It has been quite a while since I heard a muse speak to me, even prior to recent events that left a splintering silence within my mind. My most recent, Eddie, went quiet quite a while ago, which still saddens me. His was a funny, dark story that I very much enjoyed. I hope he comes back to me soon, to finish his tale.

So I made very certain to pay close attention to this new voice. She’s left me no name so far. That doesn’t really bother me much. She can remain nameless if that’s her preference. Beyond a strange hatred of sand, which admittedly I share with her, she seems surprisingly…normal. I’m not used to that.

I’m not typically drawn to “whole” characters. In both my own writing and the creations of others, I’m constantly drawn to and inevitably fall in love with the most damaged of the lot: the widowed CMO, the emotionally scarred ex-freedom fighter, the alcoholic Viper pilot with the damaged past, the brooding CSI with Diastema and dark secrets, the FBI agent whose entire life hinges on locating a sister missing since childhood. There is beauty in their flaws and fractures that I simply cannot resist.

So to have a character come to me with relatively no imperfections? I’m baffled. And a tad bit concerned. Can I do her justice? We’re always tasked as writers to “write what we know.” I know imperfection. Truth is, I prefer imperfection.

Then again, the “what I know” at the moment is too much for me to write right now.

I visited my mom’s grave for the first time on Sunday. Her body is buried slightly fewer than 50 miles away from me.

In weiter Ferne, so nah!

The veterans’ cemetery has yet to place a proper grave stone for her. I’m actually thankful. The thought of seeing both my parents’ names on a grave marker is a bit more than I want to handle at the moment. His must be there because he is the veteran. She simply happened to be the first casualty.

So for the first time, I stood on the ground above my mother’s grave and glimpsed the vastness of something to which I’m nowhere near edging closer. That vastness is more than I may ever be able to wrap myself around properly. At least not alone.

Here, in my lair, this public forum of private mourning, there is solace in knowing that others read my words, that I have somehow shared my sadness without actually having to ask for permission. I apologize for the passive aggressive nature of my sorrow, but I suppose, in some ways, this is how I reach out. I have never found asking for help to be an easy task. The thought at one time used to frighten me into vocal paralysis.

Introversion is a difficult mistress and she will ride you hard and put you away wet if you allow her the indignity of that indiscretion.

But to broach these feelings alone, in the solace of my small writer’s world? Not happening any time soon, I’m afraid.

So for now I lean closer and listen to the whispers of my newest muse. She’s already made her story known to me, but I’m listening for those little clues that will lead me closer to understanding her in ways that will let me give her a proper home. Perhaps she will finally be the story I complete this year. One never knows…

I do apologize, though, denizens, for not explaining this beforehand. That was a bit rude of me, no?

So, yes, it was a long beachy weekend of eating deliciously bad-for-you foods, drinking bad-for-you drinks, and parking our butts under an umbrella and reading for hours while the soundtrack of waves against shoreline played steadily in the background.

It was wonderful.

I’m not by nature a beach person. Anyone who has seen La Loba knows that I am known as the White Wolf for many reasons, least of which is my Casper-like pallor. Even when slathered in SPF-OHMYGODYOUAREWHITE, I can still burn. Which is what happened this weekend. Strange patches of red on my ankles. A random streak on my shoulder. My earlobes (I honestly don’t think I’ve ever had sunburn on my ears before). And a frustratingly itchy red ring around my neck.

Yes, denizens. For the moment, I am truly a “redneck.” Please don’t hold it against me.

And now I’m back with my funky burn, reinvigorated freckles, and three new books for the Book Bin. Yes, I was gone for four days and I finished three books. Book reading nerdery, FTW. So stay tuned, denizens. Stay. Tuned.

Truth is, I feel as though I’m skirting the perimeter of my life right now. Things continue in my mental absence, but my focus is such at the moment that I can’t be bothered to acknowledge any of it. It’s why my inbox is filled with messages from friends and ImagiFriends^TM alike…and I can’t seem to focus enough to respond to any of them. Not with the depth they deserve. I’m not going to use this as an all-purpose generic way of responding, though. I will write back. I will.

And I will find my focus again. Right now, though, it feels too ephemeral, like spun sugar melting on the tip of my tongue. So I stop trying to reach what has decided to elude me. I let the muses in my mind go silent. Silence has never bothered me. It’s the clatter that presses against that silence that worries me. So I reinforce the silence with silliness. Like ordering a Wonder Woman T-shirt because I remember spinning with abandon as a wee pup, laughing and wishing more than anything for an invisible jet of my own. Or hanging Vulcan ears in the stairwell because I know they’ll make me smile every time I pass them.

