what a novel idea.

And let us start back up...

2010-03-12T22:12:00.000-08:00

As bedrooms go, specifically in regards to teenage boys, mine is not archetypal. I do not have posters of famed sports heroes or a secret stack of Playboy’s shoved underneath my bed. Absent is a stash of condoms.

What I do have is a desk with a computer where I spend hours at a time on the Internet, researching different parts of the world and then documenting reasons to one day visit or live in those places. I’ve decided it’s a more productive fetish than searching for “Asian fellating Donkey” or “Horse Cock knocks out Bitch that had it Cumming.” On a side note, those are things that Ben has looked up before. So far, I have 28 pages of dreams.

On my nightstand, I have a Bose Sound Dock that, when needed, drowns out the noise in my world. On my walls, I have two framed pictures, one a Rothko painting and the other a portrait of Mark Twain. I particularly like the Twain portrait. His lips are curled into a slight smirk and his eyes reveal a depth of knowledge far superior to anything that I reasonably hope to know.

A three-tiered bookcase is neatly stacked with 92 books that I still need to read. Next up is “Catch-22.”

I’d consider opening it tonight but I am tired and still angry from the dinner table episode. Because I would like to get a good night’s sleep, I decide that my tension needs to be relieved.

Masturbation is more about survival for me than it is for pleasure. It centers me. Consider it my Yoga. I’m actually embarrassed by the act. I tried it once in the bathroom and caught a reflection of myself in the mirror. Face contorted, what little muscle I did have pulled taut, a horrifying look at what I assume my love partner will see when I lose my virginity.

Inconspicuously tucked in my sock drawer, hidden in a manila envelope, under felt lining are five pictures of Marta. I pick one that showcases Marta in a bikini on a family trip five years earlier to Barbados. Playing quietly in the background is Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 24, a beautiful piece of music, both sensual and forceful, perfect for making sweet love to Marta in my mind.

The sheets are smoothed, pillows are fluffed, lights dimmed and most importantly my door is locked. I will not be interrupted like some cliché teen movie where the mother walks in and sees her son jack hammering away.

Efficiently I slip out of my clothes and under the covers. The requisite white wash cloth sits neatly folded on the pillow next to me. All of thirty seconds passes before I am at attention and ready to proceed. I fling the picture aside and close my eyes. My face is concentrated now, like I’m cracking code. Only with an erection.

Sweat forming on my brow. Face flushed and rosy, rhythmic pumping. And cue breathy, self-conscious sex talk.

“Ohh…baby. You like that Marta? You want some more of that? You’re in luck because Daddy is feeling generous.”

I do my best Marta voice.

“Yes, give it to me harder Walt. Impale me with your heaven stick.”

I shake my head, more disconcerted than turned on. Focus. Keep on task. Getting close now. A few more pumps and…

The walls in the house can’t shelter from me from the thunderbolt that strikes me from my parent’s room down the hall.

“ GODDAMMIT EVA! It’s been A FUCKING year and I’m about ready to EXPLODE! Open your legs or I’ll be forced to find it elsewhere!”

My eyes detonate open.

You can’t be serious! I try to keep hammering away at the task at hand but my mother slurs an earsplitting response.

“You have a SMALL WIENER!”

I rip the covers off, repressing a mini-throw up as I waddle, manhood in hand, over to my computer desk. My ears attempt to take refuge under my headphones as I valiantly try to get Mr. Winkie back to Happyland.

“OH SHOVE IT UP YOUR ASS!”

Headphones not working! Another slurred response.

“You’d like that wouldn’t you!”

Please, no more!

“No thanks! Been there, done that! Wasn’t very fond of your anal dungeon!”

Can’t breathe! Parents once had anal sex!

“Why don’t you be useful and get me some wine you DICK!”

I give up my quest for discharge and slump in my computer chair.

A door slams and presumably my father stomps down the stairs toward the couch.

I look wistfully in the direction of the idle wash cloth, which has unceremoniously escaped clean-up duty.

a short excerpt for whet appetites...

2010-01-25T23:46:00.000-08:00

The dinner table hasn’t plunged into deafening silence. It started that way and now only the sounds of fork and knife meeting plate fills the room. My mother looks as if she can barely keep her head up. She has both a red and a white wine bottle standing guard around her glass. Suddenly she perks up, realizing her glass is empty.

Her eyes furtively glance from one bottle to the other. A puzzling dilemma has confronted her.

A swift smile lights up her face. She carefully picks up both bottles and empties their contents into her glass. I watch this with a mixture of horror and fascination, shocked and impressed that none has spilled.

Marta pretends not to notice anything at all, especially my father as he blatantly ogles her cleavage.

Breaking from his cleavage-induced daze, my father starts the conversation ball rolling.

“Walter, how was your day at school?”

“ My day was fine.”

“What exactly does “fine” mean?”

“Just a general term to define my uneventful day.”

You see, father, I can be a dismissive prick too.

“Well, did anything of interest happen? Did you learn something of value?”

“I had my underwear pulled up my ass by two football players. From that, I learned that the rectum, when rubbed raw, is very painful.”

My mother snorts with laughter, so much so that wine shoots from her nose.

“I love wine!”

Not content to let my humiliation rest my father asks, “Did you fight back? Act like a man?”

I bristle at this.

“No, Dad, I was more concerned about my chafed rectum.”

I pause for a moment.

“They were bigger than me anyways.”

Mr. Macho throws his napkin down in disgust.

“Dammit, Walt. You need to stand up for yourself. Be a MAN for Christ’s sake!”

I fire back, hoping I sound more droll than angry.

“Thanks for the encouragement I’ll keep those pearls of wisdom locked away in my special “Daddy’s Super Advice” box.”

The dinner table falls back to quiet. Marta looks as if she really wants to leave.

I look to my mother, whose robe has now come open to reveal a healthy portion of her right breast. I nearly choke on my asparagus.

The wandering eyes of my father linger for a moment on my mother’s exposed breast then flicker quickly to settle back on Marta’s cleavage.

new year...new pages...

2010-01-05T01:19:00.000-08:00

My 1973 BMW 2002 is the one thing I own that I’d consider a prized possession. The car was originally owned by Mr. Bellows, the husband of the aforementioned Mrs. Bellows, the little old lady who owns a home with pink trim on our block.
I vividly remember Mr. Bellows driving the car into his parking lot when I was 11-years-old.

I was reading a Hardy Boys book when I heard it idling down the street. It was a complete wreck of a car. Splotches of worn red paint, the hood and passenger door with considerable denting, and the sound of the clutch grinding as it tried valiantly to ease into third gear. It was love at first sight for me. The car was imperfect but I immediately knew it was enduring. Sexy, sturdy and most of all quirky.

