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
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
