http://search.barnesandnoble.com/Flesh-and-Bone/Jessy-Marie-Roberts/e/9781617060014
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Flesh and Bone
Flesh and Bone, featuring In the Dark Kingdom.
http://search.barnesandnoble.com/Flesh-and-Bone/Jessy-Marie-Roberts/e/9781617060014
http://search.barnesandnoble.com/Flesh-and-Bone/Jessy-Marie-Roberts/e/9781617060014
Friday, September 17, 2010
The Pace of Roses
The man stood alone late at night and watched the world go by. The same old thing without him, he thought, at least that was what he normally would’ve thought, but not these days, not anymore. He thought about a lot of different things, all the time. He liked to think a lot. It could backfire, easily—thinking. It usually did. But he was creative by nature, so it made sense. In order to create, one had to think, but more importantly, one had to feel. He was not in short supply of either. Creation was based on thoughts and feelings.
He had changed a lot growing up. That was natural, too, he supposed. He had felt a lot, hadn’t realized until recently how pessimistic and cynical he had been, how he had spent his life wrapped in such negativity for so many years. He had always been slightly melancholy, perplexed, prone to sadness, confusion, even despair. For years, those hopeless emotions had ruled his life. He knew what it was like to live without hope, to want to die, to bow out and just be done already. He didn’t want to go there again. It was a bleak and terrible place. He was not a bleak and terrible person was the funny thing. He thought he had been, but that was the delusion, the self-deception.
Inside, it was as if all the pieces had begun to slip into place. If he were made of metal, they would have made locking noises, all those pieces, like a giant machine. He noticed it a lot lately, mainly as he walked at night by himself. He felt good, and he passed a lot of people that might’ve made him feel sad before, empty, lonely, even envious. Nowadays, he could look at them and wish them well. He knew this and he could feel it in his heart, since it was the only thing he understood. If you couldn’t feel with sincerity, with the genuine authenticity of feeling, what was the point of living? He knew this, felt it, accepted it, and now every moment of his life was based on this one principle.
It was as if someone had dipped him in silver, or gold. He felt that solid and sure of himself now, which was a relief after all the years of tumult and screaming. A soul could scream in defiance. He had learned that recently, too. But when it screamed, it must have something pretty important to say, and the man had listened. He thought of it as alignment. Things had worked themselves out, found their proper place. Everything, it seemed to him, was right with the world—the planets, the stars, the breath in his body, the way he saw things. Maybe he had simply changed his perspective. But yes, even his own heart, his own mind, seemed one with the stars, the sea, the sun and the sky.
Despite it all, despite how beautiful, it was still strange. But he liked that it was strange. It was new, and he liked the feeling of new. It kept a smile on his face, and it felt good to smile. Looking back over the years, he would’ve never imagined this possibility. It was amazing. It was miraculous. He liked to think of it as sacred. It was simply life. As he looked back over the changes, it was amazing—miraculous—he had managed to live through it. A million times he could’ve died, and maybe should have, but he didn’t. He was still here. He was walking these streets, and he could’ve been bitter and sad about a lot of things, but his story was his story and no one else’s. Someone told him recently that his past was precious and he had never thought of it that way before. He had been too open, reckless with his history, and he saw the repercussions of that now. He had been taken advantage of, even betrayed. These days, he treasured it like the miracle it was. Because it was a miracle. It was his miracle and no one else’s. So yes, he had finally accepted his past, his beautiful, wonderful, magical, star-filled past, brimming with growth, knowledge, sounds of the sea, harmony, life, and even death. He had learned a lot. The misses, the failures, the frozen plights, shadows, obsessions, even madness. All of that had a purpose, and he would’ve never believed that before, either, that life had a purpose, that he had a purpose, but sometimes, you had to stop fighting your own beliefs, your own opinions and surrender to the sacred. So, that was what he did, and the results, once again, were miraculous. Ease could be miraculous. Simplicity could be magical. Breath was sacred. Not a bad way to spend the remaining years, which—if he were lucky—would be many still.
As he walked, he noticed another form of alignment that had to do with his body. His spine was erect, his head held high. He observed everything and everybody without judgment, and that alone seemed amazing. Everything was amazing. Jesus, if he wasn’t careful, he would make himself sick thinking how amazing everything was.
Walking, the man laughed to himself at the thought. But it was true, he watched everyone, observed the way they were dressed, the way they talked, the way they lived, the city life, the night music, the traffic, the revelry. It was simply what it was, nothing more, nothing less.
His step was slow, easy, as though walking any faster would make him miss it all. This was the pace of roses. This was the slow, idle curiosity that never rushed, never hurried. This was taking it all in so he wouldn’t miss a beat, so he could remember as much about it as he could. It was fresh air, the night breeze, the beautiful summer night and the laughter and gaiety all around. His thoughts, too, were the same. There was no fighting against himself. No screaming in there. Just the simple quiet thoughts of a placid mind, a heart beating its gentle rhythm. No wind, no rain, just the easy soughing through the trees. That was all.
It was everything he wasn’t used to, so vastly different than what the previous years had taught, that it took some amount of adjusting to realize it was real. It might take him his whole life. He was fine with that.
Could it be over, he thought? Could it really be over, at least the worst of it? All that cloudy black, that confusion, that neutral gray plain of nothingness and despair? All those things that had tied me down for years, scratched and clawed at my heart and soul, my mind, all that self-inflicted suffering and tumult…Could it really be over? Finally, after all those years?
It wasn’t a question, really, was the funny thing, just a statement, one he had to adjust to, like life, accept, and eventually he would, he knew. The answer, he supposed, if it was a question, was in the simple breath, the deep, infinite space in his mind where everything was easy, like a sibilant hum. It was, in fact, as if he had never been able to catch his breath until now. As though all this time, he had been trying to catch up with himself. He had been running too fast.
Enjoy, he thought. Slow down. Live. Love. Watch the water flow. Simplicity is magic, and magic is real. That is the sacred at work. That is the path I’m on, the path I follow.
He spent the next few minutes walking away from the busier thoroughfares and toward the park, the creek. He crossed a bridge and found a quiet bench under a lamppost by the water to sit down. Under the lamp, the water was black in the dark. He listened to the water, the distant traffic, a siren in the distance, watched a pair of lovers across the river walking hand in hand along the path. Even the street sweepers were out, the yellow lights brightening the trees. It was a busy night, but he was by himself, and he liked watching the water move along in the dark under the lamps, the sound it made over the rocks. His thoughts were quiet, except when another piece slipped into place, and the sound was like metal, like hydraulics, a vast and powerful machine, well-oiled and strong. He was in no hurry to get back home. He could stay here for a while, forever maybe, he thought, until the weather changed, until someone told him he had to go, just listening, just breathing, watching the water go by.
He had changed a lot growing up. That was natural, too, he supposed. He had felt a lot, hadn’t realized until recently how pessimistic and cynical he had been, how he had spent his life wrapped in such negativity for so many years. He had always been slightly melancholy, perplexed, prone to sadness, confusion, even despair. For years, those hopeless emotions had ruled his life. He knew what it was like to live without hope, to want to die, to bow out and just be done already. He didn’t want to go there again. It was a bleak and terrible place. He was not a bleak and terrible person was the funny thing. He thought he had been, but that was the delusion, the self-deception.
