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Day of the Dead Sets the Scene — An Excerpt from Human Slices, a Love Story

Español: tradicional ofrenda del dia de los mu...

Photo credit: Wikipedia

On a rainy first of November many years ago, my friend Anne took me to Chicago’s National Museum of Mexican Art for its Dia de los Muertos celebration. I was immediately smitten by the altars, those skeletons, the offerings, the colors. That first Day of the Dead experience still dances in my bones. (Thank you, Annie!)

When I was working on the closing scenes of my novel Human Slices, I imagined my female protagonist heartbroken and numb at Halloween. Then she went off and created a Day of the Dead altar.

Whenever this day comes around, I think of this scene with Salm — which is her odd little nickname for her longer nickname, Little Salmon. Here’s an excerpt from the last chapter of Human Slices.

Happy Dia de los Muertos!


As the wet autumn leaves squeaked underfoot, Salm lugged four small pumpkins up the stairs to her apartment. She spread several Sunday papers onto the kitchen floor and sat down, putting the pumpkins between her legs. She cut deep wounds around their stems, and after pulling off the tops, she settled in for the best part of the job—digging her hands into the cold slime and separating the stringy innards from the seeds.

She spent the early evening washing the pumpkin seeds, salting them, and baking them in her oven. She was going to take the seeds to Sylvia and Reed’s tomorrow. They had just moved in together, and they were having a Day of the Dead celebration in conjunction with their housewarming party. Reed had told her he had a mild addiction to pumpkin seeds. While the seeds cooked, Salm sliced unhappy geometric expressions into the pumpkins’ faces.

Sylvia had introduced Salm to the Day of the Dead rituals—Dia de los Muertos—years ago. It was the day the dead came back to visit the earth. Creating an altar with candles was essential. The altar honored their memory, and the candles guided their way. 

After the pumpkins were carved, Salm lined them on top of her kitchen table. She went into her pantry and dug out the voodoo candles she bought at Maxwell Street last year—thick, round candles encased in sparkling glass. Her cats followed Salm from room to room as she roamed her apartment, picking up assorted mementos—photographs, bits of memorabilia, postcards, souvenirs, a book of poetry, letters, holy cards.

On her bureau, she found Luke’s dog magnets. She arranged and rearranged everything until the memories were in their right places. Then she sprinkled the entire creation with glitter. Satisfied with the altar’s look, she rummaged through the cabinet under her sink to find an old bottle of mescal and poured herself a double shot. She lit the candles and turned off the overhead light. 

She sat at the kitchen table and watched the candles flicker. “To the dead,” she began, lifting the shot glass to her eyes and squinting through it. She threw the fiery liquid down her throat. 

Salm toasted to the pumpkins. “To Dad.”  She sighed. 

“Aunt Elaine, Grandma and Grandpa Collins, Big Fred, Grandma Penszak.”  She sat in silence. 

“To Sandy, my guardian angel, Bobby Kennedy, Uncle Walt, Theresa, Peter.  Jennifer, Cal, Les, Stuart, Rick, Terrence.”

As always, Luke was on her mind. “To Luke’s parents, his Uncle Jerry, Greg, Anne Marie and all the rest.”  She felt a certain numbness from the mescal overtaking her fingers and toes. 

“To all of the lovers and friends who are dead…really dead…and the ones who are dead to me from absence.”  She felt tears burn in her eyes. 

“And, of course, to Luke.” She spoke quietly and solemnly. 

The candle flames quivered and swayed, catching and reflecting the light of the raindrops on the window.

Salm sat still for a long, long time. 

She thought she heard a knock at the back door, but it must have been a branch, or a tipped garbage can being blown down the alley.   

“It’s open,” she thought to herself. She remembered saying that to Luke so many times.

There was another knock. She looked up to the back door and thought she saw Luke’s image through the screen.  She wondered if the mescal could cause such a hallucination. 

“Salm?” Luke said quietly. 

Human Slices is available for Kindle and in print on Amazon.

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The Story of Film — Worth a Watch

story of film-USLast year, I spent a series of Saturday mornings running to the Music Box Theatre in Chicago to catch the 15-episode documentary, THE STORY OF FILM. 

Turner Classic Movies starts airing the series tonight (Monday, September 2), and if you’re a film fan, I highly recommend it. You’ll end up with some insights, film trivia for cocktail parties (like the first movie close-up featured a kitty!!!), and a long, long list of movies to watch. I especially enjoyed the first episodes and will always be thankful for Mark Cousins, the film historian who created the series, for introducing me to Asta Nielsen’s insane erotic dance from the 1910 silent movie, The Abyss.

If you are so inclined, I did a series of blog posts about THE STORY OF FILM documentary. Check them out at http://wp.me/pfwMd-1sL

And take a look at Asta’s fabulous dance.

Connecting With Readers Over “Human Slices” — Priceless

The Visible Human Projectwww.ccmp.ncifcrf.gov

The Visible Human Project
http://www.ccmp.ncifcrf.gov

For any writer, a positive connection with a reader is priceless. When a reader feels compelled to seek me out, I am flattered, overwhelmed, happy, encouraged…and I whistle for days.