For two years, Mr. Bellows worked on the car. I’d walk past his house on the way home from school and everyday he’d be clanging away. One day, I worked up the nerve to approach him. He smiled broadly when I told him I thought the car was really neat.

From that point on, I visited him once or twice a week until the car was finished. On the day the paint was finally dry, Mr. Bellows even let me apply a specially made bumper sticker to the back that said “Der Kleine Rot Hure”. I found out that it meant “The Little Red Bitch”. We made a pact that I wouldn’t ever tell Mrs. Bellows what it meant.

The next day, I walked by the house and was surprised to see that the garage door was closed but the car was parked in the driveway. An entire month went by and I didn’t see the car move from its spot. I was crushed. Selfishly, his project had become my pride and joy and I was hoping beyond hope that I’d get to take a ride with him.

On a Friday afternoon, in the middle of October, I answered the door to find Mr. Bellows standing with keys in one hand and a goofy grin on his face. I ran pell-mell up to my room, threw some shoes on and was in the car in a flash.

Before we left, he turned to me and told me he was just going to drive. He didn’t have any destination. He just wanted to drive if that was alright with me. We drove, mostly in silence, for two hours. We both had giddy smiles splashed across our faces the entire time. It was by far the sweetest silence I had ever experienced.
On our way home, Mr. Bellows stopped in a high school parking lot.

It was late and the only light was from the parking lot streetlamps. He got out of the car, came around to my side and opened the door.

“Wanna take her for a spin?” he asked.

My heart nearly leapt from my throat. I rushed to the driver’s side and got in. That night, Mr. Bellows taught me how to drive. He also taught me that old age can’t hide the boy that is always lurking somewhere beneath the surface.

When Mr. Bellows pulled back into my driveway that night, and
my euphoria had subsided a fraction, I asked him what had taken him so long to take the car out for a drive.

He explained to me that a long time ago, when his son was 18, they had seen a brand new BMW 2002 on a dealer’s lot. They both agreed that it was a beautiful car. His son said that it was his dream to one day own one. Two weeks after that, in a cruel twist of fate, his son was killed by a drunk driver.

Mr. Bellows promised himself that when he retired he would fulfill his son’s dream. After he had finished the car, Mr. Bellows said that a profound sadness had overtaken him and that he hadn’t really ever grieved for his son until he finished the car. Even though I was only 13 at the time, I think I understood. He told me that it was my enthusiasm about the car that had finally propelled him to take the car out. He thanked me for that.

Two years later, Mr. Bellows died of cancer. Mrs. Bellows left the car in their driveway, covered and lifeless.

On my 16th birthday, I walked out of my house to find the 2002 parked in my driveway with a giant bow wrapped around it. There was a card on the windshield. I opened it up and it read:

Dear Walter,
Before my husband passed he made me promise that I’d do this for you on your 16th birthday. There is no one else in the world he’d rather give this to than you. Thank you for being a part of one of the last joys he had in his life. He appreciated it more than you know and somewhere out there I do think our son did as well.
Oh and by the way, I know what the bumper sticker says you little shit!
Happy Birthday,
Mrs. Bellows

To this day, it is still the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me and I hope it sheds some light about why I’m outside fretting over the damage Brodie Brockford has done to my passenger side door.

Some neighbor kids are playing roller hockey in the street, while their mothers congregate in a circle in one of the yards, squawking away at one another. Mr. Smith, the previously mentioned owner of house number NINETEEN with PINK trim, is outside on a short ladder, his limbs stretched to gumby-like extremes, furiously painting his pink trim blue.

I walk a few feet towards Mr. Smith and respectfully call out to him.

“Hi, Mr. Smith. I see you’re painting your pink trim blue again.”

Mr. Smith nods his head without looking in my direction and mutters something under his breath.

Hoping to better understand why he continues to self-sabotage himself, I ask what I think is a logical question.

“Doesn’t the HOA keep fining you and making you paint it back to pink each time?”

Mr. Smith jerks towards me so violently he nearly flings himself from the ladder.

His face turns ruddy-faced English red and a tree of veins appears across his forehead.

“Yeah, but those Commies got another thing coming the next time they put a notice on my door!”

“What do you mean?”

An evil smile complements his tree of veins, which now seem to be pounding not with blood but venom.

“Let’s just say that I’ll be painting the trim with gallons of their blood if they try and make me change it again.”

I look to his face, searching for a sign that he is simply making morbid light of the situation. He is not.

Mr. Smith goes on to demonstrate with his paintbrush, the stabbing that will occur when another notice appears on his door. He stabs the air with feverish precision. Blue paint specks fly back at him, landing on his clothing, face and mustache. He finally stops and gathers himself, breathing hard.

“Fucking pricks will wish they never crossed me!”

I take a few deliberate steps backward, trying my best to not look alarmed.

“Alright then. Keep up the good fight.”

I raise my fist in a show of solidarity, something he responds to with a clenched fist of his own.

“Fuck right, I’ll keep up the good fight.”

Our interaction is interrupted by some commotion in the street. A late model Lexus has come upon the kids in the street playing roller hockey. My father, Griffin Stutters, has rolled down his window and is now voicing his displeasure with them having marked his path.

“Get out of the street you filthy maggots!”

One of the kids is bold enough to respond in kind.

“Hey, screw you Mister!”

My father smiles and revs his engine. When they still don’t move he shoots the car forward to within feet of the kids. Shrieks of horror fill the air as they drop their sticks and skate off toward their mothers who are so lost in their own gossip they are unaware of what has just happened.

Joy fills my father’s heart as he cackles loudly. He makes a wide turn into our driveway, making sure he runs over their hockey sticks in the process. The tires crush the sticks and simultaneously defeat the kids’ hope that my father would just move on to the driveway without any other unpleasant incident.

Griffin Stutters is not a warm man. I’m not sure if he was always such a chilly, morally bankrupt individual but I think at some point he realized that tapping into his deep reservoir of unpleasantness could propel him to great heights. At the very least, it has served him well professionally.

My father is a criminal defense lawyer. He excelled in college, receiving his Law degree from Berkeley in spite of, in his words, “the constant distraction from the weak, liberal retards that ruled the campus”.

After college my father started his own law firm, consisting of himself and a secretary. Devoid of a conscience or a soul, his firm grew so fast that within five years he was considered the top criminal defense lawyer in California. He considered himself the “people’s champion” as long as those people were murderers, rapists and pedophiles.

