After the fact that now my book has become quite successful internationally and has gained a lot of attention I am willing to admit to not only being a self-published author but, also, a DIY author. Far more than most. For those who don’t know DIY means “do it yourself”. I, also, can rightfully claim to have published an indie book. For those who don’t know indie means “independent”.
What does all this mean anyway? Indie means either a book published by a small independent press as opposed to a major publishing company or, as in my case, a self-publishing company. This is basically a jab at the mainstream publishing and literary world that have become more and more monopolized. Although one could argue that the mainstream pays attention to the independents to look for new talent who have potential.
As far as DIY is concerned in fact I studied Graphic Design but never got a degree in it. However I learned enough to design my own cover for my book, do the page layout myself and send a PDF file, print ready, to the publisher without paying for “professional graphic design services”. My book includes my own artwork and photography going back to even my high school art portfolio. In essence I made my book as personal a statement of myself as possible. Although one could say that my book is not a handmade book printed on an old fashioned printing press and is mass produced on modern high speed offset lithography printing presses it is still a “do it yourself book”.
In addition my book is a “print on demand” book. This means that there is no first printing of so many hundreds or thousands of copies with the hope of a second printing if the book sells. The book is not even printed until a retailer, wholesaler or distributor orders copies printed and shipped. In other words it is unlimited how many copies I can sell. In fact anyone can go to my self-publishing company, Book Baby, and order a copy personally printed for $20. This is a price that I have set that cannot be changed unless I change it.
It wasn’t long before my younger brother, Samuel, became friends with Jimmy’s two younger brothers, Donnie and Ronnie. My younger brother, Samuel, is about three years younger than I. Jimmy’s two younger brothers were two years apart. They were close to the same age as Samuel and considerably smaller in stature than Jimmy.
One day I remember going along with Jimmy and his mom and little brothers to shop in the morning during the three month summer vacation time that we had from school. In Tucson in the sixties during the hot days of summer we, boys, wore cut-off jeans to look cool. It was at the beginning of summer vacation and before nine in the morning there was still a little coolness in the air. We were going to a large, discount department store in a new complex recently built in the desert. The modern four lane, divided road had an exit that looked like a freeway exit but this was Tucson so this was not a freeway at all.
We arrived in the old, station wagon that Jimmy’s mother drove. We were there at the doors of the new, modern looking department store in the desert where no greenery of landscaping had started to grow yet. It was before the store was open. The day was growing hotter in the Arizona sun as I noticed all the other housewives, most of them middle aged, who were waiting for the doors to open. It was the day of a sale that had been advertised. I had no previous experience or knowledge of these types of events at all.
I remember a tall, young man in a light grey suit unlocking the glass doors and then I was witnessing a site that I had never heard of. Everyone was pushing up toward the doors as they opened and then there was an insane, mad rush of women running to a certain department. I found myself caught up in the ebullience of the moment and rushing with all of the others to see what the excitement was all about.
Soon I came to a scene in which there was already a crowd of women gathered in a certain area and others were fighting their way to get in. I decided to become one of them to see what was going on. When I was able to push through the women and get close enough to the front I was amazed by what I saw. There were tables piled with women’s clothing that had been neatly folded and women were practically fighting over the clothing! It was a garish spectacle! After watching for awhile I turned and walked away.
One thing that really stands out in my mind is the way Jimmy’s mom placated her two youngest children by giving them candy. At a certain point in this shopping experience Jimmy and his mom left me alone in the old station wagon with Donnie and Ronnie. I sat in the back seat and Ronnie and Donnie turned to face me from the middle seat of the station wagon. I tried to talk to them as I would with my own younger brother and sisters but they seemed more keen on trying to impress me with the fact that they had candy. I found myself in a state of disgust looking at their dirty, little faces with candy coating around their mouths. Already their teeth were small and brown with gaps between them. They smiled at me triumphantly as if the mere state of constantly having candy showed superiority.
I sat in the back seat of the station wagon looking at the dirty, little faces smiling at me. Inside the station wagon was a feeling of dirtiness and smelliness. There was a gritty feeling. I just felt a sense of disgust. Needless to say I never went along with Jimmy and his mother when they went shopping again. When he asked me if I wanted to go along he seemed not to understand why I would say no.
I actually liked Jimmy’s mom. She was younger than my own mother. She had bouncy, blonde hair down to her shoulders. Often she wore shorts. She seemed pretty. She always acted nice. She seemed rather child like herself. She often talked to me as if I were an equal. There was an air of excitement about being in their home. It was something different, something new.
Jimmy’s father was a dark, shadowy figure who made his appearance rarely. It was a long time before I ever saw him. He was a burly, Mexican man with black hair, a dark complexion and a small moustache. He seemed unpleasant and never smiled. He was not like my own Mexican-American father. My father was known for smiling and joking. Jimmy’s father was a glazier and apparently made good money. His glass truck would sometimes be parked in the driveway of their home. Jimmy said that he often worked on Saturdays which was why he was rarely at home.
