Dear Father...

 “It never gets easier, missing you. And sometimes I wonder if it ever will.” --- Heather Brewer, "Ninth Grade Slays"

 

This is a re-post of a blog I originally wrote in 2009, the year my dear father passed away. My sister asked if I would repeat it this year, in honor of Father's Day.

And I might add that, even after four years, I miss Daddy just as much as ever.

Here's the post...

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I’m listening to Neil Diamond’s “Dear Father” from “Jonathan Livingston Seagull” right now.  Seems appropriate. 

Today is your birthday, Daddy.  You would have been 83. I lost you on February 29, this year. And, oh God, this is your first birthday away from us.  Before you tell me you’re in a better place, I do know that. I find comfort in that. Comfort in the fact you’re whole, healthy. In fact, I still keep seeing visions of you at 18 years old, in the army.  Before I knew you.  And I tell myself it’s really you, not just a wishful thought. It’s you, telling me you’re fine. That you don’t need your oxygen machine anymore. You can go anywhere you want now without having to lug your little portable oxygen device. And you assure me that is something I should be happy about. And I am. Believe me, Daddy, I am. 

But. Of course there is a ‘but’ to this. I went to Walmart on the way home from work today, Daddy. I needed to go the card aisle to get you a birthday card; and, damn it, I got hit with it. Hit like a piano falling from a five thousand story building. You are gone. You are gone. No more birthday cakes. No parties. No cards. Never again. 

I mean, really. Do you realize how hard it was to find the perfect card for you every year? You hated those schmaltzy cookie cutter cards just as much as I did. And they were SO not you. So my yearly mission was to find the card --- the card that reflected you. And let me tell you. It was hard. Because you weren’t one of those Hallmark Daddies. You were good ol’ Daddy, plain ol’ Daddy. 

The cards were right about one thing, though, Daddy. Every single one of those pesky cards said, “I don’t tell you I love you as often as I should.” How did those card writers know that most of us kids do not do that? Well, I suppose they were all kids, too? Well, they were right. I did not tell you as often as I should. Heck, looking back, I don’t suppose I told you much at all.  I figured you knew, anyway. And I’m sure you did. But I bet you would have loved to have heard it more often. 

Well, we won’t have to be bothered by those irritating American Greetings anymore, will we? 

Oh, Daddy, I wish it really did make me feel better to tell myself that. That I’m glad to be relieved of that chore every year --- that quest for the Ark of the Covenant of birthday cards, the Holy Grail of greetings. 

But it does not. I’d gladly spend all night in stupid Walmart to find you a stupid card if you were just still here. All night, I’d look for a card.  I wouldn’t care how sugary it was, how silly. If you could just be here for me to give it to you. 

Well, I’ve whined enough. Your birthday is nearly over now. Good. So maybe I’ll wake up tomorrow and not miss you so much? Fat chance.

Daddy, I sure do miss you. I miss you so much. Didn’t get you a card. But --- wherever you may be --- Happy, happy birthday. I love you.

"FINDING JACKIE" by Lou Sylvre...

What. A. Book. Finding Jackie by Lou Sylvre. 

This was the third installment in the Vasquez and James series by this author (the series also included a short novella titled Yes), and I would advise reading the books in order to get the maximum benefit of the series. 

 Click on Image to Buy

First of all, let me mention Sylvre's writing style. I know, I know, I've bragged about it very often---it's magical, lyrical, there's just something about it. How can I describe it? It's not even just the prose, but the presentation. Reading these books, the Vasquez and James delicious installments, I sort of get this light, airy but can-be-very-serious tone as though I'm listening to a delightful narrator with a very simple, very blunt and almost dry humor reading it to me. An arresting delivery like in the film Vickie Christina Barcelona. In fact, I can almost hear Giulia y Los Tellarini singing the zippy tune Barcelona as I read. How Sylvre does this is pure magic. Such serious themes---in Finding Jackie, a kidnapping and torture of a young boy is the heart---and yet presented in a perfect balance of drama and light comedy. A perfect balance.

For instance, I loved this bit: At the Monaco, they’d been offered the Ambassador Suite, but Sonny had insisted the purple furniture would prevent him from sleeping, so they ended up with the Monte Carlo suite. So adorable and yet somber, you just know Rod Serling is just sitting somewhere offstage, narrating. 