Inside, it was as if all the pieces had begun to slip into place. If he were made of metal, they would have made locking noises, all those pieces, like a giant machine. He noticed it a lot lately, mainly as he walked at night by himself. He felt good, and he passed a lot of people that might’ve made him feel sad before, empty, lonely, even envious. Nowadays, he could look at them and wish them well. He knew this and he could feel it in his heart, since it was the only thing he understood. If you couldn’t feel with sincerity, with the genuine authenticity of feeling, what was the point of living? He knew this, felt it, accepted it, and now every moment of his life was based on this one principle.
It was as if someone had dipped him in silver, or gold. He felt that solid and sure of himself now, which was a relief after all the years of tumult and screaming. A soul could scream in defiance. He had learned that recently, too. But when it screamed, it must have something pretty important to say, and the man had listened. He thought of it as alignment. Things had worked themselves out, found their proper place. Everything, it seemed to him, was right with the world—the planets, the stars, the breath in his body, the way he saw things. Maybe he had simply changed his perspective. But yes, even his own heart, his own mind, seemed one with the stars, the sea, the sun and the sky.
Despite it all, despite how beautiful, it was still strange. But he liked that it was strange. It was new, and he liked the feeling of new. It kept a smile on his face, and it felt good to smile. Looking back over the years, he would’ve never imagined this possibility. It was amazing. It was miraculous. He liked to think of it as sacred. It was simply life. As he looked back over the changes, it was amazing—miraculous—he had managed to live through it. A million times he could’ve died, and maybe should have, but he didn’t. He was still here. He was walking these streets, and he could’ve been bitter and sad about a lot of things, but his story was his story and no one else’s. Someone told him recently that his past was precious and he had never thought of it that way before. He had been too open, reckless with his history, and he saw the repercussions of that now. He had been taken advantage of, even betrayed. These days, he treasured it like the miracle it was. Because it was a miracle. It was his miracle and no one else’s. So yes, he had finally accepted his past, his beautiful, wonderful, magical, star-filled past, brimming with growth, knowledge, sounds of the sea, harmony, life, and even death. He had learned a lot. The misses, the failures, the frozen plights, shadows, obsessions, even madness. All of that had a purpose, and he would’ve never believed that before, either, that life had a purpose, that he had a purpose, but sometimes, you had to stop fighting your own beliefs, your own opinions and surrender to the sacred. So, that was what he did, and the results, once again, were miraculous. Ease could be miraculous. Simplicity could be magical. Breath was sacred. Not a bad way to spend the remaining years, which—if he were lucky—would be many still.
As he walked, he noticed another form of alignment that had to do with his body. His spine was erect, his head held high. He observed everything and everybody without judgment, and that alone seemed amazing. Everything was amazing. Jesus, if he wasn’t careful, he would make himself sick thinking how amazing everything was.
Walking, the man laughed to himself at the thought. But it was true, he watched everyone, observed the way they were dressed, the way they talked, the way they lived, the city life, the night music, the traffic, the revelry. It was simply what it was, nothing more, nothing less.
His step was slow, easy, as though walking any faster would make him miss it all. This was the pace of roses. This was the slow, idle curiosity that never rushed, never hurried. This was taking it all in so he wouldn’t miss a beat, so he could remember as much about it as he could. It was fresh air, the night breeze, the beautiful summer night and the laughter and gaiety all around. His thoughts, too, were the same. There was no fighting against himself. No screaming in there. Just the simple quiet thoughts of a placid mind, a heart beating its gentle rhythm. No wind, no rain, just the easy soughing through the trees. That was all.
It was everything he wasn’t used to, so vastly different than what the previous years had taught, that it took some amount of adjusting to realize it was real. It might take him his whole life. He was fine with that.
Could it be over, he thought? Could it really be over, at least the worst of it? All that cloudy black, that confusion, that neutral gray plain of nothingness and despair? All those things that had tied me down for years, scratched and clawed at my heart and soul, my mind, all that self-inflicted suffering and tumult…Could it really be over? Finally, after all those years?
It wasn’t a question, really, was the funny thing, just a statement, one he had to adjust to, like life, accept, and eventually he would, he knew. The answer, he supposed, if it was a question, was in the simple breath, the deep, infinite space in his mind where everything was easy, like a sibilant hum. It was, in fact, as if he had never been able to catch his breath until now. As though all this time, he had been trying to catch up with himself. He had been running too fast.
Enjoy, he thought. Slow down. Live. Love. Watch the water flow. Simplicity is magic, and magic is real. That is the sacred at work. That is the path I’m on, the path I follow.
He spent the next few minutes walking away from the busier thoroughfares and toward the park, the creek. He crossed a bridge and found a quiet bench under a lamppost by the water to sit down. Under the lamp, the water was black in the dark. He listened to the water, the distant traffic, a siren in the distance, watched a pair of lovers across the river walking hand in hand along the path. Even the street sweepers were out, the yellow lights brightening the trees. It was a busy night, but he was by himself, and he liked watching the water move along in the dark under the lamps, the sound it made over the rocks. His thoughts were quiet, except when another piece slipped into place, and the sound was like metal, like hydraulics, a vast and powerful machine, well-oiled and strong. He was in no hurry to get back home. He could stay here for a while, forever maybe, he thought, until the weather changed, until someone told him he had to go, just listening, just breathing, watching the water go by.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Head On A Plate
I see the way it really is, all of us reaching out for the same old thing, a chance for happiness, love, to connect to something sacred or magical. I walk the streets late at night and watch the people come and go. There are some like me, wandering, alone with no place to go. They have no schedule, no agenda. I wonder what their thoughts must be, their hearts and needs. Most are in groups of twos and threes, all the younger ones. They laugh, heedless, careless of the world around them, the sham and drudgery, all the things that make the world full of pain, lies, and deceit. I remember when I was like that. Was I ever like that? The same thing, I think, all of us, some touch of human skin to tell us we're in need. "It's okay to be what you are, right here, close to me. I accept you. No, truly. I do." So, you reveal a little bit more of yourself because you believe in connection, too, but this connection is different. You want more than touch. "You are safe today. You are not crazy or freaking out. You are a beautiful thing still, everywhere you've ever been. Everything you've seen. I see all the things about you you are ashamed of, and you have no reason to feel that way. It makes me want to know you more, in fact. Put your head here, just rest and take it easy. You've been through so much. You don't have anything to worry about. Just let it out. Just let it out."
Millions upon millions, I think, billions upon billions really. Don't we all have the same kind of pain inside? No one knows why. I cry to my mother, condemn my father, wonder what I did wrong with my sisters and brothers to be walking these streets so late at night. All alone. All the time. I wonder why that can't be me over there, holding her hand, her laughing at some joke I tell. I must be too different--too scared to hold onto anything magical. I frighten them away with too much honesty, a commitment too quickly wanting to prove my loyalty to you already. My dark past is like a monster to them. I thought it proved my strength of character. That's what I get for assumption. How can they trust me? Still learning, I think, how to live, how to breathe, what a need must truly be. How to communicate. How to survive and not go crazy. Please, dear God, don't tell me I'm crazy. That won't help me. It won't make me love you. I see your head on a plate.
Maybe I have some disease I'm not aware of. I'm a leper, a Jonah, a pariah, a sleaze, a big black monster with claws and teeth. Tell me the worst, most horrible things about me you can think of so I can be blacker. Kill my heart with one ruthless blow. You can do it. Here, just pick up this axe and do away with me. It's real easy. Don't be afraid. Label, judge, crush and destroy me. Tell me I'm a pansy, I'm a baby, out of my head, that my behavior is abnormal. Watch me squirm and hop about. Let me crawl back to you on my hands and knees with tears in my eyes, begging and pleading for you to just come back to me. This could be good, I say, if only you could see it my way. You can insult and offend me, hurt me all you want. I know I'm not worthy of more than that. I'm lucky just to have you. Yes. I know. I know. Yes. Will you hold me now?
