This is the ebook for Donny's Day. The print version will be available in a week or so, so if you're anxious and want to get your feet wet, this is a good way to get a sneak peak, and it's fairly cheap this way. Otherwise, don't hesitate til you can hold the little bugger in your hands. I'll send the link to the print version when it's available. Thanks for all your support.
http://www.damnationbooks.com/book.php?isbn=9781615720590
And don't be afraid to write a review, if you so desire. And yes, it makes a great gift for you or your loved ones for Christmas!
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Soul Experience (Another Perspective on Life and Lessons Learned)
There's life in here now, stirring, vibrant, filled with color, unafraid. I only wanted a little belief in myself, the time that got away from me, made me lose direction, like bad religion and my individuality, trying to make people happy, giving them the benefit of the doubt, when none of it mattered, only what you thought, what you felt, how you cared. People will tell you a million different things, how to think, how to act, what you're feeling. Everybody is on their road -- the experience of the soul and how far it has to travel. Feelings are the language of the soul, or so I was told, or read somewhere, and I believe that. People can tell you what they think of you and that's their opinion. Why do you have to defend yourself all the time anyway? You don't have to. Everyone has a different definition to what selfishness is, strength, love, God, mortality, even being a man or a woman. That's what's beautiful. It's what makes us different. Six billion viewpoints. My god, that's a lot! It doesn't have to gel with your own, of course. Like minded individuals are out there. There's plenty to go around. And if you're always changing for the better, that should be enough. Recently, someone, a very dear friend, mentioned how pain comes from a lack of acceptance. And I believe that, too. It is the way it is, the way it goes, and people are the way they are. So, despite what your opinions are, suck it up. Love them and yourself, despite how you think, and you have traveled light years. Right and wrong are only defined by perception. It's different for everyone. Forgiveness and acceptance are in short supply. We are not on trial here. We don't need our attorneys to defend us, despite what we're accused of. Have you ever felt that, that you were being drilled to such an extent by some stranger, you suddenly felt you needed your lawyer present? Our hearts are our deepest reflections of ourselves, and everybody, and I mean EVERYBODY, has something inside that makes them beautiful in ways others cannot be. It's the talent to see it that matters and means most, I think. If you are taking the time to look well beyond and into the soul of someone, how can you not see them as beautiful? I don't think people are genuinely bad. Misguided perhaps, but not bad.
I had an experience with my therapist the other day that was insanely intense, like nothing I have ever felt or been though before. Talking to him, I mentioned, in a joking manner, something about the Demon Voice that has been haunting me my whole life. My therapist mentioned how I'd brought up that Demon Voice more than once, and he wanted to talk more about it. "Would you like to try an experiment?" he said. I raised my eyebrows. "I want you to be the Demon Voice, play the role, and I want you to talk to yourself, and say everything the Demon Voice has said to you over your whole life." I was already terrified. The very thought was enough to rattle my cage, but to make a long story short, I agreed. And I have not felt the same since. I sat in a chair and pretended I was facing myself, me, Brandon, who was sitting on the couch, and I delivered every hateful, vicious, vindictive, bloodthirsty thing I have ever heard that voice of self-destruction say. My heart was pounding, palms sweating. My therapist told me to pay attention to what was happening to my body. I tried to breathe. Then I switched roles, sitting on the couch, addressing the demon from my own point of view, disagreeing with everything he said, of course, banishing him from my life, and telling him to go away forever. I did this role reversal several times. The experience was so intense, it took me almost half an hour to calm down and catch my breath. But not just for a day, but for days afterward, I felt it all slip away, the anger, the pain, the turmoil, torment, sadness, confusion, all right there. My heart felt solid, my entire body, my posture, the way I walked, saw the world, everything was different, like someone had given me an I-beam for a spine. What a relief after all those years! This may sound funny, but I felt indestructible, strong in ways I never had, as if the person I'd been trying to be my whole life finally broke free. I did not cry in joy. I smiled in self-assurance instead. I had never been so thankful for anything in my life, had never experienced anything so terrifying and so beautiful at the same time. I almost wish I could do it again. When it was over, it was like waking from a very long dream. I had certainly taken a trip. Anyway, I wanted to share that for those of you who follow my blogs because it was such a powerful experience. Thanks for listening.
It's always about so much more than writing, and art, and reading great work, I guess is what I'm trying to say. Those used to be the most important aspects to me, and they still are, to an extent. But, as you get older, your perspective changes, and the things that used to be important to you are not so much, and things you never thought much about became more critical to your overall peace of mind. I heard this a million time growing up, and the teenage angst rolled its eyes. But here it is now. It is experience, that life blood that maims, heals, and forces us to grow, that guides us. Experience is our teacher, Love, our best friend, Strength and Forgiveness the weapons we wield for peace of mind. So, that begins to sound a little sappy and cliche, yes? I have delivered my share of pain, and been hurt in return. So, no surprise that old friend Karma rears its head when it does. The past is in the past because that's where it belongs. Don't dwell. Learn form it, and move on. (I can't believe I just said that, a man who has lived his life dwelling in the fantasies of yesteryear, but it's not doing me any good, not here, this moment, not tomorrow. The oldest cliche in the world, and maybe that's why.) So, I let go, at least I tried my damndest, after a lot of years, though I still feel a slight tug of pain at times over things said, not forgotten. I guess that's natural. I'm still learning, experimenting with letting go. I'm not here for revenge or vindication, except for myself. I'm looking for redemption outside death, right here on the planet. That's part of my goal, I think. Redemption, here, now, at some point in my life. I think that's a noble pursuit. My heart, my thoughts, my experience, are all that matter, and by those things am I defined. But how I have responded, learned, and felt along the way is what's important, too. At least to me. The painful things can be great teachers. You hear that all the time. And yes, sometimes those old cliches are cliches for a reason. Sometimes, I think I'm the only one trying to figure it out still, that everyone else has done this long before me. Does it feel like that for you? I'm not saying anything, in other words, you haven't already heard or figured out on your own. But maybe just reaching out and acknowledging all this can help someone, too, as much as it is helping me by writing it. I've told people, dear friends, in fact, that I am writing a self-help book for myself. One that never ends, apparently.
So, reluctantly, and taking a deep breath, I walk into the light of day, not knowing what will come or what will happen, but knowing I have the confidence to survive, because nothing has killed me yet, and I am still fighting, my heart still beating, and for the most part, pretty damn optimistic, smiling, and confident that everything is going to be okay, and that's good enough for me. Jesus, I look back and would've never imagined the things that have happened, did, in fact, happen to me, but strangely glad they did. Who I am today would be different without them, I know, and I don't like that idea. I'm pretty damn happy knowing I am who I am these days, and I wouldn't want to be anybody else. For me, and for those who know me, that's saying a mouthful. It has been endless miles of failures, rejections, and self-deprecations. Ah, that ugly beast, finally slain! Stay down, Beast! I look over the words, and yes, I believe them. I can't believe I believe them, but yes; and I laugh, because I do believe them. Maybe this is part of the goal, one of the massive hurdles, the giant leap. I will try not to condemn myself for wondering why it didn't happen sooner.
These have been the best two years of my life, easily. All emotions, feelings, good and bad, have been brutal, raw, and very very real, and I wouldn't have it any other way. Sensitive, yes, thank God! I've had a lot of years of pent up emotion waiting to come out, and finally it has. I have lived, loved, lost and cried and felt those things the way a man should. I have been lucky to have the experiences I've had, despite how painful. At least I was able to feel and love, and that is something I can be content with and accept. To hold someone dear to you, and know you adore them with every fiber of your soul, that you have never loved anyone as much as you love that person in that one moment, that you know it, without a doubt, coursing through your veins like electricity, wondering if everyone gets to feel this, and for those who don't, how unfair, how sad, and how you wish you could give everyone a piece of that! It's funny to see the hurt and the sadness, but still know you are a better man because of it. That is the lesson I take from pain, that everyone takes, I suppose. I have embraced every sadness, every hurt, every glorious, mounting joy, and I recall the best of those times, mountain peaks, laughter, and the ageless, timeless mind, those moments, defined by the electricity moving through me, mounting, knowing I am more truly alive in those moments than I have ever been, and that more of those moments are possible. So, forgive me, if my posts fail to coincide these days with art, writing, the darker genres or literary aspects, in general. I guess, I feel like this is more important, at least to me. I find my biggest strengths these days are truth and looking myself in the eye, knowing what I see is real, and that nothing can sway me, and that it doesn't matter what others think of me, because in my heart of hearts, truth cannot and will not be ignored. Humanity is experience, and experience is a series of wrongs, mistakes, and the lessons learned from them. But it doesn't always have to be like that. You don't have to have pain in order to learn anything, grow, and thrive. Joy is just as knowledgeable a teacher, and thank God for that. Love reminds us what we're here for. Anger and hate are the beasts that destroy. Strange, coming from a man who spends most of his time penning horror, or at least darker tales. I've decided that just because I enjoy writing about suffering, doesn't mean I have to suffer myself anymore. There's a story in there somewhere, I'm sure. :)
I have been confused along the way, we all have, and our stories make us unique, and if we piled everybody's wrongs in front of us, seeing what everybody else had to go through, I think we would easily take back our own. We were made to climb out of this, to be strong enough for what we have to deal with. It's easier to say that now, of course. I guess, I love that life is such a beautiful teacher, and that expression helps us define and understand our errors, ourselves, others, and even our own pain. But the part I always forget, is just the opposite, how experience can teach you about joy, truth, and love, and how the soul and the mind can experience that just as easily, just as often, that it is capable of it. That it is real. That has got to be the most beautiful thing in existence. I look back, astounded by how many changes I've made, and the people I have been over the years, and at times, I am spellbound I managed to survive at all, being those people so easily influenced, beholden to the basest weaknesses, and unable to resist every vice and temptation. I have never felt more lucky, more loved, more human in my life as I do now, and I owe that to the choices I've made and the people I've surrounded myself with. And I guess, what I'm trying to express, is that no matter what it's been like, or how hard, that gratitude is the main thing that comes from it must mean something. That despite all that, what you went through, that you could still be glad it happened, and thankful for it, for whatever your reasons may be. That has to be part of the goal, too, I think. God would have to smile down at you for that.