I remember in seventh grade, on Career Day, my father came to speak to my class just after he had finished a particularly high-profile case. In a controversial decision, my father had gotten a child rapist off on a technicality even though there was DNA evidence to support the prosecutor’s case.

When it was time for the question portion of Career Day, one of my classmates, Tommy Duncan, raised his hand eagerly. My father called on him, mistaking his eagerness for admiration.

My classmate pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and asked, “My mother wrote down a question she wanted me to ask you. “ How do you sleep at night you disgusting excuse for a human being?”

The whole class went silent and my teacher looked as if she was going to faint.

It made everyone uncomfortable except for my father. He simply smiled broadly and answered the question with aplomb.

“Well, Tommy, first of all thank you for the question. You can tell your mother that I sleep like a baby on a bed of heavenly clouds. I look at myself in the mirror every morning and smile because I am doing a job that I can be proud of. I defend the innocent, because after all, we are all innocent until proven guilty. You can tell your mother that I found her attempt to use her child to put me on the spot amusing.”

There was a brief silence as my father let Tommy process his answer. He then advanced a question at Tommy.

“Now Tommy, let me ask you something. Is your mother fat?”

My teacher gasped, which had mixed with some of the other kids snickering.

Tommy stuttered through an answer that, yes, his mother had struggled with some weight issues but was trying really hard to control it.

“I thought so Tommy. The question sounded like it had to come from a miserable fatty. Tell your fat mother good luck with her weight issue.”

The Q & A session ended there at the request of my horrified teacher as I sat with my head buried in my hands. What happened in the classroom that day is the best snapshot I can give you of what my father is like on a daily basis. Mean-spirited, smug and utterly shameful.

My father stands from his Lexus, his Armani suit perfectly tailored to fit his sinewy frame. He is a brooding, handsome man; a perfect complement to my mother’s beauty.

I often wonder why, with their combined good looks, I received such the short end of the stick. It’s as if, when his sperm connected with my mother’s eggs, there was an angry fight between the two, and I was the unfortunate aftermath of the melee.

I think that my father secretly loathes me because I am mediocre looking and am as likely as Stephen Hawking to excel in a sport.

“Hey Dad. How was--”

Before I have a chance to finish, his perpetual ear ornament Bluetooth headset goes off, and he flies into legal jargon. The only words I understand are “that prick can stick his appeal where he takes it from his boyfriend”. Charming.

Seeing that he has finished, I try again.

“Sounds like you had--”

“Not now, Walter, it’s been a long day.”

My father moves on towards the front door, giving a cordial greeting to Patrick before he enters the house.

My father makes me feel as wanted as a herpes sore that has Chlamydia.

a new day and subsequently new pages...

2009-11-18T12:46:00.000-08:00

To be sure, my mother, Eva Stutters, is a beautiful woman. In her formidable years, she looked like a freakishly stunning cross between Ursula Andress and Kim Basinger. She is now in her mid-forties and Time, the ever-subtle thief of beauty has started to chip away at her looks. She is still beautiful, just now with hints of haggard.

Perhaps, as much as Time steals things from us, it is also our vices which wear us down. In my mother’s case, wine, in color both red and white, is a major contributing factor to who she has become.

Yes, she is a lush. Today, like most days when I arrive home from school, I find her lying in a heap on our overpriced, ultra-modern sofa. A bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon sits a quarter full and sweating on an end table within reach of her chronically unsteady grasp. In her left hand rests a wine glass. A terrycloth robe, wrapped less-than-snug, rounds out the absurd scene.

The television is playing Days of Our Lives, its mediocrity hypnotizing her.

“Hi Mom. How’s your day going?

She glances in my direction, grunts like an ogre and waves me away.

I refuse to let her off that easily.

“I had a super day at school. The highlight was when two guys jumped me in the hallway and pulled my underwear up my ass.”

I pause, waiting for a response, a sign of life.

“Okay then. I think I’ll go up to my room and amputate my arms with a chainsaw. Then I’ll come back down and rub my bloody stumps all over your robe.”

Still nothing. I give up.

“Enjoy the rest of your day.”

I take our stairs two at a time, reach the upstairs hallway and make a beeline for my room. Before I’ve taken two steps, beauty cascades from my parent’s room and overtakes the hallway.

Marta Dominguez, our live-in housekeeper, clothed in designer jeans that look specially made to embrace her hind curves and an orange blouse that is tasteful in a quietly suggestive sort of way.

Marta grew up in the slums of Mexico City and came to the United States when she was twenty-years-old in search of a life that did not involve selling her body so that she could eat on a daily basis.

Coincidentally, when I was ten-years-old, my mother, momentarily weary of living a charmed life, decided to try her hand at philanthropy. She searched for two weeks to find the organization that would suit her vast humanity.

Our local food bank is what she finally settled on. It was perfect. Volunteers had to commit to one night a month for two hours. Responsibilities included slopping soup into a bowl and handing the bowl to the unfortunate people in line. Smiling was optional.

Eva Stutters, a beacon of selflessness, didn’t even last one night. During the last hour of her shift, she encountered a churlish Vietnam Veteran who the United States government had failed when he came back from the foolish war. He mentioned to my mother that the soup was lukewarm. My mother told him that the soup had been out for over an hour, and besides, a man in his position didn’t have the right to complain about a meal that was free.

Vietnam Vet man didn’t appreciate my mother’s retort and proceeded to hurl his bowl of lukewarm soup onto her Gucci suit, calling her a “pretentious hag” as he stormed out of the food bank.

It took a two week mental-health vacation through the vineyards of Napa Valley for her to recover. To this day, she bemoans the loss of her Gucci suit.

Upon my mother’s return from her self-pity wino vacation, she put an ad in the paper for a live-in housekeeper. And so entered the beautiful Marta Dominguez into my life.

What started as a goofy school-boy crush has now exploded into a wanton sexual fantasy. On many nights, when I’m feeling particularly self-loathing, I penitently pleasure myself to the numerous pictures I have of her stored in a secret compartment in my underwear drawer.

You see, I have this unrealistic belief that it is Marta who will one day smell the sweet aroma of my man-flower and usher me gently into manhood.

Marta smiles sweetly at me now, lighting up the otherwise dim hallway.

“Hi Walt! How was your day?” she asks kindly.

Dammit! It’s been less than thirty seconds and already my entire blood supply is moving like an angry mob towards my genitals. Calm yourself!

“My day?” There is an awkward pause as I search for words. Say something you idiot!

“My day- my day is well.”

Stupid! Stupid! Gosh, look at her exquisite breasts. So well-formed and supple. Like nippled orbs of merriment. Don’t stare.