I'm too sensitive, like a girl. You've seen me cry a thousand times already before you even knew my name. You're more like a man than me. In fact, you have no girlish qualities at all. Hmm. Guess that's not important. All I wanted was to hold your hand, reveal my deepest sincerity to you, but instead, you took a knife to my chest, stabbed me repeatedly until my soul turned red. Now, I'm bending over, picking up all the broken little pieces of me you scattered here and there, set on fire. Obviously, it was wrong to trust you. It's going to take me a long time to put out these flames.
I lay by the road squaking like a toad, the tires running over me, breaking my spine, but I'm still here, though gasping my last. The things we do for love, I think, the lost and the suffering.
I watch these people on the downtown streets, wondering if any of them feel like me. We all reach out, wanting the same, in a sea of angry, voracious predators who claim to love you unconditionally. The lies they tell. I want to laugh again in carelessness like teenagers do. My darkness turns red, like the songs in my head that no longer sound like a lullaby. I'll always remember this for the rest of my life, just by trying to reach out, to connect. This hasn't been the only time. I need to learn to spot them better, the heartless, proud, unforgiving, and righteous few. No, they are many. If only they had signs.
Of course, of course, I love you, too, baby blue. I would do anything for you, which is why I'm here, left with my last breath. Can't you see you mean everything to me, baby? Haven't I proven you're all I've ever wanted, every dream come true? It's why I cry so much over you, beg and plead, ask your forgiveness. I promise I won't do it again, ever again, if only I knew what the hell it was. I know you're never wrong baby, you've never done anything wrong, which is why you never say it, why you have to remind me that I'm so lucky to be with you. You need to teach me a lesson, show me what it is I did exactly. It must've been during one of my blackouts. You might have to put my head on a plate.
Millions upon millions, I think, billions upon billions really. Don't we all have the same kind of pain inside? No one knows why. I cry to my mother, condemn my father, wonder what I did wrong with my sisters and brothers to be walking these streets so late at night. All alone. All the time. I wonder why that can't be me over there, holding her hand, her laughing at some joke I tell. I must be too different--too scared to hold onto anything magical. I frighten them away with too much honesty, a commitment too quickly wanting to prove my loyalty to you already. My dark past is like a monster to them. I thought it proved my strength of character. That's what I get for assumption. How can they trust me? Still learning, I think, how to live, how to breathe, what a need must truly be. How to communicate. How to survive and not go crazy. Please, dear God, don't tell me I'm crazy. That won't help me. It won't make me love you. I see your head on a plate.
Maybe I have some disease I'm not aware of. I'm a leper, a Jonah, a pariah, a sleaze, a big black monster with claws and teeth. Tell me the worst, most horrible things about me you can think of so I can be blacker. Kill my heart with one ruthless blow. You can do it. Here, just pick up this axe and do away with me. It's real easy. Don't be afraid. Label, judge, crush and destroy me. Tell me I'm a pansy, I'm a baby, out of my head, that my behavior is abnormal. Watch me squirm and hop about. Let me crawl back to you on my hands and knees with tears in my eyes, begging and pleading for you to just come back to me. This could be good, I say, if only you could see it my way. You can insult and offend me, hurt me all you want. I know I'm not worthy of more than that. I'm lucky just to have you. Yes. I know. I know. Yes. Will you hold me now?
I'm too sensitive, like a girl. You've seen me cry a thousand times already before you even knew my name. You're more like a man than me. In fact, you have no girlish qualities at all. Hmm. Guess that's not important. All I wanted was to hold your hand, reveal my deepest sincerity to you, but instead, you took a knife to my chest, stabbed me repeatedly until my soul turned red. Now, I'm bending over, picking up all the broken little pieces of me you scattered here and there, set on fire. Obviously, it was wrong to trust you. It's going to take me a long time to put out these flames.
I lay by the road squaking like a toad, the tires running over me, breaking my spine, but I'm still here, though gasping my last. The things we do for love, I think, the lost and the suffering.
I watch these people on the downtown streets, wondering if any of them feel like me. We all reach out, wanting the same, in a sea of angry, voracious predators who claim to love you unconditionally. The lies they tell. I want to laugh again in carelessness like teenagers do. My darkness turns red, like the songs in my head that no longer sound like a lullaby. I'll always remember this for the rest of my life, just by trying to reach out, to connect. This hasn't been the only time. I need to learn to spot them better, the heartless, proud, unforgiving, and righteous few. No, they are many. If only they had signs.
Of course, of course, I love you, too, baby blue. I would do anything for you, which is why I'm here, left with my last breath. Can't you see you mean everything to me, baby? Haven't I proven you're all I've ever wanted, every dream come true? It's why I cry so much over you, beg and plead, ask your forgiveness. I promise I won't do it again, ever again, if only I knew what the hell it was. I know you're never wrong baby, you've never done anything wrong, which is why you never say it, why you have to remind me that I'm so lucky to be with you. You need to teach me a lesson, show me what it is I did exactly. It must've been during one of my blackouts. You might have to put my head on a plate.
Friday, April 30, 2010
Fallen Gods (A Revolution!)
I miss the days when people had new things to say and they were actually important, and moved you, went inside and rearranged a few vital organs, shifted things around, and left you a changed person, feeling different, like you'd experienced something special, even sacred. All those movies that come out of Hollywood anymore are products on an assembly line. They're not good products either. They're like the shallow, empty people you meet sometimes. They have nothing inside, no soul, no life. They slap them together and throw them out into the world, but they are anything but memorable. I don't remember them, not the way I like to remember things, thinking on them fondly, enjoying them the more I think about them. I'm trying to forget them. Will anyone else remember them a hundred years from now, even? Doubtful. By then, they'll be remade a million times anyway, so it doesn't matter.
Is anyone paying attention? Does anyone care about immortality anymore? And I'm not taking about the fifteen latest vampire romance novels that have infected the nearest bookstores, either. How about horror movies where no one in its mindless, shallow cast is over the age of nineteen? Is it so hard, honestly, to make a horror movie with an adult character who cares more about where their next fix is going to come from, their next beer, or some one night stand because the carrot is louder than the soul? Does substance even come into play? Thankfully, we can turn to Independent films, or Sundance, even Foreign Films. Some people do care, thankfully. I know I'm not alone. You're there with me, aren't you? The artist who pens with passions, who creates from within. Maybe I'm not giving them enough credit.
The publishing world, the publishing houses, the big names, the New York conglomerates are no better. They are the same empty, sludge-churning factories with diseased shit on their assembly lines for another vapid generation to consume. They have no flavor, no taste, and at the rate it goes, it's amazing anyone can keep up or remember the latest, soul-killing trend. It is more than sickness. It is more than disease. It is Lucifer holding the contracts, the pen for you to sign with. And we are giving in, selling out for the merest sake of momentary, even monetary pleasure. Lifelessness is what it's all about. Entertainment with no purpose but to satisfy a selfish, sterile need. It is the death of the writer, the artist, but more importantly, the visionary.