So, I think I've stood on my soap box long enough. I just felt it, and well, these days, I have to take advantage of every opportunity to write, no matter what the material may be, and I think it helps me understand easier. and I am always looking for understanding. Of course, I never mind sharing. I am sincerely indebted to the people who have listened and helped me, who have been my backbone, encouraged me along the way, taught me lessons, gave me their insight, and they all know who they are. For the lessons I have been taught, and what I learned through every relationship I've had, and how those special women have only made me a better man, I am also thankful. If I hadn't felt so much pain, despite what we went through together, it would mean I hadn't loved so much, either, and I like the realization, the truth in that statement. It's true, you cannot understand true love without true pain. It's a hard one to swallow, but I understand it, at least. Those lessons, whatever they may have been, and what I had to face, might have been hard, but face them I did, and it wouldn't have happened otherwise without those experiences.
So, with all that, it begins to blossom. And each day, holds a promise unlike the one before. And I hold the sacred heart of experience close to my chest, like a lover, you could say, and I look up, not so much wondering why these days, but just wondering in general over the beautiful mystery of it all, waiting for another perspective to change, and what new understandings may come, and how the longer I keep this close to my heart, and live for these precious seconds, it can only get better. Not a bad way to go about it. To think that the longer you hold true to yourself, the more precious it becomes, the more you will love yourself, the more peace of mind you will find, the more you will love. I think the soul is here for its own experience, and we are the vessels that allow it to feel and reconnect with God, so God can experience the joy, the pain, the sorrow, and love though us again, and the cycle goes on. How else could He know Everything? Stop fighting it and learn to embrace it instead, I guess, is another lesson there. I think I must be getting spiritual again, or at least trying. I have read a few of those books lately, and maybe this post is the result. Maybe that's my lesson to myself these days. Expect nothing, accept everything, and you will always be pleasantly surprised and without pain. Embrace everything about you and outside you. Well, it's a nice thought, and maybe it's about time...But like I said, you might have figured this out long before me, so kudos to you.
Stay safe and enjoy the Holidays, Everyone! May this season treat you better than you have ever been treated. By God, you deserve it!
I had an experience with my therapist the other day that was insanely intense, like nothing I have ever felt or been though before. Talking to him, I mentioned, in a joking manner, something about the Demon Voice that has been haunting me my whole life. My therapist mentioned how I'd brought up that Demon Voice more than once, and he wanted to talk more about it. "Would you like to try an experiment?" he said. I raised my eyebrows. "I want you to be the Demon Voice, play the role, and I want you to talk to yourself, and say everything the Demon Voice has said to you over your whole life." I was already terrified. The very thought was enough to rattle my cage, but to make a long story short, I agreed. And I have not felt the same since. I sat in a chair and pretended I was facing myself, me, Brandon, who was sitting on the couch, and I delivered every hateful, vicious, vindictive, bloodthirsty thing I have ever heard that voice of self-destruction say. My heart was pounding, palms sweating. My therapist told me to pay attention to what was happening to my body. I tried to breathe. Then I switched roles, sitting on the couch, addressing the demon from my own point of view, disagreeing with everything he said, of course, banishing him from my life, and telling him to go away forever. I did this role reversal several times. The experience was so intense, it took me almost half an hour to calm down and catch my breath. But not just for a day, but for days afterward, I felt it all slip away, the anger, the pain, the turmoil, torment, sadness, confusion, all right there. My heart felt solid, my entire body, my posture, the way I walked, saw the world, everything was different, like someone had given me an I-beam for a spine. What a relief after all those years! This may sound funny, but I felt indestructible, strong in ways I never had, as if the person I'd been trying to be my whole life finally broke free. I did not cry in joy. I smiled in self-assurance instead. I had never been so thankful for anything in my life, had never experienced anything so terrifying and so beautiful at the same time. I almost wish I could do it again. When it was over, it was like waking from a very long dream. I had certainly taken a trip. Anyway, I wanted to share that for those of you who follow my blogs because it was such a powerful experience. Thanks for listening.
It's always about so much more than writing, and art, and reading great work, I guess is what I'm trying to say. Those used to be the most important aspects to me, and they still are, to an extent. But, as you get older, your perspective changes, and the things that used to be important to you are not so much, and things you never thought much about became more critical to your overall peace of mind. I heard this a million time growing up, and the teenage angst rolled its eyes. But here it is now. It is experience, that life blood that maims, heals, and forces us to grow, that guides us. Experience is our teacher, Love, our best friend, Strength and Forgiveness the weapons we wield for peace of mind. So, that begins to sound a little sappy and cliche, yes? I have delivered my share of pain, and been hurt in return. So, no surprise that old friend Karma rears its head when it does. The past is in the past because that's where it belongs. Don't dwell. Learn form it, and move on. (I can't believe I just said that, a man who has lived his life dwelling in the fantasies of yesteryear, but it's not doing me any good, not here, this moment, not tomorrow. The oldest cliche in the world, and maybe that's why.) So, I let go, at least I tried my damndest, after a lot of years, though I still feel a slight tug of pain at times over things said, not forgotten. I guess that's natural. I'm still learning, experimenting with letting go. I'm not here for revenge or vindication, except for myself. I'm looking for redemption outside death, right here on the planet. That's part of my goal, I think. Redemption, here, now, at some point in my life. I think that's a noble pursuit. My heart, my thoughts, my experience, are all that matter, and by those things am I defined. But how I have responded, learned, and felt along the way is what's important, too. At least to me. The painful things can be great teachers. You hear that all the time. And yes, sometimes those old cliches are cliches for a reason. Sometimes, I think I'm the only one trying to figure it out still, that everyone else has done this long before me. Does it feel like that for you? I'm not saying anything, in other words, you haven't already heard or figured out on your own. But maybe just reaching out and acknowledging all this can help someone, too, as much as it is helping me by writing it. I've told people, dear friends, in fact, that I am writing a self-help book for myself. One that never ends, apparently.
So, reluctantly, and taking a deep breath, I walk into the light of day, not knowing what will come or what will happen, but knowing I have the confidence to survive, because nothing has killed me yet, and I am still fighting, my heart still beating, and for the most part, pretty damn optimistic, smiling, and confident that everything is going to be okay, and that's good enough for me. Jesus, I look back and would've never imagined the things that have happened, did, in fact, happen to me, but strangely glad they did. Who I am today would be different without them, I know, and I don't like that idea. I'm pretty damn happy knowing I am who I am these days, and I wouldn't want to be anybody else. For me, and for those who know me, that's saying a mouthful. It has been endless miles of failures, rejections, and self-deprecations. Ah, that ugly beast, finally slain! Stay down, Beast! I look over the words, and yes, I believe them. I can't believe I believe them, but yes; and I laugh, because I do believe them. Maybe this is part of the goal, one of the massive hurdles, the giant leap. I will try not to condemn myself for wondering why it didn't happen sooner.
These have been the best two years of my life, easily. All emotions, feelings, good and bad, have been brutal, raw, and very very real, and I wouldn't have it any other way. Sensitive, yes, thank God! I've had a lot of years of pent up emotion waiting to come out, and finally it has. I have lived, loved, lost and cried and felt those things the way a man should. I have been lucky to have the experiences I've had, despite how painful. At least I was able to feel and love, and that is something I can be content with and accept. To hold someone dear to you, and know you adore them with every fiber of your soul, that you have never loved anyone as much as you love that person in that one moment, that you know it, without a doubt, coursing through your veins like electricity, wondering if everyone gets to feel this, and for those who don't, how unfair, how sad, and how you wish you could give everyone a piece of that! It's funny to see the hurt and the sadness, but still know you are a better man because of it. That is the lesson I take from pain, that everyone takes, I suppose. I have embraced every sadness, every hurt, every glorious, mounting joy, and I recall the best of those times, mountain peaks, laughter, and the ageless, timeless mind, those moments, defined by the electricity moving through me, mounting, knowing I am more truly alive in those moments than I have ever been, and that more of those moments are possible. So, forgive me, if my posts fail to coincide these days with art, writing, the darker genres or literary aspects, in general. I guess, I feel like this is more important, at least to me. I find my biggest strengths these days are truth and looking myself in the eye, knowing what I see is real, and that nothing can sway me, and that it doesn't matter what others think of me, because in my heart of hearts, truth cannot and will not be ignored. Humanity is experience, and experience is a series of wrongs, mistakes, and the lessons learned from them. But it doesn't always have to be like that. You don't have to have pain in order to learn anything, grow, and thrive. Joy is just as knowledgeable a teacher, and thank God for that. Love reminds us what we're here for. Anger and hate are the beasts that destroy. Strange, coming from a man who spends most of his time penning horror, or at least darker tales. I've decided that just because I enjoy writing about suffering, doesn't mean I have to suffer myself anymore. There's a story in there somewhere, I'm sure. :)
I have been confused along the way, we all have, and our stories make us unique, and if we piled everybody's wrongs in front of us, seeing what everybody else had to go through, I think we would easily take back our own. We were made to climb out of this, to be strong enough for what we have to deal with. It's easier to say that now, of course. I guess, I love that life is such a beautiful teacher, and that expression helps us define and understand our errors, ourselves, others, and even our own pain. But the part I always forget, is just the opposite, how experience can teach you about joy, truth, and love, and how the soul and the mind can experience that just as easily, just as often, that it is capable of it. That it is real. That has got to be the most beautiful thing in existence. I look back, astounded by how many changes I've made, and the people I have been over the years, and at times, I am spellbound I managed to survive at all, being those people so easily influenced, beholden to the basest weaknesses, and unable to resist every vice and temptation. I have never felt more lucky, more loved, more human in my life as I do now, and I owe that to the choices I've made and the people I've surrounded myself with. And I guess, what I'm trying to express, is that no matter what it's been like, or how hard, that gratitude is the main thing that comes from it must mean something. That despite all that, what you went through, that you could still be glad it happened, and thankful for it, for whatever your reasons may be. That has to be part of the goal, too, I think. God would have to smile down at you for that.
So, I think I've stood on my soap box long enough. I just felt it, and well, these days, I have to take advantage of every opportunity to write, no matter what the material may be, and I think it helps me understand easier. and I am always looking for understanding. Of course, I never mind sharing. I am sincerely indebted to the people who have listened and helped me, who have been my backbone, encouraged me along the way, taught me lessons, gave me their insight, and they all know who they are. For the lessons I have been taught, and what I learned through every relationship I've had, and how those special women have only made me a better man, I am also thankful. If I hadn't felt so much pain, despite what we went through together, it would mean I hadn't loved so much, either, and I like the realization, the truth in that statement. It's true, you cannot understand true love without true pain. It's a hard one to swallow, but I understand it, at least. Those lessons, whatever they may have been, and what I had to face, might have been hard, but face them I did, and it wouldn't have happened otherwise without those experiences.