She giggles. “I’m glad your day is well.”

“Thank you. And how has your day been treating you my lady?”

I doth a cap, which I’m not wearing and bow like an 18th-century Londoner. I’m such a fool.

“Oh thanks for asking! My day…”

Yummy. Those lips. That hair, so silky and brushed. I wonder what kind of shampoo she uses? Head and Shoulders? No. Not good enough. Probably something like Hair Care for Goddesses. Her skin such a perfect shade of perfection. . Mocha colored, soft, with nary a blemish. What I wouldn’t do to rub some lotion on her.

“…and so besides all of that, my day is going okay.”

Piss, shit, fuck! In all of my daydreaming, I’ve completely missed what she’s said. In addition, I am now sporting a full-mast erection. I subtly put my back pack in front of my meek bulge. I lower my right hand and yank my boner upwards in hopes of concealing it in the contours of my Chino’s. The action is clumsy enough that I only succeed in making it point nearly 90 degrees to the right.

“Walt, are you feeling okay? Your face is flushed.”

Settle down. Avert eye contact. Think of Grandma Stutters naked and playing Twister with midgets.

“I’m feeling… so warm all of a sudden. So warm I am feeling. I think I’ll go to my room and lie on my bed for a bit.”

“Can I get you anything? An icepak or some water?

No, but you could let me rest my head on your ample bosom.

“I think I’ll be fine. Thank you though.”

“Okay. Be sure to give a shout if you need anything.”

“Thank you Marta.”

Such a genuine human being. The purity contained in the tightly constructed 110 pound body of hers is like Norwegian glacier water. I feel a brief twinge of guilt that I masturbate to her pictures.

I continue down the hall, hoping the poor lighting helps keep Marta’s eyes from discovering the diminutive tee-pee I’ve pitched in my pants. As I near her, I turn ever so slightly as to avoid grazing her in the mid-section with my man-missile.

She gives another megawatt smile as I pass, unaware of my discomfited attempt to avoid touching her. The final few steps to my room are rushed and I fling the door open and escape the hallway.

In the corner of my room is a pile of dirty clothes and it looks like an appropriate place to hurl my backpack. I collapse onto my bed and stare up at the ceiling, taking deep breaths, allowing my erection to take a peaceful path back to flaccid.

The ceiling begins to turn fuzzy as thoughts of my future ricochet from one side of brain to the other. What am I going to make of my life?

I am a white kid growing up in upper-class Suburbia with every advantage to make something of myself. It would be a fucking insult to every child drowning in third-world poverty if I didn’t become a contributing member of society.

Despite all of that, I still feel lost and I can’t imagine a place in the world that will have me.

……………

I peer out into the hallway and my eyes sleuth the corridor for any sign of Marta. She seems to have moved on from her upstairs duties. This relieves me as I am only capable of enduring one awkward teenage boner sequence a day.

I am lithe as I can be sneaking from hallway to downstairs. As I pass the living room, the corner of my eye catches what has now gone from an absurd scene to a sad one. My mother has moved on from drunken stupor to drunken slumber. She is fast asleep, still clutching her now empty bottle of Cab Sav. A puddle of drool has pooled from the left side of her mouth and found a resting place on a satin pillow. In spite of myself, I feel sorry for her.

I run to the kitchen and grab a napkin. It occurs to me, as I wipe the pillow and dab the side of her mouth, that at one point in her life she probably did this for me. Favor returned mother. Now, please get your shit together.

...............

i am not a spook...

2009-11-16T12:45:00.000-08:00

greetings kind readers,

this will be my last post before i unveil some new pages at the end of this week.

enjoy.

I am Not a Spook

No. I am not a spook; I am a man of substance.
I cut to release, watch the poison leap from my veins,
my hibernation is a covert preparation.
Our skin is a stain upon my progress, I shed it.
Light confirms my reality, gives birth to my form,
to be unaware of one’s form is to live a death.
I live with my head in the lion’s mouth, open wide,
I drift like Marlowe, closer to my heart of darkness.
Bound by a great dream to a beautiful monument,
bound by a thieving nation, steal my soul, make me feel less than human.
“Let them swallow you whole til’ they vomit or bust wide open.”
Wise words from an old fool who died a shade less black.
I denounce and I defend and I hate and I love.
This road was not chosen but I enjoy the exile.
Who knows, perhaps on some frequency, I speak for you?

consequences...

2009-11-10T11:36:00.000-08:00

In Midnight Sleep, In Another Time

In midnight sleep, faint faces
watch me sleep. I know them
intimately as I attach to their forms
like a child clings to mother. I am
mortally wounded, smoking holes from
their heads, intertwined arms, a family of
four in a house turned grave. I dream,
I dream, I dream.

Of scenes of sand, blood mingles
with viscous stains on a street
teeming with contempt. Of skies
different from ours, there are no
storms and so there is no beauty.
Simply sunrise, sunlight, sundown
and scattered bodies somewhere in
between.

Long, long is the trail
of matter from
the smoking holes of four heads
to the steel tip of my boot. Through
the carnage I have created, I walk
with callous composure. Mother, daughter,
father and son. Now,
of their forms at night,
I dream, I dream,
I dream.

light's omniscience...

2009-11-09T11:30:00.000-08:00

i love lamp. and art. especially abstract art. it often inspires my writing. i find it interesting that concrete ideas can leap from an abstract visual. mark rothko happens to be my favorite abstract artist. the fact that his seemingly rudimentary artform can have such depth and texture has always fascinated me.

this next writing crystallized from the following rothko painting.

I am
the light
that pervades
your darkness,
the fire-
silk that
leaves you
with indelible
brand. I slip
through you
like descending
diatonic scale,
dispersing droplets
of dreams
and globules
of gold.
I am
slow poison
and there
is no
antidote for
my vengeance.

a father's dilemma...

2009-11-07T12:58:00.000-08:00

hello again,

over the next week i'll be posting some non-novel writings ( old and new) as i polish up the next 10 or so pages of the novel. enjoy this little morsel.

dick and guns don't mix.

my gait is shaky,
unsure if right can conquer left.
only a few were consumed.
two, four, maybe nine?
should a father love his daughter
even if his daughter loves the daughter
of another father?
proceed with caution, i hear harry say.
advice my daughter could have used
as she swam through the murky depths
of sexuality on her way to
the kingdom of lesbians.
this 28 gauge is cold metallic POWER
its parts slathered with god’s gift to my
bank account. OIL! OIL! OIL!
all of these years searching for some
common ground and now we’ve found it
in the contours and curves of the female form.
i see a covey of quail to my RIGHT, harry to the left.
i lean RIGHT, petroleum coursing through my veins.
accept her on the outside
and loathe her poisonous life choice on the inside.
My gun explodes and so does harry’s face.
just another casualty,
he should have been on my RIGHT

filling the gaps...