Have you seen these ungainly, unattractive mass market paperbacks, the ones taller than the average ones that go for $7.99? They throw $9.99 price-tags on them, and you open them up, seeing more white space than black ink. Makes for more pages, thus the higher price-tags, and this, they will tell you is adult fiction, but they are more like a kid's book. I feel like I'm reading a teen novel whenever I open them up, and they put all the big names on them: Stephen King, Lee Child, David Baldacci, Nora Roberts, Jim Butcher, and James Patterson. People will buy them and the publishing houses know that, and they do. I work in a bookstore, so I see the crap coming in, and these days, it's just Disgust with a capital D. How much was Rowling's Deathly Hallows when it came out in hardcover? $40.00, which is higher than my electric bill. If you love to read and you can't afford to read at the publishing house prices, and want to feel like you're actually reading a novel, you go to the library or the used bookstore. The taller, ungainly mass markets are the example of the sickness breeding through the publishing world. It's the reason King's books have bigger print than most of the others you see, if you haven't noticed. For the last ten years or more, every King novel has been puffed up with more pages and bigger typeset. (Don't get me wrong, I love Stephen King, but they are taking advantage of his popularity, like every other best seller's popularity, and they are doing it at the expense of the consumer, we all know that.) It jacks the price up, and people don't care because it's Stephen, and the publishing houses know this, and people are going to buy him. Now, I understand perfectly, that some people can see it better, the larger print, the elderly for example, and this is what they will probably tell you, but we have the trade paperback sizes at $14.99, so I'm not really buying into it (no pun intended). Hardcovers are plenty large enough to read. I'm just saying.
For example, when was the last time you saw a really great cover, an artistic cover, an imaginative, thought-provoking, soul-stirring cover on the front of one of your favorite books? It doesn't happen anymore. It's all photographs now, or a brush stroke, a blend of color. Nothing says imagination and fantasy like a great contemporary photo. Don't you agree? A pair of feet because the word 'Standing' is in the title, for example. That's pretty clever, if you ask me. When I look at it, I think, "Wow, now there's a publishing house who cares about their author, who is really going out of their way to represent, support, and describe this entire story by a picture alone, not to mention all the artists who must not have any work because of this cheapskate concept to market new fiction." Well, we're all starving anyway, so we should be used to the shaft. So, if you're looking for great artwork to represent your fantasy or horror novel, or let alone, anything remotely imaginative on any level whatsoever, you will have to look to the shelves of yesteryear. "Just run outside and take a picture of some random person walking down the street of the city." "Sounds good to me, boss. I'm sure at some time during the novel, someone must be walking down the street in a city somewhere in the world, so as far as representation goes, we're fucking nailing this shit!" It's bound to happen. I personally like the photos of faces, which is basically like saying, "This is exactly how the main character looks, so don't imagine anything different, even though the author said she was blonde, and this girl on the cover has black hair. That's not important. So don't think it." At least that's the message I'm receiving. Why do I want to waste my time imagining people and places, when I can have the cover do that for me? That's what I'm reading fiction in the first place for, after all. I get it. Not too difficult to understand. This is what you're telling me, by your assembly line, and your Publishing House stamp. You have sold out. Your authors have sold out. Hollywood has sold out. It's a cheap, empty, soulless, yet all consuming business. And each and every one of us is buying into it, granting it power. Yes, we, the little people, the forgotten, the few, the voiceless, the unheard.
It is the same with the injudicious, romantic vampire trend. I must see fifteen new vampire novels a day come into the store. Some of them are good bakers now; they take care of the kids, walk the dogs, have supper on the table when you get home, they have dating advice on how best to spend a night on the town with your vampire lover. They are all so fashionably dressed, too! Why wouldn't you show him or her off to all your friends or mom and dad? Isn't that sweet! I miss the days when monsters were monsters. Nowadays they are nothing more than sappy, overly sensitive fairy-tale beings, who just happen to have a fetish for blood. Sure, I'm sold. They are anything but monsters. They make me want to blow my nose with magic tissue paper and ride bareback through a field of pansies on a unicorn while sprinkling magic powder behind me. Does anyone have any glitter from the 1980's? I'm thinking of using a curling iron on a werewolf's hair, because God forbid, it is just so snarly and tangled and dirty, and why don't we just put a few ribbons and bows here and there, blow dry it to give it fluff and volume, and give you a nice warm bath, because, face it, you stink, you big, hairy oaf, and why do you have to eat people on top of all that? You can get just as much nourishment in the produce isle at the nearest grocery store. We are all vegetarians now, and we need to set this example through vampires and werewolves and the walking dead. "But mom, he's really nice! He doesn't eat people!" "Oh, that's nice, dear. We'll certainly have him over for supper then!" And, oh, what about love! This girl here just happens to have a thing for the undead and hairy creatures with bad breath and blood under it's fingernails. And, of course, she's drop dead gorgeous. Talk about luck! What a coincidence that is! Does anyone have a lollipop? Maybe we can hold hands and skip down the street, get some cotton candy at the amusement park. My friends are great, they'll accept you, because after all, being different is okay! Even where monsters are concerned!
I have my own tears for the readership that is America and what people consume as far as entertainment, but I know I can't speak for everyone. Vampires are the biggest sissies to grace the pages and movie screens anymore. And werewolves are a close second. Zombies will be next, if they aren't already. Oh, wait, there is the Jane Austen zombie books, Jane Austen Vampire Killer, and a million other dark, and bloody, stake-driving versions of Jane Austen eating someone's brains, or something like that, so yes, I think that trend is covered, there, too. Point being, monsters are now the good guys, and I have never been more repulsed. That is the cross that frightens me, make's me retreat to the crypt and my own earth-laden coffin. Was this the evolution of the horror story we were hoping for, we had visualized! Maybe, like all trends, it will die, too. I hope to live to see it. Or better yet, be a part of it!
Prose is dead; poetry, too. Vision has gone black and cold. It's a farce anymore. Some of it, granted, is intended, but not all of it is. Even serial killers have turned moralistic, killing the Evildoers, much like Rice's vampires after a time. Isn't that sweet, that all these nefarious creatures are making our world a better place? I think it's sweet. I think it's like one of those Valentine-heart candies you give your sweetheart for that special day. I get warm and fuzzy inside when I read about them or see them on television. "Oh, look honey, serial killers are now setting a great example for our children! The world is now a perfect place." Sure, I get the message. I get it loud and clear. That doesn't mean I have to like it. And if money is all that's important, and selling out for your own sake is the key to your success and happiness, then more power to you. You are rich and successful at the expense of taking advantage. But that's the kind of world we live in, isn't it? Drive that yacht, sail that boat knowing no one in a hundred years is going to remember, let alone care about you, what you created, or who you were. You made your quick mil, now go lie down and die like the rest of them. James Patterson can do it. Why can't you? Literary thought will revolve around all this soon enough. They'll be teaching it in schools. That's how frightening it is. After all, James Patterson just pays people to write his books for him. I think that's pretty cool. I think if I could pay people to create my work for me, so I could go off in the sailboat fulfilling my own trendy needs, I would know true bliss, too. There is no such thing as value or principle. Get yours when you can at anyone's expense, even your own. That's the motto. That's the message! Where are the true artists anymore?
