Time Tunnels, Black Holes, and Murders

Dear Subscriber,

Did a ton of research into the Hopi myths and traditions. This produced a new beginning to my short story. It has a better, and more sinister feeling to it than previously. Of course, the young anthology editors will think it sucks because I don’t have all action and it’s too “chatty.” Whatever. Fuck them. My great-great grandmother was First Nation. It’s for her. If you want to learn how use Chat.openai then check-out my free chapter and perhaps sign up for the book I’m crafting.
By J. R. Musgrave
My name is Maasaw. I’m a beast of the night. They also call me Skeleton Man. It’s another sobriety Wednesday. The day of the “hump animals” to which humans owe a debt of gratitude. Some humps can store water, like a canteen hump on a GI soldier. But camels only store fat, like humans.
You humans can also hump on your great treks across the paths of the wilderness and your climbs up mountains to seek a new guru. I live inside a used trailer near the San Francisco Peaks above Flagstaff. These are the sacred humps of the Hopi, and my people come to me for secret knowledge.
Back when I had my back hump, and not this ugly Katsina head and stick body, it was because I was my Hopi tribe’s revered fertility god, the Kokopelli. I played songs to bring rain and usher in the harvest. As a writer, I also brought forth creativity to my fellow artists in music, poetry, and stories. But my main physical job was to join our men and women in spiritual union to produce descendants. Today, they only come to me when somebody dies, or they want to prevent the death of a loved one.
My Kokopelli hump resulted when I would transform into my grand aspect of bringing the pregnant woman her child. When the reservation had several pregnancies due, which was often, I was loaded down with these squirming infants like a Grand Canyon mule. I did this so many times that my back grew curved and ugly, just the way it is shown in the drawings in our ancient caves and pueblos. It looked like this:




Re-read Shirley Jackson’s wonderful story “The Daemon Lover” last night before I flew off to Dream City.
That story would be rejected by most modern editors in a heartbeat. As with many of her stories, it’s an exploration of a psychological or (gasp!) psychiatric condition of a human being. As with most humans, you must put yourself in her shoes to be able to “walk a mile in her moccasins,” so to speak.
This requires carefully crafted description of setting and what the character is doing and (gasp!) thinking. Without those slow, slow, slow details you have no “pop” at the end. Young writers do not understand this gradual building up to an ending. They want action, action, and fuck the “chatty, inner world” or descriptions of setting.
I learn from her every time I read a story. She had an inner world and process of unveiling that world that is “demonic,” to coin a word from the title of this story. LOL!
Different strokes for different folks, but I like her style much better.

One of my fave Kacey Musgraves’ songs about “butterflies.” I have butterflies in my first episode of “Auschwitz Dancer.” Admiral butterflies, to be exact (first episode is free). Great symbols of mankind’s “free spirit.” Juxtaposed with Auschwitz, I thought, makes a great statement, artistically speaking, that is.

Of course, when we have so many anti-Semites and Nazi-lovers these days, stories like mine don’t get much respect.

This just in! 

Looks like I’ll have to add this atrocity to my short story Kokopelli is Damned. The “Man” is fucking with the indigenous again. Do they ever stop? Nope.
Despite a 20-year uranium mining moratorium established in 2012, as recently as 2020 Donald Trump’s administration proposed spending $1.5 billion to prop up the country’s nuclear fuel industry, emboldening Canada-based Energy Fuels Inc. to take steps toward boosting operations at dormant uranium mines outside Grand Canyon National Park.
Of course, the main income to the tribes in that area, including the Hopi, is what’s at the Grand Canyon and surrounding lands. Who gives a fuck, right, when it comes to fuel for our nuke bombs? Which has priority? Not First Nations.
Thanks for your kind attention again. I hope you have a satisfying Sunday morning coming down.
Kind Regards,
James Musgrave
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