Sylvre displayed her trademark knack for showing not telling her characters, and I was particularly touched by the humanness of one character, a drag hooker named Rita:  Well, you know, Vasquez. I know I’m not like I used to be. I don’t draw the same clientele. You know what I mean?” Luki did know. Rita hadn’t been a street-corner “ho.” She’d drawn her clients from the richest, the most prestigious men in Chicago, both the flagrantly criminal and the supposedly legit. That was the reason she’d been useful to Luki. Small-time thieves and conmen weren’t the people Luki needed to know about when he was working for ATF. Rita hooked the big ones, and her trade in gossip was as lucrative as her trade in sex. Or possibly more. When Luki didn’t say anything, Rita deflated a little. She attempted a laugh but choked on it. 

So subtle, just a teency touch of body language, and Rita's entire persona is sewn up in vivid color. A sad wishing that someone would tell her, no, you're still beautiful, you still got it going on, girl.  But no one contradicts her and she deflates but carries on. Body language. A gift of Sylvre's. 

You know I don't talk much about plots, and this is no exception except to say this particular story line was absolutely riveting. Big time. Sylvre knows her stuff. Weapons, computer technology, strategics, logistics, all the goodies that make for good action and adventure.

But...but...Ms. Sylvre also knows something ever bigger, even better. Humans. What one person has that makes another person tick. What one person has that dries another person ape shit. What one person has that makes another crazy with desire. Love, sensuality, deep-in-the-gut emotion, no holds barred. The good with the bad, the pretty with the ugly. Humans. The way we really are. 

Sonny James and Luki Vasquez are two of my favorite fictional characters of all time. Something about them...just something about them. Beautiful, gentle but-can-be-a-force-to-be-reckoned-with Sonny James. So loyal, so enamored of his husband Luki. A perfect character, so well drawn I feel as though I could just pick up the phone and call him. So well drawn I find myself wildly attracted to him. 

And then there's Luki....confirmed bad-ass who is growing a heart over the course of the series and who is softening up a little because of that heart. 

Their dynamics---in and out of the bed---are fabulous. Oh, and speaking of the bed. One unforgettable scene---in a bath tub---ay-ay-ay! I even stopped reading to make a comment to the author. Oh, hell's bells. Can Sylvre write the intimate scenes. And they are not hump-it-baby-oh-yeah-baby fare. Her sex scenes are hot as Hades yet so damn classy. The lovemaking session by the water. On the rock. Beautiful, intense. 

For you readers who are devoted Vasquez and James fans, you will not want to miss this installment. There are excellent flashbacks into Luki's past, when he was eighteen. There is a final confrontation with his childhood, when he faces the ghosts---thanks to the love and patience of Sonny---of the incident when his face was slashed. It's a wonderful insight into Luki, his growth, his triumph over his demons. And a beautiful tribute to his Sonny who has stood by him through all these fabulous books.

Finding Jackie. If I gave stars, I'd have to give this read its own constellation. Yes. It is that good. 

Thanks, Ms. Sylvre, for another beautiful, satisfying read.

YES by Lou Sylvre...

First thing in order is an apology from the Zampster to the author, Lou Sylvre, because I had not read this short story sooner. I had my reasons for holding off on this giant gem of a book, but---now that I braved the emotional waters to read it---I only regret I didn't do it long ago.

I'd been blunt when Ms. Sylvre announced the release of this book. The subject matter---cancer---sent ice through me, scared me. Just prior to the release, I'd lost my son-in-law to cancer and I quickly informed Lou I was pretty sure I wouldn't be touching this book, that I could NOT deal with this issue in fiction. To compound my stance, it just so happened I'm an ardent fan of the characters of this series by Ms. Sylvre----the Vasquez and James series---and here the author was, telling me my favorite character was going to have cancer. No can do. Nuh-uh. Next book, please. 

Well, since the author has another new Vasquez and James release coming up, I wanted to prime myself for the upcoming story (titled Finding Jackie), and bite the bullet by reading this short story titled simply Yes. 

And my initial reaction after finishing this story? A resounding DAMN!

I seriously doubted----remembering the long emotional journey in watching my son-in-law battle cancer---that a story could efficiently address the complex nature of the illness. The moments from diagnosis to treatment to healing or the unthinkable---death. I was so sure I'd come away from the book with all sorts of points that had been missed. The emotions. The details. 

