—WHO AM I TALKING TO AGAIN?

…What a day Friday ended up being.  I could have done without Friday, that’s for sure.

…But I took the online writing workshop at Bending Genres, led by Meg Tuite, this weekend.  As usual, it was fantastic, and as usual I produced a lot of work.  And I (braggart alert) got some really kind, and encouraging feedback:

--Truly stunning work. You write on another level, with great insight and emotional force. Your language is poetic and mesmerizing, a triumph in itself.

--Len, this is truly exquisite writing. Every line is poetic and speaks to one's inner way of understanding. Really, each of these pieces is a knockout. Well done.

--Len,
You never cease to blow me away with your words and how prolific you are! These are all heavy with the weight of their beauty in horror. Your choice of words is gorgeous and the subject matter terrifying.  Beauties.  LOVE!  LEN.

--Len, "Your morning mouth tastes like kelp and your conscience has an asterisk attached to it again." WOW! Each one has that special Len wow factor. I don't how you do it. So succinct, so unique, so bleak and dark yet tender and genuine... all while still kicking my ass in Words with Friends. Do you sleep? Do you eat dictionaries and shit flash? I don't know your secret, but I admire the hell out of your writing.

--Len, I am still doing a slow read of "The Dishonesty of Certain Mirrors." You have a rare ability to combine the macabre, scintillating, sensual. You also are very VERY good at self-editing for publication. Your work ethic is enviable. What I want to say is you said at the last retreat that you don't know how to write "hopeful." I counter that by saying every act of writing you do is hope. And the reader you reach will feel less alone and more validated, edified, and fascinated. You model a positive sort of masculinity. Vulnerability is the greatest strength there is. And our boys need to hear it more than ever. Keep on, friend! And don't let the paintings hit you on the head.

--I love what Sara said, in fact am in tears over it. Only because I relate to your writing in a very similar way. For me, it's vital. It's alive. It speaks over the volumes of other detritus and weakness. I relate and that is such an important aspect of the risk and heaviness and risks you continuously take on the page. Keep up your prolific workshop work, my friend. Way to go!

--And I'm thanking you too, Sara, because I remember that comment of Len's as well and have thought of it often. So glad you said this to Len, because truth needs to be said. Wish I had, glad you did.

--Len, Your writing! “Sulfur hands.. the towel you toss me… Your morning mouth tastes like kelp, and your conscience has an asterisk attached to it again” unforgettable phrases! One night and The Event are perfect portrayals of dead sex, dead relationship. The Weight of Survival and Circa 1969 just make me want to weep for this child. Ending this like Meg, Len! Love!

…And then there was this from someone in India: Astonished to connect with such a brilliant mind!  Len Kuntz, here's to reading more of you!

…On Friday I head to Taos, NM for eight days for another workshop and what should be a ridiculously enjoyable time.

…But here’s one of the pieces from Saturday:

Circa 1969

Your keyhole eyes tell me everything I need to know, that there’s no way out of here.  You’re the parent prison warden purple monster terrorizing the air.

My shattered glass eyes show different photos of the world.  Babies stabbing babies.  Throats on fire.  Decapitated hands inching across the floor.

As I’ve been instructed to do, I kneel in the corner staring at another narrow crease in this toaster house.  The rocks under my bare knees are the ones you told me to load up in a bucket.  My hands are raised over my head, where they must remain for an hour, or a new Satan will take over hitting this piñata.

Every few seconds, wraiths appear smelling like coal and moldy earth.  Flat in front of me, they blink and blink, then skitter away, frightened by what they’ve witnessed.

Someone in this room is smoking a cigarette.  Someone else is knitting a shawl out of leftover newborn skin.  Someone else seems to be enjoying themselves greatly, singing, “We’ll be coming around the mountain when we come.”

On the TV behind me on the far wall, Walter Cronkite is relaying body counts, though he’s never been to this house or the locked dungeon under the floorboards.