2009-11-03T11:56:00.000-08:00

hello all,

more pages to come soon but first i'd like to share something old that has just recently been recreated and therefore become new .

searching for exile.

thoroughfare of sadness
weathered and fraying at the seams
like a mother who has just lost a child.

the deafening patter of hurried feet
echoes a mainstream in aimless wander.
artful lines of vulcanized, amorphous elasticity
make them as punchdrunk
as the vagrant with the sign on the corner.

my madness.
calculated is my walk, i yearn for an opening
a void in this collection of concrete.
my search for exile begins and continues.

night descends upon me once again
a recurrence around which i should not linger
but i am conned by the consoling colors of twilight.

each facade as uneven
as the unanswered questions
in my head.

in my hands i cup my fate
like precious water.

does all of this matter in the end?

and let us continue with more pages...

2009-10-24T16:09:00.000-07:00

I am one of the 1900 students who attend Shady Shadows High School. The parking lot is littered with expensive cars sporting fashionable vanity plates that say the most ridiculously inane things.

I always park in the far end of the lot, away from other cars and the threat of potential dents and scratches.

My backpack is nearly in order when a giant Hummer wildly pulls into the spot next to mine. The Hummer’s door catapults open and violently slams into my impeccable paint job.

Out steps the perpetrator. Brodie Brockford. Beefy jock with a killer smile and half a brain. The kind of cocksucker that stains the earth with his presence. He’s akin to toxic sludge. Only he can throw a football sixty yards so people seem to think he’s worthwhile.

I leap from the car.

“What did you do that for, asshole!?”

“You were parked too close to the line dickcheese.”

Brodie’s Hummer is spilled into my parking spot.

“Brodie, I’m going to need your insurance info because I’m not paying for this damage.”

He scoffs and his flippant nature toward the situation only heightens my anger.

“Blow me, Stutters. I’ll pay for the damage the day you stop swooning over cock.”

He pauses for a moment while I digest his insult.

“I won’t hold my breath.”

Brodie pushes past me as I rack my brain for a comeback but a snappy response eludes me.

...............

1st period English class is alive with the clamor of indifference. Mr. Casey lost most of the class long ago but still gives an admirable performance to those of us still engaged. We’ve just finished reading “Invisible Man” by Ralph Ellison, a story that has forever lodged itself into my subconscious. Put simply, a man in search of an identity, the want to be noticed, is something I can relate to.

Mr. Casey starts his questioning.

“Can anyone tell me why Ralph Ellison would leave his protagonist nameless?”

My hand shoots recklessly into the air.

“Yes, Walter?”

“I think by leaving the protagonist nameless, it affords the reader the ability to insert themselves into his life and his struggle. Ellison is making a blanket statement that all of us feel invisible sometimes regardless of color.”

Mr. Casey smiles and nods his head.

“That was a thoughtful answer Walter.” He scans the rest of the classroom.

“Did the rest of the class hear that?”

The question goes unanswered.

Mr. Casey calls on Andrew Magnusson, a dunce of epic proportions. He is sitting next to me and I see that he has taken the class period to work on some art. A monstrous, vein-bulging penis with legs, which is walking through New York City, spraying the poor citizens with what seems to be acidic ejaculate.

I say acidic because one of his characters has a voice box that says, “Argh! This acidic ejaculate is burning my eyes!”

“Andrew, do you agree with Walter’s assertion that Ralph Ellison leaves his protagonist nameless because it allows the reader to insert themselves into the life of the narrator?”

“Absolutely”. Andrew keeps sketching his masterpiece.

Mr. Casey rolls his eyes. “Thanks for participating.”

“Does anybody else have something to add to Walt’s commentary? Maybe even a new thread to contribute to the discussion?”

A celestial voice overtakes the room.

“I think Walt said it perfectly. Ellison wanted the issue of race to be a small part of the larger, more intricate theme. A person in search of their identity, the want to be acknowledged, even if it meant a polite head nod from an errant passerby. I mean, who can’t relate to that in some way? I know I can.”

I turn my head in the direction of the speaker. Her name is Amalia and I’ve noticed her before but haven’t ever had the guts to meet her eyes for fear of being leveled by them. In a sea of blonde, plastic throwaways, her porcelain, modest beauty stands out in a way that is almost too much for my eyes to endure.

She notices me looking at her and she smiles. I quickly look away.

I wasn’t expecting that. Damn her sweet smile and her barely visible cleavage.

Mr. Casey thanks Amalia for her input and ends class a few minutes early.
I say goodbye to Mr. Casey and take one last fleeting glimpse towards Amalia. She seems ready for my eyes and does her best to lock into them with hers. I awkwardly shoot my gaze above and past her but not before my face turns bright red.

...............

Every day, without fail, I ask to use the restroom during 2nd hour Calculus. Math class excites me about as much as anal-waxing or one of those made-for-T.V. movies showing on an all-female channel that stars a washed up actress from the 70's or 80's.

And they all have the same fucking plot. Woman gets abused by hick of a husband who watches NASCAR. Woman trembles, cries, trembles. She goes to therapy. Buys a gun. Tracks the guy down, which isn’t too hard because he almost always has a mullet. She proceeds to blow his nutsack to smithereens and all the women in the world join together and dance in the streets because they’ve just notched a victory against the mullet-sporting, NASCAR-loving wife-beaters of the world.

I’m walking down the hall at a molasses-running-down-the-side-of-a-tree pace, desperate to waste another minute before I head back to class. I’m twirling the bathroom pass in my hand when I decide to toss it into the air. I catch my first throw and rejoice.

The second toss soars even higher and I leap a few inches off the ground. The bathroom pass connects with my right hand and I clutch it tightly. This is kind of fun. Toss number three reaches new heights, grazing the ceiling. I set myself under the falling fling when I suddenly hear fast approaching footsteps.

Before I have time to turn and see who is bearing down on me, I am struck in the small of my back, which creates a whiplash like effect that makes my spine bow into an indefinite shaped backwards C. My breath leaves me as I meet the ground.

Two pairs of rough hands pull me upright. The scent of Neanderthal hits my nose like smelling salt and I immediately know the culprits. Brodie Brockford and his sidekick Tad Ferguson.

Before I have time to give them a verbal lashing, my boxer briefs and rectum connect in a meeting so painful I shriek to shatter glass. I tumble back to the carpet and writhe about, my boxer briefs hanging out over my jeans.