I was wrong.

 Click on Cover to Buy

Somehow, Ms. Sylvre did manage to address this issue so fully, beautifully as I should have expected of her. She's a magnificent author, a gifted wordsmith, a talent I am in awe of. And why I ever doubted her handling of this subject, I don't know. 

Luki Vazquez, as his fans have grown to know, is a bad ass. How was he going to handle the big C? How was Sonny, his lover of six years, going to handle it? 

For one thing, with an odd sort of Luki-style humor which has become a beloved trademark of Lou Sylvre's writing style. 

Remembering the day I sat with my father in the doctor's office when he got his lung cancer diagnosis, I laughed out loud at the truth to this moment with Luki when he is delivered the same news….and made his lung look like an almost egg-shaped hole, and the tumor look like a yoke splatted in the middle of it. Mr. Vasquez, I’m afraid you have a fried egg in your lung. Luki didn’t realize he’d chuckled aloud until Sonny clamped a hand on his shoulder, and he saw a shocked look on the doctor’s face. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “I was thinking about… something….” 

True Luki Vasquez. True human. So real. That haze between reality and disbelief.

Chills gripped me. My Luki. But with Sylvre's lovely sense of humor, the scene was put on a realistic, personal level. This fictional character is a real guy, just like you and me. 

The most beautiful, poignant, powerful part of this story, though, is Sonny's battling with the illness of the man he loves more than his life. 

The confusion, the pain, the hope, the loss of hope, the denial, the helplessness, the protectiveness, the over protectiveness, the craving for sex and intimacy but making do because love is more important than sex, the thought---that awful thought---of maybe losing them forever. The anger because they got sick in the first place. 

And---oh, damn---Sylvre even added humor into one of the most base aspects of it. A moment when Sonny worries that Luki has expired in the bathroom...What if Luki died in some laughably compromising position? What if he, the most dignified and contained man Sonny had ever met, was held up for ridicule just for dying wrong?

Luki's illness carries into the Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays, so very perfectly. I won't say much more, in fear of gushing too much. Although I sure could gush without end.

Luki's Christmas gift to Sonny. A tribute to how very little Sonny really wants from Luki---or should I say how much? Sonny's gift to Luki. Just the ending is reason alone to warrant reading this luscious masterpiece of prose. 

And speaking of the ending. Lou Sylvre at it again, weaving this tapestry of words into the perfect ending with the end that ties the whole thing together. And the meaning behind the title, Yes. Ah!

So I apologize, Lou Sylvre. There's a reason you're one of my most beloved authors, why I love your work. You managed to incorporate a full-blown journey, jam-packed with every emotion possible, into this short story.

 I should never have doubted you. 

HONOR C...

Artwork by Paul Richmond

It's here. The finalized cover art for my novella, HONOR C.

I think, if I should live to see a billion books released, I'll never get tired of the thrill of seeing the cover for my book.

It's at that stage---for me, anyway---that you know it's real, it's beautiful and it's about to happen. Your babies coming to life before your very eyes. Oh, sure, they always were alive from the moment you conceived them.

But just something about seeing them in living color. No words to describe that excitement. Not for this gal's limited vocabulary.

I'm lucky in this rendering because the artist, Paul Richmond, has brought my characters, Honor Castillo and Jorge Villagomez, to gorgeous life. Not only did he paint physical likenesses of them, he somehow incorporated their spirits into the cover. The intimacy, the romance, the setting.

And I wanted to take this moment to brag on Mr. Richmond. He took special pains to make this cover meet MY vision. He tweaked when I squeaked and assured me the image would not be considered finalized until it matched the vision in my heart and head.

And he did it.

So that is the final step in the book's production. Next step. Release. My boys will soon be released from my hands and out into the public.

Here's the blurb:

When Honor Castillo convinces himself he isn’t gay, he begins a new life. He ends his affair with his lover, Jorge Villagomez, and marries Rebecca to establish a life with her as a respected San Antonio businessman. They have a son and he tells himself he is happy.

Eleven years later, Jorge returns to San Antonio, and his path crosses with Honor’s once more. The flame of their passion never died, and neither did Jorge’s love for Honor.