Or watching YouTube clips from EastEnders and trying to piece together the puzzle of the delightfully disturbed Slater family because…well, because even in the excessive way of most soap operas (even the ones from Jolly Old England), there’s something there. Something intrinsically beautiful, especially in the fractured, fragile bond between Kat and Zoe, a mother/daughter relationship that, if nothing else, does indeed put the “fun” in “dysfunctional.” Besides, when all is said and done, love and family trump all else and, as Kat tells Zoe, “…it don’t matter. None of it. Because there’s a line, and it goes from me to you.”

Yeah. Not really hard to understand my sudden obsession with those wacky Slaters when you look at it that way.

I miss her every day. Every breath. With a severity that ebbs and flows, but always returns to the shoreline. I don’t say that often, but in my mind it feels like it’s all that I say, all that I do.

I saw my dad for Father’s Day weekend, the first time I’d seen him since I was there for her funeral. It was like seeing a person for the first time after an amputation. There was something missing, something gone that will never be replaced. It’s not like I’d never seen him without my mom around. We’d been on our own many times before, through all the myriad hospital stays she’d undergone since I was 10.

But those were like fractures to the bone, broken but with the promise of healing. In time. This time, the bone was sliced clean through, and all that was left were phantoms of what was once there.

Phantom pains and phantom presence.

My dad told me that, not long after my mom’s death, a squirrel appeared in the little wooded space behind their house. In the 6 years that my parents have lived where they are now, none of us had ever seen a squirrel there. It was always one of my mom’s disappointments. She loved squirrels. The house is still filled with all the squirrel paraphernalia she’d acquired through the years, either on her own or as gifts.

I remember the short period of time in which we had a squirrel as a “pet.” It had survived a fall from the nest when it was still too young to even have opened its eyes. My dad found it, brought it in, and we cared for it, squeezing formula into its tiny mouth with an eyedropper and keeping it in a shoebox until my dad could build it a cage from lumber scraps and chicken wire.

When it grew a little bigger, we realized “it” was a “she.” We named her Peepers, and for a while, she became part of the family. I can still see my mom standing in the square of sunlight from the kitchen window, washing something off in the sink while Peepers sat on her shoulder.

I don’t know how to process the appearance of the squirrel in their yard now that she’s gone. It’s a bit much for my overly rational side to try to assign it to anything more than just coincidence. But that portion of my soul that cries out to believe in the fantastical and the unexplained, the part that cherishes the message of undying love in books like To Dance With the White Dog…that part of me wants to believe that it’s more.

My dad seemed content to believe. And so that will be enough for me for now. That and Wonder Woman shirts and EastEnders clips and Vulcan ears and whatever else is required to extend the silence between the silliness and the clatter.

Okay, not me specifically. It was all part of her goofy on-air banter, her way of making her usually dismal news to us groggy Beltway commuters a little less soul-crushing. As much as I loathe my commute, I always love listening to her.

Truth is, the traffic report is pretty much all I can stand listening to anymore. Everything else sounds jumbled, confusing, off-key. Podcasts wash over me, the words trickling through the cracks in my concentration and flowing away without leaving any trace of their passing. Music? Dissonant and irritating, like pebbles stuck inside my shoes.

So I drive in silence most of the time, and I keep my brain from straying to places I’m not yet ready to go by watching the world as it zooms past Sammy’s windows. This morning it was all the joggers. Like the lovely older Asian man who jogs with the precision of Swiss watches. It’s not just his predictable punctuality but his movements as well. Strides perfectly measured, syncopated arm swings, even the towel always tucked around his neck seems to flop in pre-planned rhythm.

Or the gaggle of college girls crowding others to the side as they dominated the sidewalk, trotting along like sun-dappled mares with their upswept ponytails swinging in hypnotic unison.

It’s enough to make me wish once more that I jogged. Only problem is that my knees and back used to play softball in high school. I suppose the rest of me played as well…but my knees and back still remember those years the most. Still feel those years.

Sometimes I miss playing softball. I’d like to think I was good at it. I won a few awards from those years and when I was finished, I’d made it to shortstop, which I’ve been told is a pretty important position. Really, though, I played because it was in my blood. One of the first gifts I remember receiving was a whiffle ball and bat set and a little lefty glove from my three aunts, two of whom played on various softball teams for most of my childhood.