I received a Tweet from @taramade, an exuberant reader of my book, Human Slices. She wrote, “Great read, Gloria! Love the museum scenes. I want to see them myself!”

I was over-the-top delighted. When she comes to Chicago, I will be happy to show her around.

By museum scenes, she was referring to the novel’s opening action that takes place at Chicago’s Museum of Science & Industry. One spot is particularly pivotal. The human slices exhibit, comprised of actual cross sections of human bodies, is the first meeting place of the two main characters.

At the human slices exhibit, each rectangular display case jutted out from the wall so that people could observe the slices from both sides. Salm stooped down to examine a shrunken, yellowed stomach from one side of the display case. Playfully, she closed one eye and peered through an open gap between the stomach and the intestines. Through this tiny opening, she could look out to the hallway.  She looked left and then right, and then she saw a man appear from around the corner. 

The title of the book, of course, is a tribute to that weird and fascinating installation.

I’ve been told time and time again that Human Slices is too freakish for the title of a love story. When I was looking for a publisher, one agent wrote in his rejection letter, “Is there really such an exhibit in a Chicago museum? Your lady’s attraction to body parts seems morbid and ghoulish. You’re making things very tough for yourself.”

I understood, of course, yet I never was able to change the name of the book. I was following the gut feeling emanating from inside my own “human slices,” the same way the female protagonist in the book listens to her heart to find her own truth and happiness.

In spite of the peculiar title, readers still reach for the book and periodically send me some first-rate feedback. It’s so much fun to know that someone has enjoyed it and given my characters a chance to come to life again for a brief moment in time.

A few days after @taramade’s Tweet about the museum exhibit, she posted other enthusiastic comments, like: “Loving all the little details! I forgot to mention the shrimp cocktail wine glass,” and “You come up with the perfect boat of course. A fat little red tug with lots of blankets.”

Next, she shot me a Pinterest photo (below) that reminded her of a scene where the lovers go stargazing in the back of the pickup. The photo she sent was absolutely perfect. @taramade was reading my mind! If a reader can “see what I mean,” I’ve done my job and that’s amazingly gratifying.

I didn’t think her comments could get any better. And then I received one more message…@taramade wrote: “I’m afraid to read too fast…I don’t want it to end!! :)”

Then another reader @La_Raconteur wrote to @taramade:  “OMG, isn’t this book simply gorgeous? It’s one of the few I’ve read that immediately captivated me. Perfection! ”

With those most excellent Tweets, my own “human slices” sparked and sizzled inside of me.

I’m still whistling.


Seeking the Unsought: The Mystery of the Bolts

Marine & Bittersweet

Marine & Bittersweet

I don’t know if a variety of bolts mounted on to a  4′ x  3′ piece of plywood would be categorized as outsider art or folk art or found art or plain old bolt art.

Many years ago, I saw such an art piece displayed on the wall of a lovely stationery store where the proprietor was hosting a benefit auction. I  don’t remember who or what was going to benefit from the raised money, but I do remember that the cartoonist Nicole Hollander was there.

But the bolts. I think there were about 20 of them displayed. And underneath each bolt, there was a printed notation indicating the Chicago intersections where each bolt had been found. Western & Lawrence. Hoyne and Le Moyne. Clark & Ohio.

I put on my skeptical hat. I certainly had never seen one bolt, let alone several, haphazardly lying in the street. The universe was out to teach me a lesson.

A few days later, my friend and co-worker Pat and I were waiting at a traffic light on lower Michigan Avenue, right outside of Chicago’s famous Billy Goat’s Tavern. It was a rainy day, and we were taking the underpass to dodge as much of the downpour as we could.

While the underground traffic whooshed past in front of us, above us the iron bridge works rumbled and shook from the weight of the buses, cars, and trucks speeding by on the upper level.

Then a bang, a clank, a clang. Something fell, splashing into a puddle, landing right at my feet. You guessed it. A bolt. It was a gigantic bolt, partially rusted and partially oxidized green. I displayed that big bolt on my bookcase for years.

Ever since that event a decade ago, I regularly see bolts in the street, sometimes in intersections, sometimes kicked to the curb, in my hometown or on vacation, on country roads and on the highway.

Just the other day, Pat, who was with me that fateful day on lower Michigan Avenue, texted “ps — found a bolt.”

She and I are probably doomed to experience such bolt encounters for the rest of our lives. I’ve always been curious about the meaning of synchronicities, but this one has me stumped.

I recently came across a Sophocles quote: “Look and you will find it—What is unsought will go undetected.”

What does it mean though, Mr. Sophocles, when one constantly detects what is totally unsought?


POSTSCRIPT, February 7, 2013:  The night after posting this blog entry, I had some sort of fuzzy recollection of a dream or a revelation, if you will, that the bolt sightings happen when something is missing from my life. I don’t know  what’s missing, my chassis hasn’t stopped running, but something in the mechanism is gone, fallen out, worn and rusty, so I just might want to check under my hood. It seems plausible, but I’m still wondering…