When Jorge approaches Honor to design his studio, Honor believes he can walk the line between friendship and lovers. But when a sudden crisis threatens to take Jorge from him forever, Honor must choose between his duty and his heart. Most of all, he’s forced to decide what he’s willing to lose in order to be true to who he really is.

Again, I thank Paul Richmond for his talent, his time and his insight. I thank the entire Dreamspinner staff for their time and talent in every step of production.

And I think, from the bottom of my heart, the publisher for believing in me and making my story come to life.

C. Zampa's Not-A-Review: Let's Hear It For The Boy by T.A. Webb

I've missed gushing about my favorite books! So many wonderful stories out there, so many fabulous authors and so many delicious, unforgettable characters!

In trying to get back into the groove of sharing and bubbling over about the stories that have touched me, made me cry, made me laugh, made me mad, made me love, I'm sharing a short story with you today.

I just finished a beautiful, poignant, sticks-with-you-long-after-you-read-it book by author T. A. (Tom) Webb, LET'S HEAR IT FOR THE BOY.

Blurb:
Auntie Social is the biggest, baddest drag queen in Atlanta—she knows what she wants and she gets it. She’s tough, merciless, and top dog. That’s what Paul Stewart, reporter for the Journal, had heard, and all he expects when he’s assigned to interview the legend.. But nobody really knows the person behind the make-up.

What if…what if the person behind the sarcasm and music was more than just a man in a dress? What happened in his life that, thirty years later, made him a successful CEO, a philanthropist, and a legend in the gay community? Thirty years and almost a million dollars raised for people living with HIV/AIDs, yet still no one knows the real story.
Until one night, one man breaks through the shell, and Matthew Trammell—Auntie Social—opens the door he closed many years ago and lets his secrets spill out.
Pain is like rain, it covers your skin and soaks in bone-deep, but it eventually recedes and allows fresh things to grow.

(Click on Cover to Buy)

Where to start?

Auntie Social, that was his name. The blurb says it all. Drag Queen, but as he says, he's not your mama's drag queen. He's burly, big, sexy, virile, hairy legs and all, and I loved him. I just pure-d loved him.

The premise of the story (no plot does Zampa tell, remember) is an interview by journalist Paul Stewart of the legendary Atlanta drag queen, Matthew Trammell, aka Auntie Social.

Digging deeper, past the surface of Matthew's story, Paul presses for the heart of Auntie Social, for the soul of the man instead of the usual newsie type stories the public knows.

And Paul gets that story. And we get that story through Paul.

And if you had not already fallen for Matthew right from the start (I did), he will have owned your heart by the end of his story.

This is a story about AIDS. It's Matthew's story about the intrusion of AIDS into his own life, how the devastating disease touched him deeply and personally by way of infecting someone he loved dearly.

I'll admit I hesitate for a long time to read this. The author knew it, too, I was honest and told him I was afraid it would hurt my heart. Hey, how could it not? It was about AIDS, after all.

And it did hurt my heart. In a beautiful way, though. In a tender, gentle delivery that is trademark of Tom Webb. The trademark of a man who has worked in the community in many facets and knows the disease---it's statistics, its destruction but also the powerful love it can draw from those affected and those who love them.

Oddly, one of the elements of the story that hit me hardest was that sick-in-the-gut moment when Matthew recounts how the man he loved told him about a mistake he'd made in a bar. How he had sex with a man without protection. How he noticed, when it was too late, a lesion on the man's skin.

That blood-draining-from-your-head flash that I felt I was actually living through Webb's telling. That scene is still so strong in my mind. I still shiver thinking about it. None of us have NOT experienced some sort of horrific dread upon realizing we've made a terrible mistake. Or that ungodly awful meeting, face-to-face, with our own mortality.

Mr. Webb presented a powerful image with his prose of the fear, the regret, the resignation, the decisions. The losing of a loved one and what we as individuals do once that body---never the soul, though, and never the memory---is gone.

The beautiful, beautiful thing about this story is how Auntie Social used his inner strength, his love and his precious memories to stare AIDS down and campaign in his own special way to offer aid to those affected by the disease.

Tom Webb somehow, wonderfully, turned this into a story of triumph, not defeat. A tale of love and faithfulness, not loss. I cried, I knew I would. But I cried because I loved Auntie Social. I loved his strength, his tender heart.