And then there were the hours that my mom and I spent playing catch. Even when there was very little else we could do together without tempers and tensions flaring, this was our oftentimes silent truce. I can still see our gloves in the hall closet, her full-sized righthander’s leather glove with my little pee-wee league lefty glove nestled inside it.

I remember how, for my birthday after the first year I made the school softball team, she had my dad drive her all over the place (this was well before the days of Sports Authority or Modell’s), trying to find a new lefty glove for me. She wanted to make sure I was ready for the next season, ready with a grown-up glove to finally replace the one I’d been using since 2nd grade.

I can still smell that clean, new leather, still feel the supple give of the grain as I slipped my hand into the glove for the first time. I stopped keeping my glove in the hall closet. Instead, it stayed in my room, usually with a softball tucked into it to keep its shape. I’d oil it regularly and often sit in my computer chair in the evenings, absentmindedly tossing a ball into the glove as I watched television. During softball season, I was very rarely without that glove on my hand.

It was around this point that my mom stopped wanting to play catch. My throws, even when I tried to moderate them, were too hard, too fast, and she was too proud to admit this. So she simply stopped playing.

I remember not long after I moved out, I was visiting my parents and needed to look for something in the hall closet. I happened to look down and there was my mom’s glove, still sitting at the top of the junk bucket, empty except for the dusting of cobwebs across the ball pocket. Too many years had passed by that point, but I still remember wishing that I’d had my glove with me, that we could go play catch once more.

I never saw her glove again after that. I’m not sure what happened to it after my parents moved a few years ago, although I strongly suspect that my dad might have tossed it during their pre-move cleanout. He views sports equipment with a special disdain usually reserved for politicians or fundamentalists (not hard to imagine I’m his daughter, eh?).

Perhaps I’ll ask him where her glove is next time I visit. Perhaps by then I’ll be back to listening to music and podcasts. Perhaps by then even innocent random observations won’t lead me down the very pathways I’d been trying to avoid through the observations. Perhaps.

Okay, so that should probably be the other way around. These Docs are way too sexy for me. Even in a supremely over-saturated photo in which I effed with the colors like no one’s business, they’re still teh awesome. Also, doesn’t this shot scream that it belongs on the cover of some 90s indie alt-rock band’s CD? Makes me want to slip into my flannel and rock out to The Breeders or Pearl Jam. Want a better look at them?

This is more true to their original color (and mine, too…freckled knee and all!). They’re two-toned leather: black and metallic purple. Plus, they’ve got killer-high soles and steel toes. No other real point to these pics…or this post, for that matter. Was feeling slightly experimental with my camera this evening and wanted to give some love to a pair of my Docs that don’t really see much action anymore. Although they were great for clubbing, they look a tiny bit out of place when I wear them to work. Of course, that doesn’t stop me from wearing them anyway…

So it is with Snickers. First came the Super Bowl commercial, with Betty White and Abe Vigoda:

I don’t think the line “That’s not what your girlfriend says” has ever been funnier. Or oogier.

Then there’s this one, the Diva Commercial:

I’m sure that I should feel some sort of consternation that these are both slightly misogynistic in nature (dudes unable to do their dudely deeds because their hunger has turned them into old women or divas…or Abe Vigoda), but there’s something so effing funny about both these commercials that my feminist sensibilities are appeased by the laughter they invoke. Especially that Betty White commercial. She’s so freaking funny. I’ve adored her ever since I first saw her as Rose Nylund, and I love how she continues to rule the funny block like the Comedy Diva she is.

When the moon is full, she hops the Riverwalk in search of a howling good time.

So some of you may have wondered where Loba disappeared to this time. Some of you may have just been happy for the break from my insanity. Those some of you suck. Just sayin’.

To those who were curious about Loba’s whereabouts, I can finally reveal that I was on a super-secret, Mirror Universe assignment to glorious Texas. Yes, I was indeed deep in the heart of Du(m)bya Country. It was everything I dreamed it would be.

Okay, okay, I’m not going to crack on Texas now. Truth is: A) I know some pretty decent folk from Texas; and B) I didn’t really get a chance to see much more of San Antonio than the severely touristy-kitschy Riverwalk section. It’s hard trying to sight-see when you’re on duty from 6 in the morning until around 7 or 8 in the evening. So, really, what we saw consisted of the hotel, the conference space, site visit stops, and a couple of restaurants (sorry, no partridge in a pear tree this time). I did get a chance to see the Alamo, though. No photos, but I can say I was surprised by how very small it was. True, it was cold that night, but seriously, I thought everything was bigger in Texas.