So, with all that, it begins to blossom. And each day, holds a promise unlike the one before. And I hold the sacred heart of experience close to my chest, like a lover, you could say, and I look up, not so much wondering why these days, but just wondering in general over the beautiful mystery of it all, waiting for another perspective to change, and what new understandings may come, and how the longer I keep this close to my heart, and live for these precious seconds, it can only get better. Not a bad way to go about it. To think that the longer you hold true to yourself, the more precious it becomes, the more you will love yourself, the more peace of mind you will find, the more you will love. I think the soul is here for its own experience, and we are the vessels that allow it to feel and reconnect with God, so God can experience the joy, the pain, the sorrow, and love though us again, and the cycle goes on. How else could He know Everything? Stop fighting it and learn to embrace it instead, I guess, is another lesson there. I think I must be getting spiritual again, or at least trying. I have read a few of those books lately, and maybe this post is the result. Maybe that's my lesson to myself these days. Expect nothing, accept everything, and you will always be pleasantly surprised and without pain. Embrace everything about you and outside you. Well, it's a nice thought, and maybe it's about time...But like I said, you might have figured this out long before me, so kudos to you.
Stay safe and enjoy the Holidays, Everyone! May this season treat you better than you have ever been treated. By God, you deserve it!
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Scars Revisited
I woke up to face the demon and saw him standing there at the foot of the bed, drooling. I looked deep inside myself and tried to care about everything I saw, but I wasn't sure any of it made sense. I am so aware of this constant feeling, confusion, this place inside me. I don't know if it's hollow anymore. I don't think it is. But it's there. Does that make sense?
I look behind me, unable to comprehend anything I see or why it had to happen, and many times, those painful memories are only that. Scars revisited. You wonder what all of it was for, if anything. Bad luck, bad choices, bad people? Desire moves and is easily stirred, and phantom faces learn to smile at all my weak spots. I can't close my eyes to all of it because of hope, so I linger longer on the ones that matter most, that stir, and make me close eyes, and smile, so I can at least pretend those beautiful things exist, whispering sweet nothings in my ear, reminding me that there's still a child in there.
Some of it wasn't worth it, like poison, but it's over now. I can go back to the earliest part of it all, trying to understand, but it doesn't matter. I'm the one keeping all those things alive. I see this newer sight now, glad I made it this far after everything behind me. There were a few close calls. It's funny, sometimes. I never really thought about it until now.
But the worst of beasts was yet to come, and I faced him with only a little trepidation. I looked him in the eye, ten feet tall, both of us now, and told him to give me his best. I was slightly disappointed. I expected so much more from him. Maybe it was because I'd seen it all before. Nothing surprised me.
He whimpered as he walked away, and I almost felt sorry for him, but I was proud of the fact, stronger, even free. Now, I walked hand in hand with the only thing that mattered most, myself, and the child beside me. The only things that ever made sense. Because some things are just that meaningful, that important, and they always will be. Finally, I didn't have to prove myself to anyone, no justification. I've been quietly at peace, and that's okay.
Only the drool at the foot of the bed remains. The demon has gone away, this time, for good. He won't be coming back. Not here. Not anymore. I look again at the foot of the bed, but it doesn't look like drool at all. Its water, slush, the frozen snow I tracked in before I went to bed. I forgot to wipe my feet was all.
I stare out the window with a new pair of eyes, and yes, things look differently now. It's about time. I know something is different in there, and that my life will never be the same. I smile at the thought. Word is getting around. Someone asked me to be on a radio show to help broadcast my new book. They want to do an interview. I laugh that such a thing could happen to me.
So, the next day comes, and the world assaults me, but I'm prepared. Unmoved. I have bigger and better things to worry about. It's the same on both ends. Nothing ever ends. And the demon, if he isn't dead, can go bug someone else for a while.
I look behind me, unable to comprehend anything I see or why it had to happen, and many times, those painful memories are only that. Scars revisited. You wonder what all of it was for, if anything. Bad luck, bad choices, bad people? Desire moves and is easily stirred, and phantom faces learn to smile at all my weak spots. I can't close my eyes to all of it because of hope, so I linger longer on the ones that matter most, that stir, and make me close eyes, and smile, so I can at least pretend those beautiful things exist, whispering sweet nothings in my ear, reminding me that there's still a child in there.
Some of it wasn't worth it, like poison, but it's over now. I can go back to the earliest part of it all, trying to understand, but it doesn't matter. I'm the one keeping all those things alive. I see this newer sight now, glad I made it this far after everything behind me. There were a few close calls. It's funny, sometimes. I never really thought about it until now.
But the worst of beasts was yet to come, and I faced him with only a little trepidation. I looked him in the eye, ten feet tall, both of us now, and told him to give me his best. I was slightly disappointed. I expected so much more from him. Maybe it was because I'd seen it all before. Nothing surprised me.
He whimpered as he walked away, and I almost felt sorry for him, but I was proud of the fact, stronger, even free. Now, I walked hand in hand with the only thing that mattered most, myself, and the child beside me. The only things that ever made sense. Because some things are just that meaningful, that important, and they always will be. Finally, I didn't have to prove myself to anyone, no justification. I've been quietly at peace, and that's okay.
Only the drool at the foot of the bed remains. The demon has gone away, this time, for good. He won't be coming back. Not here. Not anymore. I look again at the foot of the bed, but it doesn't look like drool at all. Its water, slush, the frozen snow I tracked in before I went to bed. I forgot to wipe my feet was all.
I stare out the window with a new pair of eyes, and yes, things look differently now. It's about time. I know something is different in there, and that my life will never be the same. I smile at the thought. Word is getting around. Someone asked me to be on a radio show to help broadcast my new book. They want to do an interview. I laugh that such a thing could happen to me.
So, the next day comes, and the world assaults me, but I'm prepared. Unmoved. I have bigger and better things to worry about. It's the same on both ends. Nothing ever ends. And the demon, if he isn't dead, can go bug someone else for a while.
Friday, October 16, 2009
Donny's Day
Two optional covers for Donny's Day. Artwork by Jinger Heaston! Don't forget to look for it in December by Damnation Books!
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Like Glass (An Inward Reflection)
I used to have big dreams, still do, sometimes, but they're different now. Believe it or not, I had enough ego and conceit to think my mission was to be a great writer someday, the best I could be, and the world would know me, and call me by name. So I struggled to do just that at the age of fifteen. God, that was along time ago. I was faced with adversity along the way, and I was humbled more times than I can say.
Things change, and people, too, and I was no exception. No one has changed as much as me, I think. Throughout my life, I've been a drug addict, an alcoholic, overdosed when I was sixteen, put in the hospital, stomach pumped, told it was a miracle I didn't have brain damage. If they'd found me forty-five minutes later, I would've been dead, they said. I was so hungry at the time when they told me, all I could think about was a cheeseburger. But still I couldn't let go of addiction. It's not a fly by night thing. It becomes you, even in sobriety, it reminds you. It's always there; it's always a fight. This is why I drank and used in the first place, not to feel. And now, I feel too much. Ah, the irony of sobriety. How does that sound? It makes so much sense, though. I hunger for that cold taste of numbness and nothingness, but I'll resist. I've put myself in rehab after a near death experience, relapsed, lost my home, and my job. If I was a cat, I think my lives would've been used up long ago. I've been abused sexually, verbally, but that seems to be the norm anymore. Everyone knows what that's like. I turned into a religious fanatic, thanks to the joys of Mormonism. I sacrificed my entire life of art, that darker trade I loved more than life itself, to a pit of flames, in the name of God, because a bishop told me to. My life didn't belong to those dark trades, he said. I was a warrior of light now. I believed him. Fool I was. I lost my identity completely, heard the voice of Rationality say, 'You no longer know who you are anymore. You're identity has taken leave.' I started writing dark fiction again, much to the chagrin of my wife at the time, and got divorced. I've listened to the voices of reason and anguish, and succumbed more to the latter, listening to everything it had to say, and suffered under its stentorian command. That battle back and forth still wages today. Sometimes, I don't see an end in sight. I wonder if it will ever end. I have become a man enraged, grabbing my wife by the throat while drunk one night, and the guilt and horror of what that did to me, despite my apologies, taking my hand away a split-second later (no it's not easy to admit, but it happened, and no amount of remorse can take it back) doesn't make it right. I have succumbed to the beast of rage, even today, fallen prey to the basest of weaknesses. I have become irrational, out of control, childish, no man at all. I have become sensitive to the point where every word is like a sword, penetrating deep the most vulnerable cavity within me. I have become, at times, so emotionally over-wrought, that I have cried in pain and anguish for days, curled into a ball, wanting nothing more than to disappear and wink out of existence. It happens a lot these days. I've been depressed, manic, loopy, seen the doctor, gone to therapy, seen a psychiatrist, put myself on medication, anti-depressants, then weaned myself off again, only to be tortured by the brutality, the reality of my roller coaster of emotion, wondering what the point was of it all. I have pleaded and prayed to a God I no longer believe in, to just take the pain away, the confusion, the anguish. To no avail. I have managed, luckily, to love more than I thought myself capable. And I have felt pain I never knew existed. I've hated myself with such intense loathing, all I wanted was to die, to set my body on fire, if for no other reason than to end this unending, grueling nightmare of pain. I have despised this planet with every fiber of my soul, constantly wailing, wondering why, what the point is of my existence, when I see no point at all. I have seen those moments where life loses all meaning, and I wonder if there's ever meaning in anything. Does anything have meaning? What is meaning anyway, and why is it so important to me? I have yet to see meaning. What I am doing here?--I've thought. My family and friends will be fine without me. They'll understand. They want what's best. I will convince them the end is best. They'll see. I've thought of every way I could justify suicide to be unselfish, how I would do it, the gun I would buy. I've pined and longed to have what I see around me, what others have, the deadly envy, that crippling pride, which has done nothing but ruin me. I've made mistakes, and paid dearly for them. Still do, for some. Sometimes, I feel like I have lived and died a thousand times, loved and lost. I have created and destroyed. I've said the most poisonous and hateful things a tongue can muster. I have felt guilt to the point of self-destruction. My whole life, I have wanted to have a single dream come true. I have, I admit, pined greedily for love and fame, the universal spotlight, a daily glow. Just once, I thought. Just once in my life. I have felt the wracking torment of total anguish, and tortured sobs. I have nearly drowned three different times, with the same person there during each episode, eerily, to save me. I have imagined my name in lights, an interview on the David Letterman Show, my tales in all the most popular magazines, seen my stories turned into movies. Story or novel by...and then my name, the grin that painted on my face. I've imagined the interviews, the flashing lights, but I never wanted that, just the quiet fame, a writer's life, whose life speaks for him, through the words he creates. These days, it's hard to find that muse at all. Originality is not like it used to be. My head is not so easy and calm to allow those muses to get through. Is that how it works for you?