It seemed as if marriage for him was his wife only and not his children. He seemed to leave the raising of his sons to his wife. This may have had to do with the fact that all three of his boys turned out to have blonde hair like their mother and fair complexions. When he was at home he usually retreated to the bedroom.
I remember on a few occasions during this time in my life I found myself alone in the living room of my family home on a hot, Tucson afternoon. It was cool in the living room from the air of the cooler as I looked peacefully at the drapery. I became impressed with the sense of order and calmness in my mother’s neat and nice living room. There was the couch decorated with the Mexican zarape, the fireplace mantel with the clock ticking and the family photos. There were the paintings and old fashioned carpet with its oval shape, the coffee table, end tables and lamps. I was sitting in my mother’s comfortable upholstered rocking chair. There were the drapes gently swaying because of the one window that was slightly ajar from which the heat of the Sonoran desert and fresh air from outside radiated. From the front porch would be the sound of the wind chimes that were barely moving.
The peace and tranquility impressed me with the orderliness of the living room in its own afternoon twilight. Everything neat and simple. Everything dusted by my little sisters or my mother. When my sisters were babies I had helped my mother with the dusting. I had a feeling of transcendence and peace of mind. This was my pristine world, so different, I thought in contrast to Jimmy’s world.
Although there was an air of excitement in Jimmy’s home with his young, energetic mother I always felt a sense of uncleanness and lack of order and peace. There was never the clean, pristine smell of my family home. Often the living room was in need of picking up with loose articles here and there. Both of Jimmy’s parents smoked cigarettes which contributed to the general feeling of dirtiness. Often Jimmy’s mother would be sitting on the couch, laundry to fold at her side, with a cigarette in her hand, smoke going up to the ceiling. The ceiling was stained yellow and brown from the cigarette smoke.
A few months went by and I didn’t hear anything concerning the spider lady. A little after five in the afternoon one day I got a call at a doctor’s office. I had never been there before. I was impressed when I read on the sign that was next to the door of the office that it was a woman doctor who was a naturopathic doctor.
A very pretty, young, brunette woman who was close to my own age at the reception desk smiled. She seemed especially friendly and cheerful. She said she would go get the person who called for the taxi. She returned and smiling she said, “She’ll be just a minute.” There were women and children in the waiting room. Then I saw her in the semi-darkness of the room approaching me. It was the spider lady. She was wearing a long, dark print dress.
I went to open the back door of the taxi
for her and she said she wanted to sit in the front so I opened the front
passenger door for her. As we were
riding along I thought how strange that we were riding in a car together with
daylight all around on a warm, sunny afternoon with a touch of coolness in the
air. She seemed calm, patient, relaxed
and humble. She was gazing off into
space. She sat in her long, dark print
dress with her arms resting on her lap.
Her wrists and hands were placed just above her knees, her palms
up. Her fingers were delicately curved
as if she was posing in a peaceful, serene and beautiful position.
Then I saw it! On both of her wrists were plastic, stick-on
bandages. I kept looking in disbelief
while she remained calm and serene. She
was gazing into the distance ahead with slightly lowered eyelids as if in a
surreal state of melancholy and peacefulness.
I looked again at the bandages in exactly the places on someone’s wrists
where a person would slash with a razor blade to commit suicide.
I looked at her face so calm, serene and transcendent. Except for glints of light that reflected from her eyes as we drove along she seemed motionless and in a state of relaxation. It seemed as if she had wanted me to see her bandages. She wanted me to know.
When we were on her street and getting
close to her house she asked me to stop a few houses away from hers. She said she wanted to walk the rest of the
way. I offered to get out and open the
door for her but she insisted on letting herself out. She reached for the door handle. She seemed listless as if drugged. I patiently pointed to help her find the door
The afternoon just before sunset was in a
golden glow as I watched her walking ahead of me with the skirts of her dark,
elegant dress swaying while she walked past the yellow and green lawns of the
neighborhood towards her own home. She
walked with sadness and serenity as if introspective. I never heard anything of the spider lady
I remembered I had told the cab drivers and dispatcher that no such spider that is completely black with a smooth, hard skin of that size exists in this area that I’ve ever heard of. It was larger than tarantulas which I have seen in Arizona and tarantulas are furry and brown. Was it just a spider? Where did those webs come from on the porch that I had just walked through? What was that smell of death? Did she practice evil magic and lure men to their death, murdering them in the belief that she could gain power from death like a female spider that seduces males to have sex with her and then devours them?
When I read in a magazine about how a man turned in Jeffrey Dauhmer, the serial killer, to the police because of smelling an unusual smell that made him think of death and then he looked into Jeffrey Dauhmer’s bedroom to see bed sheets covered with caked, dried blood it reminded me of the smell in the spider lady’s house.
Did I break her magic spell by writing a verse of poetry? Did she use poetry for evil, magic purposes to cast her spells and did I defeat her unwittingly because of being a poet myself? Was her seduction spell over me that important to her that when I used her own medium to break her spell she attempted suicide? Or is the writing and publishing of this story the final breaking of a spell that may have gone beyond the grave? At this point I know there are people who practice magic, both good and bad.