The cool part was that we were there for our conference at the same time as San Antonio’s Fiesta Week. So there were parades, parties, costumes, and (as one of our conference speakers described it) lots of “drunken debauchery.” Loba may or may not have found said debauchery. I’ll let the flashing bunny ears speak my story for me.

Anywhoodle. It was definitely a long week, but it went very well, and we capped everything off with a relaxing trip to Boudro’s, which is a restaurant literally built from awesome. Definitely had the best guacamole I have ever eaten. The wait staff are all trained in how to make the guacamole at your table. Here’s our waiter, doin’ the do for us:

Seriously, if you love guacamole, you would love this recipe. I’ve never had guacamole this freakin’ tasty. You can download the recipe from the Boudro’s Web site, but you’ll need to log on to get it. Pain, I know, but it’s worth it. Actually, though, you could also just watch this YouTube video. I love how Sarah the waitress states that she doesn’t want to see this video on YouTube. Sorry, Sarah. Looks like they lied. Hope they tipped you well.

And here, finally, is the money shot of our waiter’s enviable guacamole skills:

So, there you go. Now you know where in the world Loba San Diego wandered off to this time, and you’ve gotten a tasty guacamole recipe for your efforts. And stay tuned for some book reviews as well as possibly a DVDreg review this week (although I’m mortified by this one and am having a very difficult time finishing up the special features). See? I always make sure to take care of my denizens, even when I hop off for other climes from time to time

However, I am thinking of you all, dear denizens. Which is why I bring you this link for PointlessSites.com. The name is pretty self-explanatory, no? I found this link several years ago, visited it with great frequency for a while, then completely forgot about it. Until I came upon the link a few minutes ago while searching through one of my personal e-mail inboxes.

Yes, I said one of. Don’t ask. The answer isn’t worth it.

And, hell, because I’m in a giving mood, here’s another of my favorite photos from TrekCore.com. Featured is, of course, the ever lovely Gates McFadden, hugging the fantastically talented, “I would have given anything in the world to work with him” makeup artist extraordinaire Michael Westmore. To those who are not familiar with Westmore, he was “Da Man” when it came to makeup designs for all the Star Trek spinoffs. If I remember my trivia correctly, he created the look for the Ferengi, the Bajorans, the Cardassians…even the Ocampa and the Kazon (okay, so there are duds here and there). He was also the one who personally hand-painted each and every one of Jadzia Dax’s leopard spots, which he would then sign. Honest! Oh, and he started out as Butch “I’m Eddie Munster” Patrick’s makeup artist on The Munsters. How effing cool is that?

OR…hey, I saw a great movie last night on DVD. I’m just going to check it out really quickly on IMDb. Ooh, lots of trivia there. What? There’s an alternate ending that wasn’t on the DVD? Well, I have to see it! Back to YouTube. What do you mean, it’s been removed for copyright infringement? Well, we’re just going to have to try harder to find it, that’s all. Oh, and who was that guy playing the third police officer? I’ve seen him before in something…

OR…well, you get the picture, right? There are so many digital White Rabbits to follow, aren’t there? And they inevitably lead you down all variety of rabbit holes, which lead deeper and deeper until you’ve found the woman in the red dress and that damned cat appears twice and you know bloody Kung Fu. And that, Mr. Anderson, is the real sound of inevitability.

Damned Interwebz.

And then there are the memes. Even if you didn’t know before what they were called, you know what they are. Anyone living virtually has encountered at least one, maybe not even realizing it when it happens. Like the horribly obvious PhotoShopped “final image” from a World Trade Center tourist’s camera, which was then promptly spoofed a million times over. This, of course, would be my favorite of the series:

Or what about memes that flew below your radar for the most part until someone else you follow mentions it? Or spoofs it? WHEATON!!! Now I have to know more about the Trololo Guy! Or not.

Then there are the badgers. STUPID EFFING BADGERS! I had this stuck in my head for days. I even caught myself singing it as I was walking to the kitchen. Of course, I had to know more about this meme. This is how the White Rabbit traps you! And look! There are others! Zombie Badgers! Christmas Badgers! Footy Badgers!

ENOUGH!

But, wait! Why can’t we make money off our memes? Oh. Well, guess that answers my question. Really? A six-figure income for what pretty much comes down to exploiting your son for a laugh? Yes, it was funny. And some of the spoofs have been spectacular.

Wait, who the hell is Chad Vader?

OMGWTFBBQ!