These were the dreams I used to have, still do sometimes, but I'd trade it all for some peace of mind. Some light inside, that special place that burns brighter than any smile I've ever seen before, these tears I cry. An end to all this pain, I'd trade it all, this fortune's paradise for some calmness, some quiet, the tumult to end, the waging, raging sea.
I've seen bodies of water that look like glass. And I've thought, "That's what I want my soul to be."
Things change, and people, too, and I was no exception. No one has changed as much as me, I think. Throughout my life, I've been a drug addict, an alcoholic, overdosed when I was sixteen, put in the hospital, stomach pumped, told it was a miracle I didn't have brain damage. If they'd found me forty-five minutes later, I would've been dead, they said. I was so hungry at the time when they told me, all I could think about was a cheeseburger. But still I couldn't let go of addiction. It's not a fly by night thing. It becomes you, even in sobriety, it reminds you. It's always there; it's always a fight. This is why I drank and used in the first place, not to feel. And now, I feel too much. Ah, the irony of sobriety. How does that sound? It makes so much sense, though. I hunger for that cold taste of numbness and nothingness, but I'll resist. I've put myself in rehab after a near death experience, relapsed, lost my home, and my job. If I was a cat, I think my lives would've been used up long ago. I've been abused sexually, verbally, but that seems to be the norm anymore. Everyone knows what that's like. I turned into a religious fanatic, thanks to the joys of Mormonism. I sacrificed my entire life of art, that darker trade I loved more than life itself, to a pit of flames, in the name of God, because a bishop told me to. My life didn't belong to those dark trades, he said. I was a warrior of light now. I believed him. Fool I was. I lost my identity completely, heard the voice of Rationality say, 'You no longer know who you are anymore. You're identity has taken leave.' I started writing dark fiction again, much to the chagrin of my wife at the time, and got divorced. I've listened to the voices of reason and anguish, and succumbed more to the latter, listening to everything it had to say, and suffered under its stentorian command. That battle back and forth still wages today. Sometimes, I don't see an end in sight. I wonder if it will ever end. I have become a man enraged, grabbing my wife by the throat while drunk one night, and the guilt and horror of what that did to me, despite my apologies, taking my hand away a split-second later (no it's not easy to admit, but it happened, and no amount of remorse can take it back) doesn't make it right. I have succumbed to the beast of rage, even today, fallen prey to the basest of weaknesses. I have become irrational, out of control, childish, no man at all. I have become sensitive to the point where every word is like a sword, penetrating deep the most vulnerable cavity within me. I have become, at times, so emotionally over-wrought, that I have cried in pain and anguish for days, curled into a ball, wanting nothing more than to disappear and wink out of existence. It happens a lot these days. I've been depressed, manic, loopy, seen the doctor, gone to therapy, seen a psychiatrist, put myself on medication, anti-depressants, then weaned myself off again, only to be tortured by the brutality, the reality of my roller coaster of emotion, wondering what the point was of it all. I have pleaded and prayed to a God I no longer believe in, to just take the pain away, the confusion, the anguish. To no avail. I have managed, luckily, to love more than I thought myself capable. And I have felt pain I never knew existed. I've hated myself with such intense loathing, all I wanted was to die, to set my body on fire, if for no other reason than to end this unending, grueling nightmare of pain. I have despised this planet with every fiber of my soul, constantly wailing, wondering why, what the point is of my existence, when I see no point at all. I have seen those moments where life loses all meaning, and I wonder if there's ever meaning in anything. Does anything have meaning? What is meaning anyway, and why is it so important to me? I have yet to see meaning. What I am doing here?--I've thought. My family and friends will be fine without me. They'll understand. They want what's best. I will convince them the end is best. They'll see. I've thought of every way I could justify suicide to be unselfish, how I would do it, the gun I would buy. I've pined and longed to have what I see around me, what others have, the deadly envy, that crippling pride, which has done nothing but ruin me. I've made mistakes, and paid dearly for them. Still do, for some. Sometimes, I feel like I have lived and died a thousand times, loved and lost. I have created and destroyed. I've said the most poisonous and hateful things a tongue can muster. I have felt guilt to the point of self-destruction. My whole life, I have wanted to have a single dream come true. I have, I admit, pined greedily for love and fame, the universal spotlight, a daily glow. Just once, I thought. Just once in my life. I have felt the wracking torment of total anguish, and tortured sobs. I have nearly drowned three different times, with the same person there during each episode, eerily, to save me. I have imagined my name in lights, an interview on the David Letterman Show, my tales in all the most popular magazines, seen my stories turned into movies. Story or novel by...and then my name, the grin that painted on my face. I've imagined the interviews, the flashing lights, but I never wanted that, just the quiet fame, a writer's life, whose life speaks for him, through the words he creates. These days, it's hard to find that muse at all. Originality is not like it used to be. My head is not so easy and calm to allow those muses to get through. Is that how it works for you?
These were the dreams I used to have, still do sometimes, but I'd trade it all for some peace of mind. Some light inside, that special place that burns brighter than any smile I've ever seen before, these tears I cry. An end to all this pain, I'd trade it all, this fortune's paradise for some calmness, some quiet, the tumult to end, the waging, raging sea.
I've seen bodies of water that look like glass. And I've thought, "That's what I want my soul to be."
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
The Lost Works Of...
Rumor has it there's a Publish America book going around out there with my name on it. The title is My Little White Geraniums. Yes, that's me. It's an urban fantasy horror novel that got butchered by a POD publisher after I fell for a scam by a shoddy agent. Lost money, ruined book. Great combo, but lesson learned. I'm over it. It was funny because a year later was when all the scam articles came out: what to watch for, things like that. I was naive and wanted to believe at the time, so an acceptance was an acceptance. Anyway, I highly recommend staying away from it. It is poorly written and not worth the read. Besides, I rewrote the entire thing word for word, added a couple hundred more pages, and retitled it Snapdragon. When will this might epic be released at 250,000 words? That's a good question. Seems first time authors and large books don't mix very well. Anyway, that's the story behind it, but it as a true tale I sincerely love, and definitely a brighter side of me. Believe it or not, it has a happy ending, lots of them, in fact.
Also, for those who don't know, I will keep you posted on the updates of Donny's Day, a novella of mine that will be released in December 2009 by Damnation Books. If you like demons, this is the story for you. I'm partial to the little buggers myself. Anyway, that's the gist friends, and we'll see you next time. Leave the lights on, but only if you have to, my little crypt dwellers. Nighty-night.
Also, for those who don't know, I will keep you posted on the updates of Donny's Day, a novella of mine that will be released in December 2009 by Damnation Books. If you like demons, this is the story for you. I'm partial to the little buggers myself. Anyway, that's the gist friends, and we'll see you next time. Leave the lights on, but only if you have to, my little crypt dwellers. Nighty-night.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Empty Space
I am just a ghost, flitting across empty space. Nothing matters here. Nothing lives here. I am the face you see, the haunted one, the one with the long, hollow expression. I used to feel, I think to myself, I used to be. You cannot see me. I do not matter.
There was a life there once, a time long ago, when beautiful things happened, but I don't know what happened to them anymore. Like a dream, one that started just seconds ago, and is already over. I keep thinking I must've gotten in a plane crash, a car accident. That could only explain why I don't understand anything, why I don't see anything anymore, why I can't feel.
I haven't eaten all day, but I'm ghost. It doesn't matter. There is a sickness there, though, a haunting. Yes, ghosts can be haunted, too. Haunted by thoughts, by visions, the worst kinds, keeping me here, rooted to this spot. I couldn't eat, even if I was human, I think.
I do not touch the ground, not anymore. I flit across the walkways, the streets, parking lots. I see people everywhere I go. Happy faces, down by the creek, the library, the Creek Festival. I watch the couples hand in hand, heads on shoulders, laughter, and I cannot stop staring at those hands. I keep looking and looking and looking. I do not turn away. I used to have that, I think, a hand to hold, a girl to call my own, but none if it matters anymore. I lost her along the way. What happened? Does it matter? Didn't I try? Did I fail that badly, despite the love I had? Didn't love mean anything? Didn't my love mean anything? Doesn't Love mean anything at all?
I walk (or float rather). I watch the couples, and see the strollers, the children, the pregnant wives, and all I can think is, "How can you? How can you? Don't you see? Why would you bring something so precious into such a cruel and hateful world? What are the chances really of success, of love and happiness? Does anyone else have it that you know of? Why would you do that to them? Why take the chance they will come back, years later, not loving you?"
But it's useless. My words don't matter. They have no weight. They make no sound. They come echoing back like thoughts. It's even hard for me to hear them. I shake my head, what there is of it, but nothing matters. Nothing ever mattered. Nothing meant anything. Beauty didn't mean anything. Love didn't mean anything.
It's okay. I can see the blue sky, the green in the trees, but I can't tell what the temperature is. I cannot feel the warmth or the cold. But I can see the blue, and I'm glad for that. At least I can see that. What if it was black and white, what if--as a ghost--you saw in black and white? It wouldn't have surprised me.
You can't cry here, either, so just be warned. You can't feel, touch, or know much of anything, except why you're here. You came all this way, defeated, conquered so much, only to feel like this. It's not fair. And that's where you are trapped in the limbo of unfairness, the cruelty, the savagery. Life doesn't care about you. What made you think you were so special anyway?
So I flit through the empty space, and I scream to myself because there is pain here. That's what the empty feeling is. It's constant. It won't ever go away. Maybe in time. Maybe when the kids come home. Maybe when the dream begins again, if it ever does, if it ever will, and something makes sense again. Maybe when she leans over and lightly touches me, tells me she loves me, that she never wants me to leave, that she needs me there.
But that seems too much to ask. It might've never happened to begin with. Maybe it was just a dream I concocted in my head. I never had love at all. I never had anything. Nothing ever mattered. Nothing ever did, what we had, what we did, the things we said, whatever they were, whoever she is.