I return to writers no longer living: Poe, Hawthorne, London, Hemingway, Dickens. You remember? Of course you do. Some were fortunate. Some died broke. Did that stop them? No. Though, I will defend some contemporary poets: Peter Straub, Jonathan Carroll, Elizabeth Hand, John Crowley. M. John Harrison, thankfully, who are traditionalists in their own right, and true artists of their craft. These people are saying something and it is beautiful. And, of course, to all of us, the smaller brethren, this band of brothers and sisters, who believe in the same! You know who you are! I smell a revolution. Art to move, to change the world, to inspire, to evoke beauty, because beauty is available and experienced in every shade, light and dark. I miss the things it used to say, and every now and then, through a song, a movie, a piece of artwork, or literary prose, you can catch a glimpse of it, speaking through someone new, but it gets harder to see these days. Tear down the walls! Bring Hollywood to its knees! Make it pay for its depravity, it's stentorian insults to our empathy and intelligence! Burn down the walls of the publishing houses and rebuild them with walls of passion, creativity, and new things to say! We need raw, brutal honesty, fearlessness and your shame! Truth! Some of us still have values and children to turn to, to hope for, examples to set. It makes me dream for another time. What Hollywood and the publishing conglomerates represent, in the position they're in, is a disappointment at best. To have all that power, like every feeble-minded tyrant and king before them, makes me hang my head in woe. I see a future of fallen gods! Can you hear the people sing? Are we nothing more than fucking slaves?
Is anyone paying attention? Does anyone care about immortality anymore? And I'm not taking about the fifteen latest vampire romance novels that have infected the nearest bookstores, either. How about horror movies where no one in its mindless, shallow cast is over the age of nineteen? Is it so hard, honestly, to make a horror movie with an adult character who cares more about where their next fix is going to come from, their next beer, or some one night stand because the carrot is louder than the soul? Does substance even come into play? Thankfully, we can turn to Independent films, or Sundance, even Foreign Films. Some people do care, thankfully. I know I'm not alone. You're there with me, aren't you? The artist who pens with passions, who creates from within. Maybe I'm not giving them enough credit.
The publishing world, the publishing houses, the big names, the New York conglomerates are no better. They are the same empty, sludge-churning factories with diseased shit on their assembly lines for another vapid generation to consume. They have no flavor, no taste, and at the rate it goes, it's amazing anyone can keep up or remember the latest, soul-killing trend. It is more than sickness. It is more than disease. It is Lucifer holding the contracts, the pen for you to sign with. And we are giving in, selling out for the merest sake of momentary, even monetary pleasure. Lifelessness is what it's all about. Entertainment with no purpose but to satisfy a selfish, sterile need. It is the death of the writer, the artist, but more importantly, the visionary.
Have you seen these ungainly, unattractive mass market paperbacks, the ones taller than the average ones that go for $7.99? They throw $9.99 price-tags on them, and you open them up, seeing more white space than black ink. Makes for more pages, thus the higher price-tags, and this, they will tell you is adult fiction, but they are more like a kid's book. I feel like I'm reading a teen novel whenever I open them up, and they put all the big names on them: Stephen King, Lee Child, David Baldacci, Nora Roberts, Jim Butcher, and James Patterson. People will buy them and the publishing houses know that, and they do. I work in a bookstore, so I see the crap coming in, and these days, it's just Disgust with a capital D. How much was Rowling's Deathly Hallows when it came out in hardcover? $40.00, which is higher than my electric bill. If you love to read and you can't afford to read at the publishing house prices, and want to feel like you're actually reading a novel, you go to the library or the used bookstore. The taller, ungainly mass markets are the example of the sickness breeding through the publishing world. It's the reason King's books have bigger print than most of the others you see, if you haven't noticed. For the last ten years or more, every King novel has been puffed up with more pages and bigger typeset. (Don't get me wrong, I love Stephen King, but they are taking advantage of his popularity, like every other best seller's popularity, and they are doing it at the expense of the consumer, we all know that.) It jacks the price up, and people don't care because it's Stephen, and the publishing houses know this, and people are going to buy him. Now, I understand perfectly, that some people can see it better, the larger print, the elderly for example, and this is what they will probably tell you, but we have the trade paperback sizes at $14.99, so I'm not really buying into it (no pun intended). Hardcovers are plenty large enough to read. I'm just saying.
For example, when was the last time you saw a really great cover, an artistic cover, an imaginative, thought-provoking, soul-stirring cover on the front of one of your favorite books? It doesn't happen anymore. It's all photographs now, or a brush stroke, a blend of color. Nothing says imagination and fantasy like a great contemporary photo. Don't you agree? A pair of feet because the word 'Standing' is in the title, for example. That's pretty clever, if you ask me. When I look at it, I think, "Wow, now there's a publishing house who cares about their author, who is really going out of their way to represent, support, and describe this entire story by a picture alone, not to mention all the artists who must not have any work because of this cheapskate concept to market new fiction." Well, we're all starving anyway, so we should be used to the shaft. So, if you're looking for great artwork to represent your fantasy or horror novel, or let alone, anything remotely imaginative on any level whatsoever, you will have to look to the shelves of yesteryear. "Just run outside and take a picture of some random person walking down the street of the city." "Sounds good to me, boss. I'm sure at some time during the novel, someone must be walking down the street in a city somewhere in the world, so as far as representation goes, we're fucking nailing this shit!" It's bound to happen. I personally like the photos of faces, which is basically like saying, "This is exactly how the main character looks, so don't imagine anything different, even though the author said she was blonde, and this girl on the cover has black hair. That's not important. So don't think it." At least that's the message I'm receiving. Why do I want to waste my time imagining people and places, when I can have the cover do that for me? That's what I'm reading fiction in the first place for, after all. I get it. Not too difficult to understand. This is what you're telling me, by your assembly line, and your Publishing House stamp. You have sold out. Your authors have sold out. Hollywood has sold out. It's a cheap, empty, soulless, yet all consuming business. And each and every one of us is buying into it, granting it power. Yes, we, the little people, the forgotten, the few, the voiceless, the unheard.
It is the same with the injudicious, romantic vampire trend. I must see fifteen new vampire novels a day come into the store. Some of them are good bakers now; they take care of the kids, walk the dogs, have supper on the table when you get home, they have dating advice on how best to spend a night on the town with your vampire lover. They are all so fashionably dressed, too! Why wouldn't you show him or her off to all your friends or mom and dad? Isn't that sweet! I miss the days when monsters were monsters. Nowadays they are nothing more than sappy, overly sensitive fairy-tale beings, who just happen to have a fetish for blood. Sure, I'm sold. They are anything but monsters. They make me want to blow my nose with magic tissue paper and ride bareback through a field of pansies on a unicorn while sprinkling magic powder behind me. Does anyone have any glitter from the 1980's? I'm thinking of using a curling iron on a werewolf's hair, because God forbid, it is just so snarly and tangled and dirty, and why don't we just put a few ribbons and bows here and there, blow dry it to give it fluff and volume, and give you a nice warm bath, because, face it, you stink, you big, hairy oaf, and why do you have to eat people on top of all that? You can get just as much nourishment in the produce isle at the nearest grocery store. We are all vegetarians now, and we need to set this example through vampires and werewolves and the walking dead. "But mom, he's really nice! He doesn't eat people!" "Oh, that's nice, dear. We'll certainly have him over for supper then!" And, oh, what about love! This girl here just happens to have a thing for the undead and hairy creatures with bad breath and blood under it's fingernails. And, of course, she's drop dead gorgeous. Talk about luck! What a coincidence that is! Does anyone have a lollipop? Maybe we can hold hands and skip down the street, get some cotton candy at the amusement park. My friends are great, they'll accept you, because after all, being different is okay! Even where monsters are concerned!
I have my own tears for the readership that is America and what people consume as far as entertainment, but I know I can't speak for everyone. Vampires are the biggest sissies to grace the pages and movie screens anymore. And werewolves are a close second. Zombies will be next, if they aren't already. Oh, wait, there is the Jane Austen zombie books, Jane Austen Vampire Killer, and a million other dark, and bloody, stake-driving versions of Jane Austen eating someone's brains, or something like that, so yes, I think that trend is covered, there, too. Point being, monsters are now the good guys, and I have never been more repulsed. That is the cross that frightens me, make's me retreat to the crypt and my own earth-laden coffin. Was this the evolution of the horror story we were hoping for, we had visualized! Maybe, like all trends, it will die, too. I hope to live to see it. Or better yet, be a part of it!