And the urn on Matthew's dressing table. I cried about that. Again, not from sadness but just the beauty of it, the tender love.

Oh. And there's a nice surprise at the end. I cried about that, too. Then I smiled. And I'm still smiling.

A Stone's Throw...

“Words... They're innocent, neutral, precise, standing for this, describing that, meaning the other, so if you look after them you can build bridges across incomprehension and chaos. But when they get their corners knocked off, they're no good any more... I don't think writers are sacred, but words are. They deserve respect. If you get the right ones in the right order, you can nudge the world a little or make a poem which children will speak for you when you're dead.”  --  Tom Stoppard, “The Real Thing: A Play”

Whether you believe it's true or not, you've heard the story of David and Goliath. You're familiar with the story of the young man who---in a move of faith---managed to defeat the giant Goliath with nothing but a slingshot and a rock. A kid. A rock. A slingshot. A victory. One stone---just a stone a boy picked from a million others---was the center of a story that has lasted for centuries, a tale that is legend. A stone.

That Biblical account brought to my mind a very important thought: that everyone of us carries with us a bag of stones just like the boy David. Only our stones aren't physical ones. They are are voices. Our words. 

One toss of a rock onto a still pond is able to send ripples across the water's surface---from bank to bank. That rippling effect can be beautiful, serene, playful or frightening in its subtle power.  Because---just think about it. That one tiny fragment of hardened earth has the strength to disrupt the entire quiet of the pond's surface. 

The same stone, if tossed at a mirror's glass, has the ability to shatter that once-pristine surface and destroy the mirror. One striking blow can turn the reflective glass into a spiderweb of cracks or it can completely destroy it by rendering it into a heap of glistening shards. Either way, the mirror is destroyed. By one stone.

And it is so with our words. It's a little scary to think of the power contained in each and every one of us---not just authors, but anybody. 

Our voices. These stones we carry inside us. They may not seem like much, but they have the ability to hurt others, the power to destroy relationships. They can be the impetus to ruin others if they're thrown by those with influential voices. Words can soothe. They can arouse. They can make love. They can lead. They can follow. They can frighten. They can bully. Damn, they are powerful little things. And so versatile in their scope of uses.

I wonder about David and Goliath. Surely David had the experience with having used his slingshot to know just which size stone to use. His young mind must have, after enough use with this primitive weapon, known to calculate the stone's size to know it's projectile capability. And just how much momentum would be needed in order to---in just one shot, since that was all he would have---hit its target and fell it. 

And our words have to be weighed just so. Because they are extremely powerful. 

As an author, or anyone whose voice finds its way to this new technical marvel---cyberspace---I feel it's a responsibility to use this power within us...these stones inside us called words...wisely. 

I feel that people who have the fortune to be influential to others should take advantage of that wonderful privilege to use their words to build, not break down. To encourage, not to discourage. To make peace, not battle. To soothe, not to wound. To support, not to bully. To make changes for good. 

Voices may seem like nothing but little stones. Those like me who aren't in positions to influence in big ways can still use my words for good. Even if only one person hears a word of encouragement from me, hears a smile in my voice, then I've used my voice wisely. 

Maybe my voice alone can't stop hatred, bullying and bigotry. But my little stone, mixed with multitudes of other stones, CAN. 

Whether my own words will ever make wonderful changes in my universe is doubtful, as I'm a tiny stone among many. 

But one thing I do know. Sometimes I might use my words to make quiet ripples on a pond's surface. Because that stone merely makes its ripples, just to show it was there, then drifts to the pond's bottom without having done any harm. And sometimes I will use my voice in a bigger way---for whatever it's worth---to blend with other voices for equality. 

I hope, though, never to use my precious stones to break mirrors. 

 

 

A Descending Spiral...

Madame DeFarge, A Tale of Two Cities

The ultimate weakness of violence is that it is a descending spiral, begetting the very thing it seeks to destroy. Instead of diminishing evil, it multiplies it.” ― Martin Luther King, Jr.


Something's bothered me for a while and I've kept silent about it---well, if you don't count occasional spurts of frustration on Facebook and various forums. I remained silent because I just couldn't put my finger on what actually disturbed me. I couldn't, as hard as I tried, make a connection in my mind as to why I was disturbed or tack a name to the angst growing bigger and bigger inside me.