“Nice squeal, HOMO!” Brodie imparts.

Brodie and Tad chest-butt, high-five, and slap each other on the ass before tearing off down the hall.

I gather myself from the floor and penguin-walk towards the restroom.

Once inside, I perform the delicate task of dislodging the boxer-briefs. It feels raw and tender, like I’m peeling skin. An angry, rhythmic burning sensation sets in. There has to be some sort of topical wedgie cream out there that soothes this sort of thing.

My thoughts wander back to Brodie and Tad and the Underwear Enema they had just given me. Having two jerk-off Jocks physically abuse me is not what bothers me. I realize that there is a High School Caste System and because I fall into the Nerd category it’s essential I’m abused by the Jocks. I can deal with that. Far be it from me to be at odds with such a time-honored tradition.

What really eats at me is that Brodie had the nerve to call me a “homo”. First of all, I am not a homosexual. I am not a queer. I do not “swoon over cock” like he said earlier. In fact, if I had any confidence at all, I could bonk genitals with the Nerds or the Semi-Fat Girls that walk around with even less confidence than I do.

Secondly, Brodie is the same guy who thinks it is hilarious to pretend to screw his lowest common denominator chums in the ass during lunch hour. Then they go to football practice and engage in a plethora of homoerotic physical activity disguised as machismo. So you know what? Fuck him and his witless lot.

...............

Lunch hour is my favorite part of the day. I sit with my best-friend, Ben Goldstein, and from a safe distance we watch, mostly with bemusement, the interaction between the rest of our peers.

Right now, our eyes settle discreetly on the African-American clique as they blast rap music out of a boom-box and dance rhythmically to the beat. We survey them walk on air for a bit longer and then jump to the Cheerleaders as they watch the aforementioned Jocks toss a football to and fro, presumably gossiping to one another about who they’re going to get their next mouthful from.

Closest to us, we see the exaggeratedly morose Goths sitting in a circle, painting each others fingernails black, waiting expectantly for the world to end.

Ben, diminutive and pudgy with coke-bottle glasses and curly hair, turns to me, breaking our silence.

“Do you think Gothic chicks are hot?”

I shrug.

“Not really. They’re too doom and gloom for me. Not to mention that trench coats don’t exactly embody sexy.”

Ben nods his head.

“I know what you mean but I’d still bump uglies with one of them if I got the chance. I think it would be a really nasty, mean-spirited sort of fuck. A little bit of choking. An ebb and flow of carnage and sadistic glee. Beautiful stuff.”

I look at Ben sideways.

“Maybe you could keep those kinds of thoughts to yourself”.

Ben puts his hands in the air and looks at me sheepishly.

“What can I say? I crave any sort of pussy. I’d eat it with every meal and sniff it like Coke if I could.”

“Ben, you’ve never even been near one.”

“That’s not true!”

“Online doesn’t count.”

“Fuck off.”

I laugh and the next few moments pass in silence. I suddenly become thoughtful, reflective even, and I decide it’s my turn to ask Ben a question.

“Hey Ben?

“Yeah Walt?”

“Do you ever think all of this, what we do everyday, life in general, is just a bunch of arbitrary, soul-sucking bullshit? I have a difficult time finding any meaning in what I do on a daily basis let alone figuring out what I’m going to be doing in the future. It all seems so goddamn hollow. You ever feel that way?”

Ben contemplates briefly.

“Sometimes. Mostly though, I just plan on floating through life and hope meaning falls into my lap somewhere along the way. If that doesn’t work, I think I’ll just kill myself.”

“Every once in awhile you really surprise me with your insight.”

A few more moments pass in silence and it looks like something is troubling Ben.

“Walt?”

“Yeah?”

“ Would you ever dick-tickle a black girl?”

I shake my head.

“I take back that compliment I just gave you”.

...............

"inspiration does exist, but it must find you working." - p. picasso

2009-10-21T15:30:00.000-07:00

i just finished a cold war thriller written by tom gabbay called "the berlin conspiracy". it was a pleasant read, mostly mindless but it didn't leave me feeling at all inspired to write. i think that's okay. not everything i read needs to set my writing hand on fire.

the reason i bring this up is that i just listened to a fleet foxes song called "oliver james" and the lyrics ripped through me. haunting, beautiful, a little bit abstract. the more i thought about it, the more i realized how big of a role music plays in my want/need to write. this isn't earth-shattering but it struck me as an important thing to be conscious of as i move forward.

music: my antidote to writer's block/malaise/sheer laziness.

anyways, here are the lyrics. also, check out fleet foxes if you haven't yet heard of them.

"Oliver James"

On the way to your brother's house in the valley, dear,

By the river bridge a cradle floating beside me.

In the whitest water on the banks against the stone

You will lift his body from the shore and bring him home

Oliver James washed in the rain no longer

On the kitchen table that your grandfather did make

You and your delicate way will slowly clean his faith

And you will remember when you rehearsed the actions of A innocent and anxious mother full of anxious love

Oliver James washed in the rain no longer

Walk with me down Ruby beach and through the valley floor

Love for the one you know more

Back we go to your brother's house emptier my dear

The sound of ancient voices ringing soft upon your ear

Oliver James washed in the rain no longer

-cl.

first pages...

2009-10-21T11:13:00.000-07:00

monday night.

Thousand Acres Mental Facility is a large, solitary stucco eyesore that eats up two acres of previously undisturbed land, a structure that seems to exist in its own forlorn space. The facility is strategically placed about fifteen miles from the nearest housing development. That way, if any of the whacks wasting away inside the stucco prison ever escaped, it would take one hell of a stroll to come into contact with the sane folk of Suburbia. The sane folk of Suburbia. An interesting notion that any of us are sane. We’re all a little fucked in our own way. Some of us are just diagnosed as being fucked while the rest of us hold onto the hope that we soon will be. I’m still waiting for my diagnosis, anything to explain the way I feel, the palpable unease of living in a world where Chaos walks unobstructed and carries a vengeful stick. But I digress.

To describe the inside of Thousand Acres as bleak is an understatement. It is sterile and colorless, with white linoleum floors and even whiter walls. It smells of despair and disinfectant, a scent that never ceases to turn my stomach. A constant, quiet murmur channels and weaves itself through the facility, occasionally replaced by an overhead page or bloodcurdling scream.

