Harry spent a lot of time alone, time away from pavement and television and table cloths and pretty girls and pop music and road signs and, sometimes, comforts others took for granted.

He always grinned when he thought of the late winter when his bitch dog stopped to take a pee by the side of the trail and he got turned on just a little bit and realized he needed…

Harry hated holidays, and he looked at the calendar in dread.

He hated those red and green or picnic-colored squares when everyone expected everyone else not to work, to gather around a tree or an arena or courthouse or table or a television and be sociable, smile.

Harry hated the blankness of holidays, the way the day stretched before him, no jobs, no tasks, no country to see, nothing getting done, and the only acceptable chore was feeding the…

Harry loved his job.

Harry loved the land, the animals, the sky, the smell of leather, problem solving, and being his own boss... up to a point, and he was glad he didn't have to deal with the bankers or the insurance guys or the government, that his paycheck came in a cream colored envelope each month, and it was enough, just enough.

Harry thought of himself as "cowboy," though he often used ranch hand or camp man or something like that on paperwork, and if…

http://at-the-bijou.blogspot.com/2010/07/bigger-by-amy-hale-auker-at-bijou.html

(it is actually three entries)

Dear Young Stud,

You say you want to be a good lover and last time we talked we discussed David Richo's Five As: attention, affection, appreciation, allowance, and acceptance.

But I would like to turn your attention to something a little less woo hoo and focus on the nitty gritty, the down and dirty, the real, and this involves how you treat that girl for the few hours AFTER you cum.... orgasm... finish.

I am fully aware that you no longer need to…

I wrote this morning, and then we went off on an errand, my partner and I on horses accompanied by two teenagers on quads.

We packed a picnic, dug around in the primordial ooze, sweated, got blisters, found an arrowhead, sat in the shade as the thunder teased us with cool breezes and the smell of wet dirt, ate our apples.

By the time the job was finished, the sky was navy blue overhead so the kids sped home on four wheels and we ducked our heads against the…

She is a great listener.

Her face animates as I speak, her eyes flash or flatten as the conversation dictates, her mouth moves with mine into Os or wide open smiles or a serious moue, and her hands help with their flutters of excitement, touches to her cheeks, and finger points, "Oh, girl, you got it right!"

She grabs at my verbal offerings and sips her wine faster as the night falls.

When I ask her questions, try to hear her story, her speech is…

Surrounded by writers who have published, maybe, or not, but are always available to critique.

One has a master's degree in English and you can buy her thesis on amazon, POD, but the last time I looked it was $49.95 for a used copy, and to be honest, it is awful because it is an academic thesis about the opression of women in major world religions, based on The Handmaid's Tale, and she spends her days in the classroom, an analysis goddess with piles of high school essays to…

I start out each day living gingerly, on the edges of the day, sleeping until the sun is bright hot, moving very carefully into bathroom and kitchen, hoping the coffee or sips of water will stay down.

The rattle of the ibuprophen from the bottle into my hand is familiar, but I bid the pills to both be quiet and be quickly absorbed without that roiling ache in the stomach that signifies having to rattle again.

It is past noon before I walk firmly upright, tear my…

So, you think I am cute and you want to buy me a beer, or dinner, or maybe a weekend on your boat.... well, that's very kind of you but first a few questions.

I will need to know the titles of the last three books you read, last three movies you watched, last three stores you shopped at, last three reasons you laughed so hard your belly hurt, last three reasons you cried (and if you don't remember the books, the laughter, or the tears, this interview is…

Every morning I say hello to the skink who flashes blue and sips from the puddle beneath the tomatoes, and…

There is a white sheet of paper with black shapie marker posted in her office: It's a wise dog that scratches its own fleas.

I sit amongst the collages, odd artwork, photos of people I don't recognize, quotes all over the walls, ripped off New Yorker covers, and stacks of books, and I am too distracted to write.

I think the dog and fleas quote must be an important key to creativity.

How can I solve my own problems without asking her, the one who…

Yesterday I ate all of the peas and beans from the garden, threw them into a pasta primavera along with some zuchinni and the first tiny tender yellow squash.

I wrote a poem that broke my heart open a little bit, and the breeze was refreshing in all the dark redness.

I read Jonathan Safran Foer in the afternoon and…

Bigger than you, bigger than me,

bigger than a bank account, bigger than a vote,

bigger than committees allocating funds for artistic projects yet undone,

bigger than the fight you had with your lover last week.

See how his eye is bigger than his wing,…

As I pointed out earlier, my writing has a problem with plot and action, as do my writing habits and practice.

I spend hours developing these great characters until they are living all over my office, getting under my feet, talking in my ear, drinking…

In stupification we stare at the enormous black bull drinking from the water trough at the mare shed.

"Number 14," he is stating the obvious since, yes, I can see the number branded on his hip and even if I couldn't I would recognize that head and that ass anywhere because I memorized it on Memorial Day while following this same animal on a torturous hike over malpai rock with a group of cows that HE kept getting in front of, stopping the whole herd simply because he…

Beau Lewis doesn't think he can ever make Velma Jo happy, and he has been trying for almost 18 years, trying much harder than his daddy ever tried to make his mama happy while the two of them didn't exactly raise a household of boys so much as loose-herd them upwards.

Beau grew up with barely any money, but everyone seemed happy enough, and he guessed he thought Velma Jo would be happy living like that, too, but he figured out early on that Velma Jo would always want…

Velma Jo Lewis started out as Velma Guadalupe Martinez Sisneros, but she dreamed up adding the Jo during her senior year when she was sleeping in the back yard in the camper shell.

She was sleeping in the camper shell that was set up on cinder blocks because her fat bowling-ball-with-legs sister had left her greasy hot-rods-are-my-life husband and come home with her two adorable-but-loud children in tow and now spent her nights in Velma's room and her days in the kitchen with…

It didn't take her long to figure out how to live alone, mainly because she had been studying on it most of her 50 years, dreaming about it, practicing it in the silly little spaces of time between interruptions, or during those weeks when he went off hunting or fishing, at least the ones when she wasn't stupid and inane enough to do something like rent a carpet shampoo machine so that the aloneness was sucked away and dumped down the drain.

She didn't take much from the home…