There was a life there once, a time long ago, when beautiful things happened, but I don't know what happened to them anymore. Like a dream, one that started just seconds ago, and is already over. I keep thinking I must've gotten in a plane crash, a car accident. That could only explain why I don't understand anything, why I don't see anything anymore, why I can't feel.
I haven't eaten all day, but I'm ghost. It doesn't matter. There is a sickness there, though, a haunting. Yes, ghosts can be haunted, too. Haunted by thoughts, by visions, the worst kinds, keeping me here, rooted to this spot. I couldn't eat, even if I was human, I think.
I do not touch the ground, not anymore. I flit across the walkways, the streets, parking lots. I see people everywhere I go. Happy faces, down by the creek, the library, the Creek Festival. I watch the couples hand in hand, heads on shoulders, laughter, and I cannot stop staring at those hands. I keep looking and looking and looking. I do not turn away. I used to have that, I think, a hand to hold, a girl to call my own, but none if it matters anymore. I lost her along the way. What happened? Does it matter? Didn't I try? Did I fail that badly, despite the love I had? Didn't love mean anything? Didn't my love mean anything? Doesn't Love mean anything at all?
I walk (or float rather). I watch the couples, and see the strollers, the children, the pregnant wives, and all I can think is, "How can you? How can you? Don't you see? Why would you bring something so precious into such a cruel and hateful world? What are the chances really of success, of love and happiness? Does anyone else have it that you know of? Why would you do that to them? Why take the chance they will come back, years later, not loving you?"
But it's useless. My words don't matter. They have no weight. They make no sound. They come echoing back like thoughts. It's even hard for me to hear them. I shake my head, what there is of it, but nothing matters. Nothing ever mattered. Nothing meant anything. Beauty didn't mean anything. Love didn't mean anything.
It's okay. I can see the blue sky, the green in the trees, but I can't tell what the temperature is. I cannot feel the warmth or the cold. But I can see the blue, and I'm glad for that. At least I can see that. What if it was black and white, what if--as a ghost--you saw in black and white? It wouldn't have surprised me.
You can't cry here, either, so just be warned. You can't feel, touch, or know much of anything, except why you're here. You came all this way, defeated, conquered so much, only to feel like this. It's not fair. And that's where you are trapped in the limbo of unfairness, the cruelty, the savagery. Life doesn't care about you. What made you think you were so special anyway?
So I flit through the empty space, and I scream to myself because there is pain here. That's what the empty feeling is. It's constant. It won't ever go away. Maybe in time. Maybe when the kids come home. Maybe when the dream begins again, if it ever does, if it ever will, and something makes sense again. Maybe when she leans over and lightly touches me, tells me she loves me, that she never wants me to leave, that she needs me there.
But that seems too much to ask. It might've never happened to begin with. Maybe it was just a dream I concocted in my head. I never had love at all. I never had anything. Nothing ever mattered. Nothing ever did, what we had, what we did, the things we said, whatever they were, whoever she is.
Armor Enough
What an erratic bunch of posts. And this one is no different. What a fool I have been! the old adage: Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. I might've been cynical, pessimistic, and reclusive for a lot of years, but I've learned some things along the way. You know them, too, but not everybody does, and not everybody cares. The world is a dark, horrifying, unloving and tragic place at times, but it doesn't have to be, not you're little corner of it. I've been working with people, the public, for a lot of years now, and the challenging ones come and go, but there are the rare, the spirited, the loving and caring, the magic, the gifted, the genuine. I've been writing dark things for a while, but I certainly don't adopt it into my daily routine. I've had my share of issues and I've conquered them one by one, and still have a few to go. At least that I'm aware of. I've prided myself on being someone who can appreciate and want to understand the dark and still be genuine and sincere in their daily routine. It makes me see myself in a brighter light, balanced. I'm okay. I have a lot of great friends, friends who don't judge, criticize, point their fingers, accuse. They would take a bullet for you, and I would do the same. It tells you a lot about yourself as a person with such an army on your side.
Life is too short. That's the next thing. When you're doing your best, being as loving, patient, and understanding as you can be, and receiving nothing in return but harshness, hostility, and coldness, then it seems the next thing is just to move on. Some people are just mean-spirited. They don't care about you, despite what they've said. They've typecast you perhaps as being just like everybody else. You know who you are, and you don't have to prove yourself to anyone. There are plenty of beautiful people who are loving and kind and wanting to share it with you. You shouldn't have to spend a single minute trying to prove yourself to people. You are who you are and that is a beautiful thing. That's it. I know who I am, take me or leave me, and I'm worth a hell of a lot more than someone's doormat for every time something goes wrong. That's okay. Mark another one off the list. My point here: It's sad, heartbreaking, insulting, even rude, that people would think otherwise. Sorry, but I believe in politeness, that old fashioned, dying ritual. We're all in this together, but we can also help each other along the way. Our own pain and tears is enough. Some have already made up their minds, the stubborn cruelty they've allowed to consume their lives. That's okay, too. We don't need them. You can't persuade them one way or the other. And that's sad, heartbreaking, but folks, that's the way the world is. Don't waste your time. There are a a million kind-hearted, beautiful people out there just waiting to shower you with sincerity, love, and acceptance. We just have to find each other. Leave the mean ones to their own devices, their own islands. You deserve better. I deserve better. We all deserve better. There is a huge, bright light out there if you want to be a part of it. You are not a doormat for the demons of life. As the bumper sticker says: Mean People Suck. And it's true. You shouldn't have to go through life having to endure them. They are not worth it. You have your self-respect, your pride. Your hope, your generosity. Believe me, my friends, that's armor enough for this mad world.
Life is too short. That's the next thing. When you're doing your best, being as loving, patient, and understanding as you can be, and receiving nothing in return but harshness, hostility, and coldness, then it seems the next thing is just to move on. Some people are just mean-spirited. They don't care about you, despite what they've said. They've typecast you perhaps as being just like everybody else. You know who you are, and you don't have to prove yourself to anyone. There are plenty of beautiful people who are loving and kind and wanting to share it with you. You shouldn't have to spend a single minute trying to prove yourself to people. You are who you are and that is a beautiful thing. That's it. I know who I am, take me or leave me, and I'm worth a hell of a lot more than someone's doormat for every time something goes wrong. That's okay. Mark another one off the list. My point here: It's sad, heartbreaking, insulting, even rude, that people would think otherwise. Sorry, but I believe in politeness, that old fashioned, dying ritual. We're all in this together, but we can also help each other along the way. Our own pain and tears is enough. Some have already made up their minds, the stubborn cruelty they've allowed to consume their lives. That's okay, too. We don't need them. You can't persuade them one way or the other. And that's sad, heartbreaking, but folks, that's the way the world is. Don't waste your time. There are a a million kind-hearted, beautiful people out there just waiting to shower you with sincerity, love, and acceptance. We just have to find each other. Leave the mean ones to their own devices, their own islands. You deserve better. I deserve better. We all deserve better. There is a huge, bright light out there if you want to be a part of it. You are not a doormat for the demons of life. As the bumper sticker says: Mean People Suck. And it's true. You shouldn't have to go through life having to endure them. They are not worth it. You have your self-respect, your pride. Your hope, your generosity. Believe me, my friends, that's armor enough for this mad world.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
A Few Thoughts on...Several Things...
Well, friends, I've been watching a lot more movies, reading some non-fiction (Because I feel like I don't know much), and watching lots of baseball. When I'm not doing that, I'm hanging out at the library or down by Boulder Creek, walking the trail. It's a simple life. I've been running across a lot of great reviews for Twisted Tails III, which is encouraging. Here's a few to share with you, if you're so inclined to check them out. When someone takes the time to read your stories and says the kinds of things they do, it is music, to say the least. Here's a couple I've run across in my "surfing" expeditions:
Bitten By Books
Sable Lit Review
It was fun to share with several really great authors and friends as well.
On the movie front, here's another list of recommendations: The Hunger, which I know you've seen. I couldn't believe I hadn't seen this movie yet, but I thought it was impeccably stylish and the dialogue was well written. The Red Shoes is a Korean horror definitely worth the watch. Teeth is a great date movie. Watch it with your sweetheart (hee-hee), you won't regret it. Or will you? Can you hear my sadistic laughter? Good, it's meant to be sadistic. Also, I really enjoyed Pulse, another Asian horror. This is a great example of the kind of horror I really love: thought-provoking, darkly atmospheric, and very satisfying.
On the other hand, I also just watched the remake of Friday the 13th. Here's my review I posted on Netflix. I know, I'm rather opinionated when it comes to the genre and art in general, but I love this stuff and take it very seriously.
Two stars. The first twenty minutes was impressive. After that, it was one predictable bunch of downhill disappointments after another. The horror genre deserves better. I had high hopes because Rob Zombie's remake of Halloween kept the tradition alive, while adding some dimension to the original story. Why is getting laid and getting high the only thing characters care about in horror movies? It's an insult. Is it too much to ask to have characters who have a little depth and emotion to their personalities? Apparently so. This was just sadness with plenty of potential like the original. The only difference: this one should've never been made. I was cheering for Jason the whole time. The whining, namby-pamby characters were more than I could stomach without actually throwing up. Shallow, soulless, one dimensional cut-outs who deserve to die anyway for being so insipidly shallow. Why do I care? I don't. In this version, I couldn't wait for the characters to die, just so I wouldn't have to listen to them anymore. Did I mention the insanely predictable ending? But you probably guessed that already. I'll stick with the atmospheric, thought-provoking, stylish horror. I actually like to be mentally stimulated.
Why mix words? I'm just warning those of you who are looking for something besides the same, rehash of tired cliches and the same old horror story. And yes, I'm a little tired of the typical college co-ed horror of "lets get high and laid," syndrome. Could I please just have a horror story with characters who have some layer and depth to their personalities? That would be great.
As far as writing goes, I've been sending a lot of stories out again, which feels really good. I've gotten some encouraging replies already, not acceptances, per se, but not rejections, either. I do a lot of journal writing these days, and vignettes. The notebook pages are filling up. Sometime, I look back on all the "closeted" material I have, and I stare, bug-eyed. "Jesus," I think, "I have a lot of time on my hands." Or maybe I just love to write no matter what the material is.