At the moment, I am standing in the corner of the building’s break room, within inches of the soda machine, clutching an ice-cold Pepsi. My orderly scrubs match my overall appearance. Disheveled, unkempt, whatever. My name is Walt Stutters and I am eighteen-years-old. Admittedly, I am not an eye pleasing guy. My face is a mixture of unevenness. My nose is large and slants slightly to the right. I have almond shaped eyes that mirror color of the sky; although it is important to note that they are the color of the sky when it is gray and overcast. My mouth is shaped so that it seems I have a perpetual frown and people are always telling me to cheer up.

I was graced at birth with a bountiful bouquet of mop-heavy, dirty blonde hair, a condition that keeps my locks in constant disarray. For what it’s worth, I am okay with my appearance. I am resigned to the fact that I will never be good- looking. But, hey, at least I’m not ugly, dismembered or retarded. I’m not being insensitive here, I’m just thankful that I fall into the category of average or mediocre. Seriously though, wouldn’t it suck to be retarded?

Back to the soda machine, where I've been cornered by shift manager, Derek. Derek is average looking but extremely well-manicured. He is coiffed, tweezed, teased and gelled in all the right places. To me, he stinks of a closeted homosexual, masquerading as a macho womanizer. I'd like to say to him, Derek, it's cool man. You don't have to pretend anymore. You like penis. Whatever. Vagina isn't your thing. Come out of that stuffy closet and embrace your identity. At least you'd have one.

He's cornered me to tell me about what he did on Friday night. My shift is over and all I want to do is drink my Pepsi and go home.

"So dude, I like had her bent over my Futon and she was screaming like a tea kettle!".

Derek proceeds to scream like a tea kettle. I look around to the other Orderlies in the room who are doing their best to enjoy their break in spite of Derek.

Derek is still screaming as he pushes me out of the way of the soda machine. Pepsi splashes across my arm and I nearly fall over. He begins to dry hump the soda machine.

"This will give you a better visual!".

Derek continues to romance the soda machine while I look on, perplexed and a little bit fascinated. As I stated earlier, all of us are fucked in our own way. Derek is no exception.

"Derek, I should really--"

"After awhile the screaming got annoying! So to shut her up I gave her a few swift donkey punches!"

More fucky fucky with the soda machine. My tolerance level of watching someone sex a soda machine has now been breached.

"Derek, my shift already ended and I--"

"Wait, hold on! I haven't told you the best part!"

I sigh but submit.

"Okay, but please hurry."

"Alright, so I'm about to pop my cork, I've got my "O" face going, the whole nine yards. All of a sudden I hear footsteps coming down the stairs. I look up and my mom is in her bathrobe carrying a 357 Magnum! She'd heard the screaming and thought someone was getting murdered!"

Derek laughs and slows his hip gyrations. Disgust imprints itself on my face.

“That must have been weird."

"Nah, man. I just told her to put the gun down and go back to bed."

This revelation disturbs me.

"You mean you kept going?"

"Oh, yeah. The "Derek" never passes up an opportunity to have his penis cup runneth over."

He winks at me. I hate when people wink at me.

“Derek, I don’t even know what that means.”

“Someday, Walt. Someday you’ll know.”

I’m not convinced of this.

“I should get going. It was nice talking with you.”

Derek smiles and puts up his hand for a high-five, the lamest of all human celebrations. I grudgingly oblige. Derek slaps my hand with excessive force and it careens back into the soda machine. My knuckles connect with the metal edge of the machine and the nerve endings on the top of my hand come screaming to life.

Derek laughs again.

“Sorry Stutters. Sometimes I don’t know my own strength.”

He kisses both his biceps while I subtly clench my hand trying to mask the pain.

...............

The black of night is intermittently lit by street lamps, which offer me a slight reprieve from the enveloping darkness. The parking lot is nearly empty. In fact, the nearest car to mine is at least ten spaces away. My BMW 2002 is aglow under one of the street lamps.

I am almost to the driver’s side door when my eye catches an inconsistency. I bend towards the hood and lean my head to the right and to the left. No scratch, just bad lighting.

Satisfied, I dig in my pockets and fumble around for the keys. Suddenly, I am struck by a strong gust of wind. I shield my face from the dust particles and let the brief wind pass on. I rifle through my pockets once again in search of my keys. Yet again, my attention is grabbed by the front portion of the car.

This time there is a piece of rubbish lodged in the windshield wipers. I descend upon the debris and snatch it from the wipers. It is a shredded piece of a torn 4X6 photo, which has the picture of a ravishingly beautiful woman.
Her hair is long and flowing and her eyes are pure blue warmth. She is wearing a green summer dress, which accents her natural glow body. Her smile is radiant, with a stance that breezes past carefree. Her hand is interlocked with another but the picture is torn in a way that I do not see the other figure. My eyes dance across the picture, exploring every part of her form.

A car door slams shut, breaking me out of my rapture. I take one last, longing look at the picture and then send it fluttering to the ground.

I enter my car and sit for a moment. I think of what a fool I would be to leave the picture behind.

I am out of the car in a flash and I retrieve the picture from the black tar.
I sit again in the driver’s seat and pull the picture out. I wonder what it would be like to smile the way she’s smiling. To be so at ease with the world and your place in it, that you could smile like you mean it.

...............

tuesday morning.

I leave my house and my eyes are heavy as they adjust to the glare of the early morning sun. Sleep came in fits and I was less than eager to embrace what the day had to offer. I am off to school now, but first, I'd like to give you an idea of where I live.

My parents and I live in a house at the end of Prancing Angels Street. Our house is 2800 square feet of pure boredom. There is no architectural significance to speak of, a dwelling that exists solely to define one’s social class. The most impressive thing about our house is how effective it is at being unimpressive.

There are four bedrooms and three baths. My bedroom is on the second floor and my window overlooks the rest of the street.

There are twenty houses that make up our street. We are house number TWENTY. The “custom” built house to the left of ours, looks suspiciously like our own. The house to the left of that one resembles ours also. Each house is spaced exactly sixteen feet apart from one another. The whitewashed picket fences that align each of the meticulously manicured lawns show off a gleam that even Tom Sawyer's Aunt would be envious of.

Every other house has the same color scheme. My parents said that we were fortunate enough to get the favorable color scheme, white, with soft blue trim. The less fortunate odd-numbered houses received the dreaded color scheme of white, with pink trim.

Our next-door neighbor, Patrick Smith, the tortured owner of house number NINETEEN, is always complaining about the injustice of owning a home with PINK trim. He has written over a hundred letters to the Homeowner’s Association explaining why he believes it is unfair that just because he lives in an odd-numbered house he has to settle for the “sissy hue that unfairly adorns my trim and in the process subjects me and my family to unrelenting scorn and ridicule from the neighbors that live in those damned even numbered homes, with their precious soft blue trim”.

