I had no proprietary interest in the hogleg Stefan was twisting up. For all reefer’s fame as a groovy way to kick back and take it easy, the stuff tends to launch me into meta-spheres of self-consciousness, over-analysis, and general anxiety, all of which I can experience simply by sitting down to write an essay on language. What interested me was the concentration Stefan devoted to the work, the precision with which he approached it. I’d known stoners who took their pastime seriously, who made a discipline of all things reefer, but I’d never seen anything like this.  The man might have been crafting an engine part.

It should be noted that Stefan was not especially precise in other ways. His hair was ratty, he wore board-shorts and a ragged Zildjan Cymbals T-shirt, no shoes. Insomuch as he was wearing a shirt at all, he might be considered overdressed for the Bahian lunch shack I met him in. It was the Zildjan T-shirt that had got us talking. A sometime drummer, I’d taken a neighboring barstool and soon enough learned that he was, too. His name was Stefan, he came from Germany, and he played a four-piece Gretsch.

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Rose Hunter’s book, to the river, takes us to parts of the world most of us have rarely seen and it does so by rendering an interior landscape often strange and elegant. We talk with her today about giant banana leaves, the pollution of memory, and where the river is headed.

Tell us a bit about yourself? Where are you from? What fires you up? What’s your deepest regret?

I’m from all over the place. I was born in a country town in Australia (Armidale) — but my parents moved around so as I remember it now anyway, I never felt I was really from there. These days if someone asks I’ll usually say Brisbane, Australia, because that’s where I went to university. I liked university.

Hmm, what fires me up? Good writing of course. Exploring new places. Warm air on my skin. Steamy, drenching humidity. Rare connections with people. Giant banana leaves and horses on the beach. But all that’s more like a slow burn appreciation. I prefer that to getting fired up I think. When I get fired up it’s usually a mistake, even if it’s amusing at the time. This coffee I’m drinking for example is wonderful, just right. I hope I’m growing in my appreciation of those sorts of things.

My deepest regret would be regrets, plural, for sure; I couldn’t really pick between them, and they’re probably not things I could share here. I find though, that these things are constantly shifting. Some days I’m convinced I made a huge mistake doing x,y, or z, and other days I think well, that wasn’t really such a mistake because then I wouldn’t have done this and this. Most people do this I think. It’s probably a form of rationalization on some level — something more reassuring and self-building than saying — well, basically, my life since twenty-five has been a mistake…. Etc.

One regret I can share here is not going any further at university. I always intended to go back and do more there, after my BA. I’ve come close to trying to, a few times. But this is a push-pull thing with me too — when it’s comes to the crunch I realize I probably couldn’t cope with the structure, and the classrooms, and being told what to write and read — or funding it.

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A pair of paunchy boys rushing in and pointing up at #1, the Whopper Sandwich Special, (“…and I want cheese.” “Me, too. And bacon.”) on the backlit menu. Me, sipping my Joe, taking advantage of the free WiFi, trying to finish up a story. Finally, the boys coming toward me with their trays, joshing each other, sitting in the booth right next to me, talking loud, full-mouthed in no time at all, swerving french fries through a puddle of ketchup on a napkin. Me: click, clack, click. They look at me and laugh, and I feel like telling them I’m hungry too. Hungry in a different way, though, like Hemingway said Cézanne once was. They crumple their wrappers, empty their trays in the trash, and are gone.

Eat as much of the stories below as you can stomach, folks. But remember to stay hungry, always.

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The dawn of a new year means hunting season is over. Growing up, my brothers and I would go regularly with our father. In fact, Bret Lott stole a story from my brother based on our hunts. These days I only make it to a stand once a year, New Year’s Day. It’s a nice time sitting out in the woods, hanging out with the pops and hearing good ol’ boy tall tales. We go on traditional dog drive hunts, and, well, the setting is pretty much just like everything you’ve read in The Bear. This year I had Cat’s Cradle with me as I waited under an eagle’s nest. Two balds flirted above me, scaring any critters away. I didn’t mind; I probably wasn’t going to lift the gun anyway.

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xTx is a writer living in Southern California. She has been published online in places such as PANK, Monkeybicycle, Smokelong Quarterly, elimae and Dogzplot. Her free e-book entitled, “Nobody Trusts a Black Magician” is available at nonpress. She says nothing at www.notimetosayit.com