My beliefs, these days, turn to simplicity. Anyone who knows me, understands I'm quite the philosopher. I'm always looking for a better way to learn, live, and grow. I go to therapy, see a psychiatrist, because I have a tarnished and reckless past. But I guess everybody does. I spend a lot of time by myself, thinking I'm the only one going through it, so I just need to connect to realize I'm not alone. Talking always helps. For my closest friends, it must get slightly obnoxious. I see myself a lot like a problem child. What about this? And what about that? This is what I'm going through now...Sometimes the questions only create confusion. I try to be good to myself and realize the moment is now, and that as long as you have a healthy, positive outlook, chances are, you'll be just fine.
Summer's here, and the sky is bright. It's working miracles on my psyche.
And here's to the Pittsburgh Penguins! Congratulations on winning the Stanley Cup! Being from Colorado, I am, of course, an Avalanche fan. Anyone who beats Detroit in game 7 at Joe Louis Arena is aces in my book.
Bitten By Books
Sable Lit Review
It was fun to share with several really great authors and friends as well.
On the movie front, here's another list of recommendations: The Hunger, which I know you've seen. I couldn't believe I hadn't seen this movie yet, but I thought it was impeccably stylish and the dialogue was well written. The Red Shoes is a Korean horror definitely worth the watch. Teeth is a great date movie. Watch it with your sweetheart (hee-hee), you won't regret it. Or will you? Can you hear my sadistic laughter? Good, it's meant to be sadistic. Also, I really enjoyed Pulse, another Asian horror. This is a great example of the kind of horror I really love: thought-provoking, darkly atmospheric, and very satisfying.
On the other hand, I also just watched the remake of Friday the 13th. Here's my review I posted on Netflix. I know, I'm rather opinionated when it comes to the genre and art in general, but I love this stuff and take it very seriously.
Two stars. The first twenty minutes was impressive. After that, it was one predictable bunch of downhill disappointments after another. The horror genre deserves better. I had high hopes because Rob Zombie's remake of Halloween kept the tradition alive, while adding some dimension to the original story. Why is getting laid and getting high the only thing characters care about in horror movies? It's an insult. Is it too much to ask to have characters who have a little depth and emotion to their personalities? Apparently so. This was just sadness with plenty of potential like the original. The only difference: this one should've never been made. I was cheering for Jason the whole time. The whining, namby-pamby characters were more than I could stomach without actually throwing up. Shallow, soulless, one dimensional cut-outs who deserve to die anyway for being so insipidly shallow. Why do I care? I don't. In this version, I couldn't wait for the characters to die, just so I wouldn't have to listen to them anymore. Did I mention the insanely predictable ending? But you probably guessed that already. I'll stick with the atmospheric, thought-provoking, stylish horror. I actually like to be mentally stimulated.
Why mix words? I'm just warning those of you who are looking for something besides the same, rehash of tired cliches and the same old horror story. And yes, I'm a little tired of the typical college co-ed horror of "lets get high and laid," syndrome. Could I please just have a horror story with characters who have some layer and depth to their personalities? That would be great.
As far as writing goes, I've been sending a lot of stories out again, which feels really good. I've gotten some encouraging replies already, not acceptances, per se, but not rejections, either. I do a lot of journal writing these days, and vignettes. The notebook pages are filling up. Sometime, I look back on all the "closeted" material I have, and I stare, bug-eyed. "Jesus," I think, "I have a lot of time on my hands." Or maybe I just love to write no matter what the material is.
My beliefs, these days, turn to simplicity. Anyone who knows me, understands I'm quite the philosopher. I'm always looking for a better way to learn, live, and grow. I go to therapy, see a psychiatrist, because I have a tarnished and reckless past. But I guess everybody does. I spend a lot of time by myself, thinking I'm the only one going through it, so I just need to connect to realize I'm not alone. Talking always helps. For my closest friends, it must get slightly obnoxious. I see myself a lot like a problem child. What about this? And what about that? This is what I'm going through now...Sometimes the questions only create confusion. I try to be good to myself and realize the moment is now, and that as long as you have a healthy, positive outlook, chances are, you'll be just fine.
Summer's here, and the sky is bright. It's working miracles on my psyche.
And here's to the Pittsburgh Penguins! Congratulations on winning the Stanley Cup! Being from Colorado, I am, of course, an Avalanche fan. Anyone who beats Detroit in game 7 at Joe Louis Arena is aces in my book.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
More Movie Suggestions
For the most part, here in the land of the Rockies, Spring has arrived. Right now, as I write, I have the front door open and the sliding glass door leading to the balcony for a perfect cross breeze. The trees are in full bloom, green upon green, bursting colors and a deep, cerulean blue sky. You could take a bite out of it. Feist is on at the moment, that soulful songwriter, so I thought to myself, "It must be time for another blog." Things have been good lately. I think spring is making its optimistic mark on my psyche. Something about that beautiful blue sky, warm air, and people about. I'm lucky to live here, because the creek is not far and the path, if you take it west for long enough, goes all the way into the mountains. In Boulder, it is not a long trek. I did this on Monday, taking a huge loop up and around town, and back down through Pearl Street Mall, which is always good for some entertainment and new sights to see. My goal this year is to get out of the house more and take in nature's splendor, pen more in the journal, I think. Something nice about those personal reflections and how good they are for the mind and soul.
Still, despite not reading much horror as I have been, I'm still watching some great movies. After some time, reading fiction enough can be fine, but I've been craving facts. I have a few years of college, but it's amazing how uniformed a person can feel. I started with Bill Bryson's A Short History of Nearly Everything. I'm still catching up because the book is a few years old now, but it's a great history lesson from the beginning of the universe until the present. I forgot about the joy of learning for a while because I get so wrapped up in the beauty of language and fiction. Not that this doesn't teach, but I think you know what I mean. I'm hoping I'll be in this mood for a while, and we'll see how things go. Plus, I'm hungry for ideas. My writing has changed over the years, as it does, I'm sure, with every writer. I'm ready for a branch in yet another direction.
Aside from the facts, on the movie front, I have some recommendations. May, is among the first. One thing I've always loved is a demented love story. They might be my favorite. Madness has always been a fascinating theme for me for many reasons, and I use it a lot. Love, of course, we can all relate to, and obsession, is not a far cry from madness. It's a thin line between madness and love, but the combination works beautifully when done right. May is just such a film. Comical enough to make you laugh with that sick sense of humor, but demented enough to make you cock your eyebrow in disbelief. Another great example is The Isle, which has had some mixed reviews, but I highly recommend it, as well. Korean horror, my friends, is great stuff. A doorway has opened for me I never thought much about until now. Also, I recommend A Tale of Two Sisters, if I haven't mentioned it already. Ginger Snaps is another I recently came across. I thought it was one of the better werewolf movies since An American Werwolf in London. What is it with werewolf movies I find hilarious? Beats me. From Within, one of the HorrorFest III movies, wasn't too bad either, though I also watched Autopsy and was extremely disappointed. I have this theory in horror literature and movies. If you have characters who are that naive and stupid, then they deserve to die. Come on, people, don't insult us viewers! We've seen it a million times. Time to move on. If you run out of gas in your brand new SUV in the middle of nowhere with no around for miles and your cell phone is dead, then you pretty much deserve to get axed into little bits and pieces. The directors are no better for creating it. Literary and serious horror, I think, is on the rise. At least I hope so. It is time to build and create, so it becomes a beautiful art form. Also, rent the French film They Came Back. This is a thoughtful, tense movie that will get your mental wheels churning. Some people didn't like it. You'll find out why, but I can't say.
Other than that, I hope all is well with you and yours. And here's to you tapping into the best of your creativity, open mindedness, and originality.
Cheers, my friends!
Brandon
Still, despite not reading much horror as I have been, I'm still watching some great movies. After some time, reading fiction enough can be fine, but I've been craving facts. I have a few years of college, but it's amazing how uniformed a person can feel. I started with Bill Bryson's A Short History of Nearly Everything. I'm still catching up because the book is a few years old now, but it's a great history lesson from the beginning of the universe until the present. I forgot about the joy of learning for a while because I get so wrapped up in the beauty of language and fiction. Not that this doesn't teach, but I think you know what I mean. I'm hoping I'll be in this mood for a while, and we'll see how things go. Plus, I'm hungry for ideas. My writing has changed over the years, as it does, I'm sure, with every writer. I'm ready for a branch in yet another direction.
Aside from the facts, on the movie front, I have some recommendations. May, is among the first. One thing I've always loved is a demented love story. They might be my favorite. Madness has always been a fascinating theme for me for many reasons, and I use it a lot. Love, of course, we can all relate to, and obsession, is not a far cry from madness. It's a thin line between madness and love, but the combination works beautifully when done right. May is just such a film. Comical enough to make you laugh with that sick sense of humor, but demented enough to make you cock your eyebrow in disbelief. Another great example is The Isle, which has had some mixed reviews, but I highly recommend it, as well. Korean horror, my friends, is great stuff. A doorway has opened for me I never thought much about until now. Also, I recommend A Tale of Two Sisters, if I haven't mentioned it already. Ginger Snaps is another I recently came across. I thought it was one of the better werewolf movies since An American Werwolf in London. What is it with werewolf movies I find hilarious? Beats me. From Within, one of the HorrorFest III movies, wasn't too bad either, though I also watched Autopsy and was extremely disappointed. I have this theory in horror literature and movies. If you have characters who are that naive and stupid, then they deserve to die. Come on, people, don't insult us viewers! We've seen it a million times. Time to move on. If you run out of gas in your brand new SUV in the middle of nowhere with no around for miles and your cell phone is dead, then you pretty much deserve to get axed into little bits and pieces. The directors are no better for creating it. Literary and serious horror, I think, is on the rise. At least I hope so. It is time to build and create, so it becomes a beautiful art form. Also, rent the French film They Came Back. This is a thoughtful, tense movie that will get your mental wheels churning. Some people didn't like it. You'll find out why, but I can't say.
Other than that, I hope all is well with you and yours. And here's to you tapping into the best of your creativity, open mindedness, and originality.
Cheers, my friends!