Prose is dead; poetry, too. Vision has gone black and cold. It's a farce anymore. Some of it, granted, is intended, but not all of it is. Even serial killers have turned moralistic, killing the Evildoers, much like Rice's vampires after a time. Isn't that sweet, that all these nefarious creatures are making our world a better place? I think it's sweet. I think it's like one of those Valentine-heart candies you give your sweetheart for that special day. I get warm and fuzzy inside when I read about them or see them on television. "Oh, look honey, serial killers are now setting a great example for our children! The world is now a perfect place." Sure, I get the message. I get it loud and clear. That doesn't mean I have to like it. And if money is all that's important, and selling out for your own sake is the key to your success and happiness, then more power to you. You are rich and successful at the expense of taking advantage. But that's the kind of world we live in, isn't it? Drive that yacht, sail that boat knowing no one in a hundred years is going to remember, let alone care about you, what you created, or who you were. You made your quick mil, now go lie down and die like the rest of them. James Patterson can do it. Why can't you? Literary thought will revolve around all this soon enough. They'll be teaching it in schools. That's how frightening it is. After all, James Patterson just pays people to write his books for him. I think that's pretty cool. I think if I could pay people to create my work for me, so I could go off in the sailboat fulfilling my own trendy needs, I would know true bliss, too. There is no such thing as value or principle. Get yours when you can at anyone's expense, even your own. That's the motto. That's the message! Where are the true artists anymore?
I return to writers no longer living: Poe, Hawthorne, London, Hemingway, Dickens. You remember? Of course you do. Some were fortunate. Some died broke. Did that stop them? No. Though, I will defend some contemporary poets: Peter Straub, Jonathan Carroll, Elizabeth Hand, John Crowley. M. John Harrison, thankfully, who are traditionalists in their own right, and true artists of their craft. These people are saying something and it is beautiful. And, of course, to all of us, the smaller brethren, this band of brothers and sisters, who believe in the same! You know who you are! I smell a revolution. Art to move, to change the world, to inspire, to evoke beauty, because beauty is available and experienced in every shade, light and dark. I miss the things it used to say, and every now and then, through a song, a movie, a piece of artwork, or literary prose, you can catch a glimpse of it, speaking through someone new, but it gets harder to see these days. Tear down the walls! Bring Hollywood to its knees! Make it pay for its depravity, it's stentorian insults to our empathy and intelligence! Burn down the walls of the publishing houses and rebuild them with walls of passion, creativity, and new things to say! We need raw, brutal honesty, fearlessness and your shame! Truth! Some of us still have values and children to turn to, to hope for, examples to set. It makes me dream for another time. What Hollywood and the publishing conglomerates represent, in the position they're in, is a disappointment at best. To have all that power, like every feeble-minded tyrant and king before them, makes me hang my head in woe. I see a future of fallen gods! Can you hear the people sing? Are we nothing more than fucking slaves?
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Publishing, Movies, Books, and Reviews
I think my posts are getting a little too emotional for my own good. But that seems to be the case, these days. Fact is, I spend a lot of time writing in the journal, and sometimes after a heartfelt entry, I always think, "That would make a good blog." So, I retype it, polish it up a bit, and well, as honest as they sometimes are, I really don't mind sharing. A friend of mine said everyone feels that way, I just voice it aloud, so maybe I'm speaking for a lot of us. Who the hell knows? I have nothing to hide and I'm not ashamed, and I've always prided myself on at least being a fearless writer. It goes back to that--being honest with yourself, unafraid, and express from the heart, and chances are--whatever comes out is going to be beautiful.
With all that said, I thought I'd steer from it a little and mention some things I've been up to. Lately I was able to join the Horror Writer's Association, because of Donny's Day, and nominate the little bugger for a Stoker Award. That was pretty exciting, and I'm privileged to add one more thing to the resume. Also, there was this review, which was very nice of Michele, so thank you Michele. Donny's Day Review And yes, I would rather be on the eclectic shelves as opposed to the trendy ones. Fact is, I never think about plot. I think it's a waste of time. And personally, action scenes never do it for me. It's a yawn. I like thickness, depth of emotion, heavy atmosphere and detail. But...that's just me.
Also, I'm always a little late on books and movies because I usually wait til they come out on DVD or until I can get the books from the library, but on the literary front, Just After Sunset (Stephen King), A Dark Matter (Peter Straub) and The Grin of the Dark (Ramsey Campbell) were all a nice getaway. Three of my favorite authors and all with new work I hadn't gotten to yet. Great stuff, and I will gladly single out Peter Straub--only because I'm biased and I love the man's work, and this one was not a disappointment. Not as thick and descriptive as most of Straub's work, but it's nice to see him return to the darker supernatural, which he has done lately. Ramsey Campbell, of course, has got to be one the most incredible horror authors in the business. The man never wavers, never lets down, and always delivers, no matter what. Unsettling, just like all his work. Personally, I don't know how he can keep delivering the way he does after all these years. It's really quite amazing. Also, he just came out with another, Creatures of the Pool, but I haven't read it yet. And only King can create an asshole villain and still make you giggle and laugh about him, while somehow, making you like him at the same time.
House of the Devil was not disappointing, either, for those traditional horror movie fans--a period piece made about the '80's, but done in 2008, which sounds so odd to think of the '80's as a period piece, but the movie is quite good. Some may think it slow and doesn't take off until the last half hour, but I personally liked the buildup and didn't mind it at all. The atmosphere and the sense that something awful was going to happen was worth the wait. Also, rent The Fourth Kind, and Chasing Sleep with Jeff Daniels. This is good, maddening stuff, and if you like dark, the descent into the precarious abyss of lunacy, then you might enjoy yourselves here.
Aside from that, crypt dwellers, it's life as usual. Writing, reading, watching movies, the hockey playoffs around the corner, baseball season begun, and the transition to the warmer climate, announcing spring. Not a bad way to begin the warmer months. Stay scared, friends! Like always, I wish you well, and hope you are embracing your vision, your art, and treating yourselves kindly. We'll see you next time.
With all that said, I thought I'd steer from it a little and mention some things I've been up to. Lately I was able to join the Horror Writer's Association, because of Donny's Day, and nominate the little bugger for a Stoker Award. That was pretty exciting, and I'm privileged to add one more thing to the resume. Also, there was this review, which was very nice of Michele, so thank you Michele. Donny's Day Review And yes, I would rather be on the eclectic shelves as opposed to the trendy ones. Fact is, I never think about plot. I think it's a waste of time. And personally, action scenes never do it for me. It's a yawn. I like thickness, depth of emotion, heavy atmosphere and detail. But...that's just me.
Also, I'm always a little late on books and movies because I usually wait til they come out on DVD or until I can get the books from the library, but on the literary front, Just After Sunset (Stephen King), A Dark Matter (Peter Straub) and The Grin of the Dark (Ramsey Campbell) were all a nice getaway. Three of my favorite authors and all with new work I hadn't gotten to yet. Great stuff, and I will gladly single out Peter Straub--only because I'm biased and I love the man's work, and this one was not a disappointment. Not as thick and descriptive as most of Straub's work, but it's nice to see him return to the darker supernatural, which he has done lately. Ramsey Campbell, of course, has got to be one the most incredible horror authors in the business. The man never wavers, never lets down, and always delivers, no matter what. Unsettling, just like all his work. Personally, I don't know how he can keep delivering the way he does after all these years. It's really quite amazing. Also, he just came out with another, Creatures of the Pool, but I haven't read it yet. And only King can create an asshole villain and still make you giggle and laugh about him, while somehow, making you like him at the same time.
