at them still can't see you. Takes them a minute to go, "Ah--there!"

Presumably your predators do not have you pointed out at them, which means you get to live long and prosper.

Friendship in Curaçao: The Sad (Part IV)

This is the end of the series Friendship in Curaçao: The Good, The Bad, The Ugly, The Sad.

If you've been following this Friendship Series, The Sad won't come as a surprise. The red line throughout these musings has been, after all, the temporary nature of an ex-pat's stint in Curaçao. Sooner for some, later for others, but inevitable for most: relocation.