And there you go. Just look at how long it took you to get through this one post (imagine how long it took me to write it!). And I didn’t even mention things like RickRolling, Fingerstaches, PhotoBombing, Numa Numa, Chocolate Rain, or even this…hell, I don’t even know what this is. But now the song is stuck in my head.

Damn. What the hell was I supposed to be doing?

So I’ve been having a bit of a resurgence of horror love as of late, thanks in part to my DVDregs project as well as the discovery of a new podcast (let’s see how well my denizens pay attention to their surroundings; this new podcast recently made the list under “Sounds Sweet” to the right).

I love horror movies. I love the coronary jolt, the acrid tang of fear and adrenaline. I’ve been a horror fan since I was a wee pup. Back in the day, it was all about gore for me. I was mad into slasher flicks. Freddy Krueger was my all-time favorite at the time, simply because he was all about the gore and camp, two things that when combined provide an unstoppable tsunami of entertainment for those so inclined to enjoy such a combination.

Actually, Freddy is still pretty high on my list of favorites, but I think I’m far more apt to choose the original movie over any of the sequels. That first appearance of Freddy was so very dark and grotesque and disturbing. The guy was a child killer when he was alive, which is one of the darkest of all the criminal acts one can choose for their villain…something that I think is completely glossed over in sequels, which trade in the disturbing truth of this burned boogie man for the camp of one-liners like “Welcome to prime time, bitch!” or “Better not dream and drive!”

As much as I enjoyed watching Robert Englund chew the scenery like a pit bull on steroids in all the sequels (and, really, there is no other reason to watch most of the sequels than Englund’s performances as Krueger), it’s that first appearance of Krueger that keeps pulling me back. That’s the defining Freddy movie, the one that most deserves its place in the horror pantheon.

[I'm still flipping a razor-sharp middle finger to the remake, though. I'd rather be forced to watch one of those craptacular sparkly vampire movies than have to endure watching Hollywood botch up another of my favorite horror movies a la Zombie's Hallowhathafu.]

So what scares me now? Atmosphere. I think I pretty much pushed this idea home significantly in my Halloween posting from last year. Almost every single movie on that list was frightening because of story rather than how much red dye and corn syrup they used in the making of the film. Even the gorier picks from this list depend more heavily on clever writing than on the gore factor (okay, so Billy from Black Christmas isn’t the most eloquent obscene phone caller…I’ll give you that).

It’s atmosphere. I remember my first realization of this truth came when I was about 12 or 13 years old. I was well entrenched in my horror phase by this point thanks in part to cable television and the local Nightmare Theater movie presentation every Saturday (followed, of course, by Freddy’s Nightmares and Friday the 13th: The Series). That Halloween, the community newspaper ran a contest in which they asked their younger readers to submit a scary story that would be judged for inclusion in their special Halloween section. Prizes were involved as well, but I don’t really remember what they were.

I also don’t remember what exactly I wrote for my submission. However, it was something horribly slasherific, something trite and predictable. Something that to me, at that point in my life, possessed all the trademarks of great horror. Needless to say, I didn’t win. But to this day, I still remember the story that did win that year. It was about a harlequin mask. No blood. No gore. No death. And it was scary as hell. Why?

All together now: Atmosphere. Something like that crawls under your skin and sleeps there, not jolting you immediately, but slowly releasing its venom through your blood, where it seeps and trickles until it’s permeated through to your very core. That’s the kind of horror I find myself loving most now. That doesn’t mean that I don’t like cheap scares as well…but the cheap scares are transitory. It’s the deeper scares that stay with you, make you squirm over and over.

Know what one of my favorite examples of this type of horror in recent years is? 2008′s The Brøken. It’s all the things that instantaneous shock seekers abhor: slow, brooding, surreal, and stylish. Would I recommend this movie to most horror fans? No, not really. It’s a bit too avant-garde for a lot of people’s tastes, and there are admittedly several WTF moments in which it seems as though something integral was cut too close for editorial comfort. However, I still very much enjoyed this film.

Same with 2005′s The Skeleton Key. Again, not a movie designed to slam you with constant jumps and starts. But I found that it crawled into my brain and hung around for quite a while, bothering me with its simple premise and simply creepy ending.

I guess what I’m saying is that I very much enjoy scary films that tamper with my senses and my sensibilities. Cheap thrills are just fine, but give me a movie that’s going to leave me afraid to open a closet (stupid Ring) or make the natural settling noises of a building set my teeth on edge, and I’m one happy wolf.

That’s all I really wanted to write about. Sorry if you were expecting something a bit deeper. How about this? I promise a book review soon and possibly even another DVDregs review. Ooh, ‘citin’!