House of the Devil was not disappointing, either, for those traditional horror movie fans--a period piece made about the '80's, but done in 2008, which sounds so odd to think of the '80's as a period piece, but the movie is quite good. Some may think it slow and doesn't take off until the last half hour, but I personally liked the buildup and didn't mind it at all. The atmosphere and the sense that something awful was going to happen was worth the wait. Also, rent The Fourth Kind, and Chasing Sleep with Jeff Daniels. This is good, maddening stuff, and if you like dark, the descent into the precarious abyss of lunacy, then you might enjoy yourselves here.
Aside from that, crypt dwellers, it's life as usual. Writing, reading, watching movies, the hockey playoffs around the corner, baseball season begun, and the transition to the warmer climate, announcing spring. Not a bad way to begin the warmer months. Stay scared, friends! Like always, I wish you well, and hope you are embracing your vision, your art, and treating yourselves kindly. We'll see you next time.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Keeping Me Company...
I still miss you and think about you all the time, whoever you are. I am still here alone, and sometimes, every day, I fall in love with someone new. It happens, sometimes several times a day.
I think about the imaginations of all these other people and the worlds they have inside their heads. These days, things just feel bone dry to me. I'm lucky to think of character names. I want to create something beautiful again on a fantastic scale. I don't know what else I can write again, sometimes. I think about the art of Michael Whelan, the prose of Jonathan Carroll, the pure innocent love of Dickens, and I know there are worlds in there.
I wonder what the truths are these days. Maybe I muse too much. My quiet solace, my time here with no one else but me and the words to keep me company. Do I think I will actually experience love at first sight? That she'll have everything I dream, compatibility, something vital in common--another shade--and something will happen and we'll talk and see we were made for each other? How many fantasies, how many worlds of pretend can I live in? Maybe I should do fantasy dreams come true instead of darker tales, but really, they are all kind of the same, aren't they? I like to mix and match. I cannot talk to every girl I fall in love with, and why must you all be so beautiful to me anyway? What a killer beauty can be! You have faults, too. I know that. It's what I want to accept about you, but you aren't listening, or you simply don't care. There's more material out there for you to gain, I know. I guess I was just looking for someone with a little more depth to their personality.
I interpret my real world here in this chaos, my over-thinking, over-dreaming. Demon shadows. Haunting every hand I long to hold. Usually it's just something in your eyes, I see, a familiarity, like you're speaking to me through telepathy, telling me it's okay to talk to you. A smile here and there. I wonder what would happen if I acted on them. But I need your help. I can't go into it alone. I need you to encourage me, give me something to live by. Hope for. Get excited about. Jesus, I'm just another lonely man in here! Can't you see that? I know this softness inside me, this sensitivity, this lonely pain I feel is very real with you near. You think I like it that way? Why do you think I medicated my dreams for so long, a haze I'm still trying to pull myself out of? A person can only handle so much, and I feel what you do, too, is the funny thing. It's twice the pain. My scars make all my dreams a reality, but that's not poetry either. It's just another unlucky line, another way to express my sadness--more acute. I keep telling myself that something good will come of all this--experience makes the artist, makes the writer, makes the man, and without pain, what would I write about? You're making progress, I tell myself, and it's sometimes scary to me, that I'm so open, so willing to lay my guts out here for all to see--to do with as they please, judge and criticize harshly. I could care less about you, is the thing. How's that for apathy? Only that you see in this, a reflection, and maybe then we'll have something to fucking talk about.
There are ladies of traumatizing memory--how horrible a person I see you now, the worst I could see, worse than my worst memory. Any demon I've created pales by comparison by the light of you--or should I say the 'lack thereof.' How do you justify such vile, empty, selfish behavior--evil--other than evil? Your needs at the expense of everyone else? Has the world taught you nothing? Are you still blaming your actions on the past, because of what mommy and daddy did to you? Disillusioned. Mad. I thought I knew. But evil is nothing compared to you. You take the cake, baby. You proved me wrong.
Luckily, I know there's something beautiful in all this--and it has nothing to do with you. I have the power here to immortalize you in the wasted, dying light of hatred and pain. You are known for hurt alone and nothing else. I guess if that's good enough for you, what you aspire to be, then your work here is done. There's no need for you anymore. How sad, really. To aspire to nothing more than what everyone longs to forget? I thought we had transcended to so much more, advancement, evolution. May you be happy in the soulless, loveless life you have chosen, Ebenezer Scrooge. My, what a ponderous chain!
I guess the sadness comes with expectation and disappointment, because you try to be honest and sincere--for no other reason than because it's the right thing to do. There's nothing wrong with focusing on the right thing to do. It has a role, too. Can you hear me?
I've been embracing vision, art, prose, stylists, beauty, and expression, which is why we're here now. Sometimes, it gets harder to reach deep down. All the time, I try to go a little further. No remorse. I do not repent. I've paid my dues. It's time for something more.
The energy spent on love is, ironically, filled with nothing but heartache. I'm not as young as I used to be, and I keep thinking this is a crucial element. My dreams, however, are still. And sometimes, I still like to take the time to write to you (the one I dream about) in passing. In thoughts. Whenever I see a couple strolling hand in hand, and I wonder sometimes if I've ever really loved anyone at all. After all, the older you get, the more the definition changes.
I've been writing stories about you again, who I think you are, letters penned...because you are the opposite of everything I've ever been with, the most supportive and unconditional girl, and I try to reach out to you with ink, thinking there's magic in those words that will one day make you real, another refection--if you will. But I know there is no such thing as the perfect girl. I'm not that naive. Perfect for me? And me for you? That's a different possibility, maybe.
We don't care that we're poor. We are richer than we ever dreamed because we are who we are. After all, who else can make us laugh and smile like you and me? Every eye I see, every smile turned to me, brings you a little more to life, if only for a day. Do you accept my proposal? Or maybe it's a challenge? Just another fantasy, too, writers, poets, painters, musicians. We all have our ideas and thoughts on what it could be. Worlds in here. If only for pretend, something to write about, to keep me company before I fall in love again tomorrow or tonight--before I go to bed. I'll go turn on the t.v now. Maybe I'll catch a glimpse of you then.
I think about the imaginations of all these other people and the worlds they have inside their heads. These days, things just feel bone dry to me. I'm lucky to think of character names. I want to create something beautiful again on a fantastic scale. I don't know what else I can write again, sometimes. I think about the art of Michael Whelan, the prose of Jonathan Carroll, the pure innocent love of Dickens, and I know there are worlds in there.
I wonder what the truths are these days. Maybe I muse too much. My quiet solace, my time here with no one else but me and the words to keep me company. Do I think I will actually experience love at first sight? That she'll have everything I dream, compatibility, something vital in common--another shade--and something will happen and we'll talk and see we were made for each other? How many fantasies, how many worlds of pretend can I live in? Maybe I should do fantasy dreams come true instead of darker tales, but really, they are all kind of the same, aren't they? I like to mix and match. I cannot talk to every girl I fall in love with, and why must you all be so beautiful to me anyway? What a killer beauty can be! You have faults, too. I know that. It's what I want to accept about you, but you aren't listening, or you simply don't care. There's more material out there for you to gain, I know. I guess I was just looking for someone with a little more depth to their personality.