But this weekend I stumbled on photos from the Dickens classic, A Tale of Two Cities.

And then it became so clear. And when it did become clear, it became even more frustrating and...frightening.

This week, upon the death of Margaret Thatcher, I was shocked and dismayed over the giant uproar---the joyous uproar---of so many chanting all over Twitter and Facebook such things as "Ding Dong the Witch is Dead...' gleeful voices raised in celebration at the passing of a public official. By the degree of happy pandemonium, you would have thought a violent dictator had been executed. Oh, I don't know British politics but I do know hate when I see it.

And those merry cheers immediately brought to mind the roaring crowds I'd read of during the French Revolution. The crowds gathering to cheer on the beheadings of the aristocrats. Barbaric pleasure they took in these executions.

And, no, it wasn't just the reaction to the Thatcher's death that hit home with me. It was something that had been brewing inside me for some time and this event only seemed to bring it to the surface for me, to put a name on it.

Hatred.

The power of hatred among a group of people.

What may surprise you is that the hatred I speak of---the hatred that has upset me for a while now---is not among those bigots against who we fight for equality. Oh, they are filled to the brim with hate, that's for sure. But it's not them who have troubled me lately.

No. It's those who do fight for equality who are showing the hatred so blatantly.

Specifically, not a day goes by that I do not see on various forums the rants against Christians. Everything unfair thing that happens in the name of hatred is somehow lumped in with the name Christian. I see the word every day and it's rarely---if at all---in conjunction with anything good.

An us-against-the-Christians voice it seems.

And, upon seeing this so much, I was reminded of such violent events in history such as the executions in France during the revolts. The frenzied fury of those so full of revenge and hatred that they simply dragged every person who even hinted of having money and slaughtered them along with those who actually did deplore them.

The fight for justice and equality gone berserk. The furor seeping into sensibility and discoloring even the innocent; therefore sending them to death for having done nothing but been wealthy.

Unfortunately, such hatemongers as the Westboro Baptist Church have put a black spot on all religion as far as the fight for equality goes. Now it seems the very word Christian is the keyword for bigotry, along with the word Republican. Every day I read comments that---for every wrong done against the equal rights movement---it must be those Christians, those conservative religious zealots, etc., etc.

Do you want to know why this scares the hell out of me?

Because I am a Christian. Yes.

No, I do not attend church. I don't feel whether I sit in a brick building every Sunday has any bearing on what's in my heart.

But I do follow the teaching of Christ which---if anybody studied hard enough---would prove to be just the same philosophies as all teachers of peace since the beginning of time. He taught that we were all the same. Everybody sins.

And....I might add here that sin---the actual Hebrew translation---meant nothing more than missing the mark. An arrow shooting and falling short of the bullzeye. A human thing. Not a doomed-to-hell fault but just a very human part of life. We miss the mark, we get up and go again.

Love. He did teach love. He didn't hang out with the sanctimonious. They, in fact, were the ones who persecuted him because he was different. They were scared of him and his truth. He was a threat to their old ways, their ancient beliefs and holier-than-thou arrogance. He was the equality fighter of his day. He died for it.

If he walked among us today, he would be right there in the middle of the fight for equality. He would never have judged. Never.

Do you see what I mean? By using this coverall label of Christian, to lash out at anyone who does call themselves so, you're targeting me and you might accidentally be lumping me in with those who do hate. And I might get hit in the crossfire. Because the animosity is so strong toward the name, I fear it will only keep cooking until it boils over.

I do not know a remedy for it all. I only know it's unfortunate to find myself thrown into this mix, to have to defend myself and what I believe in when I am as big a believer in equal rights as the others who fight for it.

If anything, it breaks my heart for the Churchians (a term a minister used to define those who merely sat in a pew on Sundays but who did not practice what they preached) to call themselves Christians and then to display such bigotry and hate.

But, again, I don't know a way to fix it.

The only thing I can do is live what's really in my heart, to stand strong on my beliefs of equal rights for all. To let my life be a witness, to show that a Christian loves, a Christian loves everyone equally.

Just, please. When you do refer to bigotry and hatred, please be careful when using the word Christian. Because if you aim it at a true Christian---who really embraces what the man whose name it is derived taught---you've got the wrong guy.