Brandon
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Philosophy, Emotion, and Just Damn Good Art
I've been devoting a lot of time to Art and films these days. I've accepted the fact this is all I really care about most of the time, being a single man of thirty-six, and searching for beauty in both light and dark places. I feel lucky in that I've gone through some interesting things in my life, to say the least, and can express these things through writing, knowing it not only helps, but works on a therapeutic level. It doesn't matter if anyone ever sees it. I do it because I love it. I feel a lot, too, which (I don't often know if I'm lucky or unlucky because of it) means I can express a lot. I heard the other day in the bookstore, someone mention, "Every writer is a philosopher these days," and I'm afraid I'm part of the same ilk, for better or worse. Tales of exposition, inner detail, and turmoil, with some sort of resolution (In my case, usually sad. Sue me, I love a good tragedy.) It's just me. I like books that are the same, and I like writing the same sort of fiction. Tales with meat and potatoes, as I call them. These days, my focus has remained in the dark, the creepier side of humanity, the fragility of the human mind, people who are generally good, but battle inner demons who won't go away: alcoholism, child abuse, obsession, or madness. These demons usually manifest themselves in some form or another, take shape, and eventually destroy. Though, I don't mind a happy ending, as long as it's believable, I'm not sure its always for me--at least all the time. Silly Girl has a happy ending, despite the horror I put Amanda Dear through. Realism through the pain of characters and the interminable suffering. Kind of like, "Why not take that suffering and manipulate it, make it grow, then add a bleak winter setting on top of all that, just for effect." The catharsis through writing, the therapy of taking your own inner demons and exaggerating the hell out of them. From the dark core of the soul, comes truth, and from truth comes great art.
But there I go again. I'm not trying to say anything you haven't already heard before. It's one of the first lessons we learn, but I still believe there's some truth in that. Hemingway said experience makes the writer, and I have to agree. I don't think philosophy in art or writing is so bad, at least not the way the customer said it at the bookstore. John D. MacDonald did it beautifully with his Travis McGee series. Usually, when I face a hardship through life, I ask myself, "What would Travis do?" And I haven't been disappointed with the results. Of course, I will never be Travis, because he's the size of a linebacker, spends all his time on his Florida houseboat, wooing the ladies with his charm, sense of humor, and respect. Philosophy never bothered me in writing, because I always felt you were getting something extra besides a story. If a story can teach and edify along the way, then it's done a bit more than entertain. I call that a successful, memorable, even immortal story.
Along the way, I've run into some good stories and movies. I have some catching up to do, so with Netflix, I feel I can delve in beautifully and experience some things I never had before. Let The Right One In, for example, by John Ajvide Lindqvist. I'm reading the book right now and the love story is amazing. I got it because I saw the movie about a week ago, and I fell in love with that, too. I just needed more of it. I've read some of the mixed reviews, but I ignore the negative ones. From what I can say about the film--not enough good things. Stylish, artsy, beautiful, dark, and smartly done. A true original. Rent it or read the book. I don't think you'd be disappointed. With all the vampire craziness these days, I try to steer from vampire tales, but this is the exception to the rule. I think I must be a getting a little opinionated the older I get. Hollywood films seem the same old thing, a formula we know too well. Granted there are exceptions, The Dark Knight, Iron Man, things that are truly entertaining. Don't get me wrong. I think it's fabulous these kinds of movies are coming out. I saw Quarantine as well, finally, and absolutely loved it. Traditional horror, like Cloverfield, original, even simple, but packing a wallop. The truly good films have soul, a personality of their own, whereas some of the major blockbusters or films coming out of Hollywood seem rushed. It's as though you can feel the rush. Popular book! Quick! Let's make a popular movie out of it!--the hurried script, the quick casting, the sense or lack of dimension, the lack of soul from the book. Hollywood has been pumping out movies at an un-recordable rate for years. For, of course, money. Well, that makes sense. I wouldn't turn down a quick 10 mil, either. But through it all, I find it insanely disappointing. Characters are being butchered, story lines as well. Francis Ford Coppola's Dracula, for example, not Bram Stoker's. (I know, years ago, but honestly.) If it had really been Bram Stoker's Dracula, Dracula and Mina would've had separate agendas. One movie I thought Anthony Hopkins shouldn't have been cast in, because the comic relief, was, well...not Dracula. Donald Pleasance was a much better Van Helsing. And Keanu Reeves as Jonathan Harker? Surely, you jest! Winona Ryder as Mina? Still shaking my head? On top of that, a stellar performance by Gary Oldman, which virtually clashed with Keanu and Winona. Gary Oldman, was, however, one of the better Dracula's to come along in years, I thought. And for those who haven't read the book, let me remind you, Dracula was never in love with Mina, let alone was there an immortal love story between the two. Not a single Dracula creation, it seems, is technically accurate to the book as far as the love story goes, because the only love story was between Mina and Jonathan, and of course, Lucy and her suitors. Dracula was simply a creature of the night who wanted to take over the world, not reunite with a lost love. A disappointing remake, to say the least, which for me, has grown staler over time. The Silver Surfer deserved better in the second installment of The Fantastic Four as well. Talk about your tragic stories! His was at the top of my list growing up, thanks to my older brother, who introduced me to Surfer as a kid. But hey, this is just one man's opinion. Dracula and the Surfer are opposite ends of the spectrum, but the same rules apply.
I'm relieved there are people out there proving the immortal band on film and literature. There are still directors who care, who want to share vision instead of making a quick buck, writers who believe in the power of language, in real storytelling instead of the current, hottest seller, actors who sacrifice their souls for their performance and put everything they have into it. Let The Right One In made me realize this. So did Magic. Yes, I know, the one starring Anthony Hopkins, Anne Margaret, and Burgess Merideth, 1978. I saw bits and pieces of the movie as a kid, but never knew exactly what it was about, let alone had I seen it all the way through. Finally twenty-some odd years later, I sat and watched it, blown away by Hopkins' performance, especially when he's arguing with Fatz, and Burgess Merideth is standing in the doorway without him knowing. I haven't been able to say this is in a long time, probably since Cronenberg's The Dead Zone, based on the King novel, but these two films (Let The Right One In, and Magic) might be at the top of my favorite movies list. If you want films with beautiful pace, with lives of their own, with personality, these are great examples. Of course, I'm no pundit on movies, whatsoever. I go by how they make me feel, what it did to me on the inside, and if this were a review, I'd probably be castrated. I'm just saying, I'm passionate about what I expose myself to, and I loved to be emotionally moved, mentally stimulated for both light and dark reasons. Don't you?
But there I go again. I'm not trying to say anything you haven't already heard before. It's one of the first lessons we learn, but I still believe there's some truth in that. Hemingway said experience makes the writer, and I have to agree. I don't think philosophy in art or writing is so bad, at least not the way the customer said it at the bookstore. John D. MacDonald did it beautifully with his Travis McGee series. Usually, when I face a hardship through life, I ask myself, "What would Travis do?" And I haven't been disappointed with the results. Of course, I will never be Travis, because he's the size of a linebacker, spends all his time on his Florida houseboat, wooing the ladies with his charm, sense of humor, and respect. Philosophy never bothered me in writing, because I always felt you were getting something extra besides a story. If a story can teach and edify along the way, then it's done a bit more than entertain. I call that a successful, memorable, even immortal story.
Along the way, I've run into some good stories and movies. I have some catching up to do, so with Netflix, I feel I can delve in beautifully and experience some things I never had before. Let The Right One In, for example, by John Ajvide Lindqvist. I'm reading the book right now and the love story is amazing. I got it because I saw the movie about a week ago, and I fell in love with that, too. I just needed more of it. I've read some of the mixed reviews, but I ignore the negative ones. From what I can say about the film--not enough good things. Stylish, artsy, beautiful, dark, and smartly done. A true original. Rent it or read the book. I don't think you'd be disappointed. With all the vampire craziness these days, I try to steer from vampire tales, but this is the exception to the rule. I think I must be a getting a little opinionated the older I get. Hollywood films seem the same old thing, a formula we know too well. Granted there are exceptions, The Dark Knight, Iron Man, things that are truly entertaining. Don't get me wrong. I think it's fabulous these kinds of movies are coming out. I saw Quarantine as well, finally, and absolutely loved it. Traditional horror, like Cloverfield, original, even simple, but packing a wallop. The truly good films have soul, a personality of their own, whereas some of the major blockbusters or films coming out of Hollywood seem rushed. It's as though you can feel the rush. Popular book! Quick! Let's make a popular movie out of it!--the hurried script, the quick casting, the sense or lack of dimension, the lack of soul from the book. Hollywood has been pumping out movies at an un-recordable rate for years. For, of course, money. Well, that makes sense. I wouldn't turn down a quick 10 mil, either. But through it all, I find it insanely disappointing. Characters are being butchered, story lines as well. Francis Ford Coppola's Dracula, for example, not Bram Stoker's. (I know, years ago, but honestly.) If it had really been Bram Stoker's Dracula, Dracula and Mina would've had separate agendas. One movie I thought Anthony Hopkins shouldn't have been cast in, because the comic relief, was, well...not Dracula. Donald Pleasance was a much better Van Helsing. And Keanu Reeves as Jonathan Harker? Surely, you jest! Winona Ryder as Mina? Still shaking my head? On top of that, a stellar performance by Gary Oldman, which virtually clashed with Keanu and Winona. Gary Oldman, was, however, one of the better Dracula's to come along in years, I thought. And for those who haven't read the book, let me remind you, Dracula was never in love with Mina, let alone was there an immortal love story between the two. Not a single Dracula creation, it seems, is technically accurate to the book as far as the love story goes, because the only love story was between Mina and Jonathan, and of course, Lucy and her suitors. Dracula was simply a creature of the night who wanted to take over the world, not reunite with a lost love. A disappointing remake, to say the least, which for me, has grown staler over time. The Silver Surfer deserved better in the second installment of The Fantastic Four as well. Talk about your tragic stories! His was at the top of my list growing up, thanks to my older brother, who introduced me to Surfer as a kid. But hey, this is just one man's opinion. Dracula and the Surfer are opposite ends of the spectrum, but the same rules apply.
I'm relieved there are people out there proving the immortal band on film and literature. There are still directors who care, who want to share vision instead of making a quick buck, writers who believe in the power of language, in real storytelling instead of the current, hottest seller, actors who sacrifice their souls for their performance and put everything they have into it. Let The Right One In made me realize this. So did Magic. Yes, I know, the one starring Anthony Hopkins, Anne Margaret, and Burgess Merideth, 1978. I saw bits and pieces of the movie as a kid, but never knew exactly what it was about, let alone had I seen it all the way through. Finally twenty-some odd years later, I sat and watched it, blown away by Hopkins' performance, especially when he's arguing with Fatz, and Burgess Merideth is standing in the doorway without him knowing. I haven't been able to say this is in a long time, probably since Cronenberg's The Dead Zone, based on the King novel, but these two films (Let The Right One In, and Magic) might be at the top of my favorite movies list. If you want films with beautiful pace, with lives of their own, with personality, these are great examples. Of course, I'm no pundit on movies, whatsoever. I go by how they make me feel, what it did to me on the inside, and if this were a review, I'd probably be castrated. I'm just saying, I'm passionate about what I expose myself to, and I loved to be emotionally moved, mentally stimulated for both light and dark reasons. Don't you?