I interpret my real world here in this chaos, my over-thinking, over-dreaming. Demon shadows. Haunting every hand I long to hold. Usually it's just something in your eyes, I see, a familiarity, like you're speaking to me through telepathy, telling me it's okay to talk to you. A smile here and there. I wonder what would happen if I acted on them. But I need your help. I can't go into it alone. I need you to encourage me, give me something to live by. Hope for. Get excited about. Jesus, I'm just another lonely man in here! Can't you see that? I know this softness inside me, this sensitivity, this lonely pain I feel is very real with you near. You think I like it that way? Why do you think I medicated my dreams for so long, a haze I'm still trying to pull myself out of? A person can only handle so much, and I feel what you do, too, is the funny thing. It's twice the pain. My scars make all my dreams a reality, but that's not poetry either. It's just another unlucky line, another way to express my sadness--more acute. I keep telling myself that something good will come of all this--experience makes the artist, makes the writer, makes the man, and without pain, what would I write about? You're making progress, I tell myself, and it's sometimes scary to me, that I'm so open, so willing to lay my guts out here for all to see--to do with as they please, judge and criticize harshly. I could care less about you, is the thing. How's that for apathy? Only that you see in this, a reflection, and maybe then we'll have something to fucking talk about.
There are ladies of traumatizing memory--how horrible a person I see you now, the worst I could see, worse than my worst memory. Any demon I've created pales by comparison by the light of you--or should I say the 'lack thereof.' How do you justify such vile, empty, selfish behavior--evil--other than evil? Your needs at the expense of everyone else? Has the world taught you nothing? Are you still blaming your actions on the past, because of what mommy and daddy did to you? Disillusioned. Mad. I thought I knew. But evil is nothing compared to you. You take the cake, baby. You proved me wrong.
Luckily, I know there's something beautiful in all this--and it has nothing to do with you. I have the power here to immortalize you in the wasted, dying light of hatred and pain. You are known for hurt alone and nothing else. I guess if that's good enough for you, what you aspire to be, then your work here is done. There's no need for you anymore. How sad, really. To aspire to nothing more than what everyone longs to forget? I thought we had transcended to so much more, advancement, evolution. May you be happy in the soulless, loveless life you have chosen, Ebenezer Scrooge. My, what a ponderous chain!
I guess the sadness comes with expectation and disappointment, because you try to be honest and sincere--for no other reason than because it's the right thing to do. There's nothing wrong with focusing on the right thing to do. It has a role, too. Can you hear me?
I've been embracing vision, art, prose, stylists, beauty, and expression, which is why we're here now. Sometimes, it gets harder to reach deep down. All the time, I try to go a little further. No remorse. I do not repent. I've paid my dues. It's time for something more.
The energy spent on love is, ironically, filled with nothing but heartache. I'm not as young as I used to be, and I keep thinking this is a crucial element. My dreams, however, are still. And sometimes, I still like to take the time to write to you (the one I dream about) in passing. In thoughts. Whenever I see a couple strolling hand in hand, and I wonder sometimes if I've ever really loved anyone at all. After all, the older you get, the more the definition changes.
I've been writing stories about you again, who I think you are, letters penned...because you are the opposite of everything I've ever been with, the most supportive and unconditional girl, and I try to reach out to you with ink, thinking there's magic in those words that will one day make you real, another refection--if you will. But I know there is no such thing as the perfect girl. I'm not that naive. Perfect for me? And me for you? That's a different possibility, maybe.
We don't care that we're poor. We are richer than we ever dreamed because we are who we are. After all, who else can make us laugh and smile like you and me? Every eye I see, every smile turned to me, brings you a little more to life, if only for a day. Do you accept my proposal? Or maybe it's a challenge? Just another fantasy, too, writers, poets, painters, musicians. We all have our ideas and thoughts on what it could be. Worlds in here. If only for pretend, something to write about, to keep me company before I fall in love again tomorrow or tonight--before I go to bed. I'll go turn on the t.v now. Maybe I'll catch a glimpse of you then.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Words, Unspoken (For A Very Special Girl)
Sometimes, these days just hold everyday sounds. It is always just an ordinary day until you come around. Miles mean nothing for all the things in between that separate us. We seem to bridge it easily where distance becomes meaningless. Funny, don't you think? We penetrate the indestructible, all the trivial things that bar our way.
But it's funny to me how these words we exchange back and forth have so much power in them, at least they do over me. I feel my fabric shifting, changing, because they have more substance and weight in them than a wrecking ball. They are like daggers and swords, sharpened to perfection, making the smoothest cuts, going deep in ways I never dreamed. The funny thing is, I would have it no other way. Bleeding for you? Willingly, my love. How else can my love be proved?
I have lifted my tear-stained eyes to Heaven, and I think about how this intimate relationship has blossomed through the simplicity of gentle words, poetry. How can the sincerity, the honesty of words shift all these jagged mountains inside me, hold more power in compassion than any touch I've ever known? How can the words I've heard audibly--just next to my ear--be so weightless next to the worlds that appear, here, before my very eyes? The ones you write me. The ones I respond to. The ones that are more eternal, because they have no end. Yours soften me, take all the rugged scars away, smooth out every coarse edge and trauma. They make me smile and cry again. And I'm not sure--if your words are so powerful--what your touch would actually do to me. Is my fabric, my make-up strong enough to withstand it? There, my own strength would be put to the test. For this chance, and the intensity of what could be a perfect romance, I am willing to take. It is not a sacrifice, love. It is the reason I am here. It is the pinnacle of experience. It is the only thing that has ever meant anything to me. Not everyone gets to feel this. Not everyone knows what it means. I wonder if some even know it exist, that it's real? But I would tell you over and over, through every word, through every gesture, that it means everything in the world to me. That nothing has ever meant anything until you wrote me. The bleeding is what I live for. The cutting deep and every scar. The words you write that smooth them over. Your words, unspoken--still louder than sounds.
But it's funny to me how these words we exchange back and forth have so much power in them, at least they do over me. I feel my fabric shifting, changing, because they have more substance and weight in them than a wrecking ball. They are like daggers and swords, sharpened to perfection, making the smoothest cuts, going deep in ways I never dreamed. The funny thing is, I would have it no other way. Bleeding for you? Willingly, my love. How else can my love be proved?
I have lifted my tear-stained eyes to Heaven, and I think about how this intimate relationship has blossomed through the simplicity of gentle words, poetry. How can the sincerity, the honesty of words shift all these jagged mountains inside me, hold more power in compassion than any touch I've ever known? How can the words I've heard audibly--just next to my ear--be so weightless next to the worlds that appear, here, before my very eyes? The ones you write me. The ones I respond to. The ones that are more eternal, because they have no end. Yours soften me, take all the rugged scars away, smooth out every coarse edge and trauma. They make me smile and cry again. And I'm not sure--if your words are so powerful--what your touch would actually do to me. Is my fabric, my make-up strong enough to withstand it? There, my own strength would be put to the test. For this chance, and the intensity of what could be a perfect romance, I am willing to take. It is not a sacrifice, love. It is the reason I am here. It is the pinnacle of experience. It is the only thing that has ever meant anything to me. Not everyone gets to feel this. Not everyone knows what it means. I wonder if some even know it exist, that it's real? But I would tell you over and over, through every word, through every gesture, that it means everything in the world to me. That nothing has ever meant anything until you wrote me. The bleeding is what I live for. The cutting deep and every scar. The words you write that smooth them over. Your words, unspoken--still louder than sounds.
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