He has actually almost come to a physical altercation over the matter, when on one Sunday not too long ago, Bob Deveney, the notoriously macho retired General and owner of house number SIXTEEN went for his morning jog. Patrick was out watering his lawn when the General trotted by.

“Hey, Patty, nice pink trim! Your wife said it matches perfectly with those pink panties you like to wear, you sissy woman!”

Apparently, all of Patrick’s pent up aggression over being denied by the homeowner’s association and constant heckling from the “even-numbered” people exploded in one reckless moment. He dropped his watering hose, and, in his robe and slippers, took off across the half-watered lawn in pursuit of General Deveney.

His face contorted with rage and punishment on his mind, Smith took a flying leap over the white picket fence that bordered his yard. There was one glaring problem with that fateful leap. Patrick is a middle-aged white man and white men, especially of middle-age, can’t achieve vertical.

Mr. Smith didn’t even clear the first rung of the fence as his right foot caught the shiny white post. He fell head over heels, his hands desperately trying to secure the tie that was beginning to come off of his robe. He succeeded in keeping the robe on until his head hit the sidewalk full force, knocking him unconscious and rendering his hands useless. His robe flew open, exposing every bit of Patrick’s manhood to little old Mrs. Bellow who had come out of house number SEVENTEEN to collect the Sunday newspaper. She coincidentally loved every bit of the pink trim that adorned her house.

Out of the twenty houses on my street, only white people live in them. There is not one, single minority living within our gated community. That is not to say that there is no minority presence in our neighborhood. In fact, the same three Hispanic workers that trim our hedges and mow our lawn every Tuesday are hard at work on my parent’s yard as we speak. I usually keep my head down and walk straight to my car without acknowledging them. I will go out of my way to avoid awkward social interaction and conversing with them has painful written all over it.

I hope they don’t think I’m just another white asshole who thinks its okay to hire them for cheap labor. Maybe it’s time I stopped wondering about this stuff and made an effort.

I amble over to the three workers’, cautiously optimistic about the impending interaction. I rack my brain for my limited high-school Spanish. All three of them look up at me in unison and stare with misgiving in my direction.

I level a few sentences at them in carefully constructed Spanish.

“Hi guys! I wanted to say that I really appreciate what a great job you do on my parent’s yard. I imagine you're not thanked nearly enough.”

Awkward silence bites back at me. All three workers continue to stare. I fidget from side to side and bury my hands deep into the pockets of my Chino’s.

I’ve almost given up, when Mexican #1 suddenly reacts.

His suspicious stare turns to a scowl and he raises his trimming shears and points them in my direction. He mutters some angry Spanish words that I don’t understand. I get the odd sense that, given the choice, he wouldn’t have any qualms about gutting me with the shears.

Mexican #2 looks nervous. He gives a furtive glance in my direction and seems to think that I have the intention to grab Mexican #1’s trimming shears and gut him. This is not going well.

I look to Mexican #3 who is on lawnmower duty. He seems to be taking great delight in all of this. He smiles and blows a kiss in my direction. Holy shit. This could not be going any worse. I’m about to be gutted and raped by three migrant workers.

“Alright, well I’m gonna take off now. I hope you have a nice day.”

I walk quickly to my car and open the door. Safely inside, I look back at them. They still have their eyes trained on me. They look to each other and have a quick-fire conversation. All three of them break into hysterics and point at me. I sigh mightily and back out of the driveway.

...............

My drive to school is scenic. I turn right out of my gated community. Head straight on White Upper Crust St. Go two miles, pass four Starbucks, a shopping mall and eight tanning salons. The sixth one is running a two week special. “2 weeks for 29.99! Go from pasty and pathetic to bronze and beautiful!” It should read, “2 weeks for $29.99! Leather skin & Melanoma or your money back!" I turn left on Vapid Soccer Mom Dr. and turn on my radio so that the next three miles don't pass in silence. I’m rewarded with Peter Gabriel’s “In Your Eyes”. I ratchet the volume to a level appropriate so that I can sing along without having to hear my own voice.

“In your eyes, the light the heat.”

Peter Gabriel is way underrated.

“In your eyes, I am complete.”

It’s amazing, the transformative effect music can have on you.

“And all my instincts, they return."

I begin to play the air guitar, steering with my knees. I do so without much grace and nearly drift into oncoming traffic.

"Shit."

I decide air drums are less dangerous so I leave my right arm on the wheel and bang away at the air with my left. I'm like Def Leppard's drummer, the one-armed percussive magician.

A street light interrupts my one-man rock show. My head wanders to the car in the next lane. A hefty guy with a comb-over is motioning for me to roll my window down. It's bizarre but I oblige.

"Hey man, do you mind if I offer you a little friendly advice?” He sounds nice enough.

"I-I guess so."

“I’ve been in the lane next to you for the last couple of minutes. All your jumping and jiving, it's been really distracting. Even more than that, it's been downright embarrassing to watch. Look at my face. It's red with embarrassment."

What the fuck.

"How does any of that qualify as advice?"

He puts his finger up."I was getting to that. Basically, my advice to you, is to stop being such a FAGGOT."

The light turns green and he leaves me in his wake. I shake my head and turn the radio off.

It's amazing, the transformative effect your fellow man can have on you.

...............

a much better writer than i will ever be.

2009-10-20T15:18:00.001-07:00

"it is no use to keep private information which you can't show off"

"i thoroughly disapprove of duels. if a man should challenge me, i would take him kindly and forgivingly by the hand and lead him to a quiet place and kill him"

"i conceive that the right way to write a story for boys is to write so that it will not only interest boys but strongly interest any man who has ever been a boy. that immensely enlarges the audience"

"we write frankly and fearlessly but then we "modify" before we print"

welcome.

2009-10-20T13:30:00.000-07:00

i write this ( in all lower case because it seems like the trendy thing to do) while i am in the written throes of pg. 19 of a novel that's been lodged in my subconscious for far too long.

the idea here is that i involve you, the reader, in my writing process. it struck me that so few writers, aspiring or otherwise, engage an audience while they wade through what is an incredibly insecure process.

i've decided to take account of that insecurity and share with all of you that, more often than not, i want to self-flagellate after a night of writing.(coincidentally , i also want to do this after watching any john woo movie, having the smell of curry enter my nostrils, catching a glimpse of ann coulter's adam's apple, going to tucson, the list goes on and on...)

i will post five pages a week and will do so until i'm finished or the self-flagellation becomes too much to bear. so please, read, comment, criticize, heap praise, enjoy.

cl.