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Better Late Than Never
Hello, Friends. Sorry, it's been so long since my last post. Since the year has begun, things have been a little crazy, to say the least: appointments, legal matters, doctors, lawyers, and many other household extravagances to make you realize life is here to stay, whether you want it to or not. That can be good or bad, I guess, depending on your frame of mind. Me, being the splendidly morbid character I am, find myself saying, "Hmmmm."
No biggy, really. I've jumped through most of the hoops, and thinks are back on track. I feel like one of those injured players on the bench, watching life go by, or the team playing without you.
I hope everyone is well, and I want to take the time to thank everybody who has posted, commented, and read my blog with the nice things you've said. It warms the heart, my friends, and I thank you.
I've recently found myself on Netflix. Long time coming, maybe, but what a discovery! Does anybody remember the movie Alice, Sweet Alice? What a creep fest! Get it, turn out all the lights, and watch it. I saw this movie at the drive-in when it came out. I was five years old, and all I remember is everybody in the car being "creeped out," as well. (Yes, growing up, the parents loved horror, so I was exposed to some very creepy movies at a very young age. It explains a lot.) It still gave me a good chill just the other night. I've been into the Omen Trilogy, too. I can't believe how good this stuff is and how long it's been since I've seen it. My new addiction is trying to build the ultimate "Horror Movie Collection," and I'm proud of the titles I've accrued along the way.
I'm happy to be back in "Horror Mode," as well. That old familiar love. Darkness and madness with a little dab of blood really makes me happy. Ahhh. I took time reading the classics for quite a few months and not writing a word. I think I needed the break, and I was glad I took the hiatus. The words that come now feel crisp and brand new. Suddenly, it just hit me: "I need darkness and madness. I need...creepy." I think creepy is among the better categories. If anything, I look for creepy wherever I go. Plus, it helps with my funky frame of mind lately, which has been tried.
Things have been weighing heavily on me. Is it okay to get that personal? Years ago, I might have lost myself in booze to forget it. These days, I pop of bowl of popcorn, put in a good scary movie, then make a milkshake. I might have an apple or orange afterwards, just to balance out all the salt and butter. Still, I must be the moodiest sonofabitch in the world, the reason I see the doctor and live as quietly and uncomplicated as necessary. Sometimes, I think I want to be this eccentric hermit who buries himself in the dark and words, writing about loneliness, isolation, about the sadness of broken dreams, the paradise we all want for ourselves, and how it often comes back to haunt us whether we obtain it or not. Writing and art, like in its mirrored reflection called, Life. It takes a long time to see through the years, to come out of the broken paradise, and accept the fact you're no more special than any one else. We only deserve what we create for ourselves. Sometimes, some of us have a little more luck than others, if you believe in that sort of thing.
I've enjoyed writing about the seedier side of life lately as well, the repellent, the horrible, the destitute, the soulless, and the lifeless. I like the realness. Broken, lost, and disheartened love. I've been working on a story I really enjoy, which is about that very thing. (115 pages. I'm doing a lot of novellas lately.) The dementia that lives in obsessive love, the distortion many of us have on how we perceive life, the world, and ourselves.
Lately, too, I've been thinking a lot about commercial fiction. Some of it just doesn't do it for me these days. Maybe I'm just being an ass. So much of it seems one-dimensional, that is a lack of character and substance, fiction for entertainment's sake, instead of emotional satisfaction. Though, I understand this is where the money lies, I can't bring myself to conform, not that I'd find a big fat contract even if I did. I guess it depends on what kind of reader you are. I know what kind of reader I am, and I know I'm not the only one. Tradition with language and the people who built that for us. Some of today's fiction seems like a cardboard cutout. Whatever happened to that blocky, beautiful prose of years gone by: Nabokov, Hawthorne, James, Hemingway? Feeling, emotion, description? Not all of today's fiction is that way, of course. I don't mean to sound like a literary pundit, let alone an asshole. The History of Love was a best seller, and that was nothing but layered emotion upon emotion, and beautifully written description. I work at Barnes and Noble, and have it on my staff recs. I hope Nicole Krauss appreciates how many copies I've sold for her, at least two a week. I'm not looking for anything in return, you understand. I just like sharing a beautiful story. And that was one among the many. Thank you, Nicole, for that. If you have some suggestions for me, I'd love to know. Make a list of some of your favorite literary works.
How this all relates to anything I've been talking about? Who the hell knows? I guess this is kind of erratic post. I'll clean it up later, maybe. I guess it goes back to the same thing:
I find life most enjoyable through art and experience, which are a perfect fit, like what many of my posts are about. Experience through shame and turmoil; through darkness, comes beauty. Through experience, comes knowledge. I know enough to know what makes me happy. Reading beautiful stories, no matter how dark or light, and writing from the raw core of my being. If I don't feel it, why create at all? Writing, what I hope, are beautiful stories, filled with language and heart. I've noticed lately that when I write, I don't feel so much like a writer as an artist. This is one the most beautiful feelings I've discovered lately.
And, of course, hearing the responses, and thanking you, in return. So, what if it took me thirty-odd years to understand it. Better late than never, right?
And a great hockey game, but that's no surprise...Maybe it's time to go skating...
See you soon, light and dark dwellers.
Brandon
No biggy, really. I've jumped through most of the hoops, and thinks are back on track. I feel like one of those injured players on the bench, watching life go by, or the team playing without you.
I hope everyone is well, and I want to take the time to thank everybody who has posted, commented, and read my blog with the nice things you've said. It warms the heart, my friends, and I thank you.
I've recently found myself on Netflix. Long time coming, maybe, but what a discovery! Does anybody remember the movie Alice, Sweet Alice? What a creep fest! Get it, turn out all the lights, and watch it. I saw this movie at the drive-in when it came out. I was five years old, and all I remember is everybody in the car being "creeped out," as well. (Yes, growing up, the parents loved horror, so I was exposed to some very creepy movies at a very young age. It explains a lot.) It still gave me a good chill just the other night. I've been into the Omen Trilogy, too. I can't believe how good this stuff is and how long it's been since I've seen it. My new addiction is trying to build the ultimate "Horror Movie Collection," and I'm proud of the titles I've accrued along the way.
I'm happy to be back in "Horror Mode," as well. That old familiar love. Darkness and madness with a little dab of blood really makes me happy. Ahhh. I took time reading the classics for quite a few months and not writing a word. I think I needed the break, and I was glad I took the hiatus. The words that come now feel crisp and brand new. Suddenly, it just hit me: "I need darkness and madness. I need...creepy." I think creepy is among the better categories. If anything, I look for creepy wherever I go. Plus, it helps with my funky frame of mind lately, which has been tried.
Things have been weighing heavily on me. Is it okay to get that personal? Years ago, I might have lost myself in booze to forget it. These days, I pop of bowl of popcorn, put in a good scary movie, then make a milkshake. I might have an apple or orange afterwards, just to balance out all the salt and butter. Still, I must be the moodiest sonofabitch in the world, the reason I see the doctor and live as quietly and uncomplicated as necessary. Sometimes, I think I want to be this eccentric hermit who buries himself in the dark and words, writing about loneliness, isolation, about the sadness of broken dreams, the paradise we all want for ourselves, and how it often comes back to haunt us whether we obtain it or not. Writing and art, like in its mirrored reflection called, Life. It takes a long time to see through the years, to come out of the broken paradise, and accept the fact you're no more special than any one else. We only deserve what we create for ourselves. Sometimes, some of us have a little more luck than others, if you believe in that sort of thing.
I've enjoyed writing about the seedier side of life lately as well, the repellent, the horrible, the destitute, the soulless, and the lifeless. I like the realness. Broken, lost, and disheartened love. I've been working on a story I really enjoy, which is about that very thing. (115 pages. I'm doing a lot of novellas lately.) The dementia that lives in obsessive love, the distortion many of us have on how we perceive life, the world, and ourselves.
Lately, too, I've been thinking a lot about commercial fiction. Some of it just doesn't do it for me these days. Maybe I'm just being an ass. So much of it seems one-dimensional, that is a lack of character and substance, fiction for entertainment's sake, instead of emotional satisfaction. Though, I understand this is where the money lies, I can't bring myself to conform, not that I'd find a big fat contract even if I did. I guess it depends on what kind of reader you are. I know what kind of reader I am, and I know I'm not the only one. Tradition with language and the people who built that for us. Some of today's fiction seems like a cardboard cutout. Whatever happened to that blocky, beautiful prose of years gone by: Nabokov, Hawthorne, James, Hemingway? Feeling, emotion, description? Not all of today's fiction is that way, of course. I don't mean to sound like a literary pundit, let alone an asshole. The History of Love was a best seller, and that was nothing but layered emotion upon emotion, and beautifully written description. I work at Barnes and Noble, and have it on my staff recs. I hope Nicole Krauss appreciates how many copies I've sold for her, at least two a week. I'm not looking for anything in return, you understand. I just like sharing a beautiful story. And that was one among the many. Thank you, Nicole, for that. If you have some suggestions for me, I'd love to know. Make a list of some of your favorite literary works.
How this all relates to anything I've been talking about? Who the hell knows? I guess this is kind of erratic post. I'll clean it up later, maybe. I guess it goes back to the same thing:
I find life most enjoyable through art and experience, which are a perfect fit, like what many of my posts are about. Experience through shame and turmoil; through darkness, comes beauty. Through experience, comes knowledge. I know enough to know what makes me happy. Reading beautiful stories, no matter how dark or light, and writing from the raw core of my being. If I don't feel it, why create at all? Writing, what I hope, are beautiful stories, filled with language and heart. I've noticed lately that when I write, I don't feel so much like a writer as an artist. This is one the most beautiful feelings I've discovered lately.
And, of course, hearing the responses, and thanking you, in return. So, what if it took me thirty-odd years to understand it. Better late than never, right?
And a great hockey game, but that's no surprise...Maybe it's time to go skating...
See you soon, light and dark dwellers.
Brandon
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