thirty one

You shall be my roots and
I will be your shade
Though the sun burns my leaves

You shall quench my thirst and
I will feed you fruit
Though time takes my seed

And when I’m lost and can tell nothing
of this earth
You will give me Hope

And my voice you will always have
And my hand you shall always have

For I will shelter you
And I will comfort you
And even when we are nothing left
Even in death
I will remember you.

thirty

It’s about 330pm and i’ve only left my bed for the briefest of times to eat chipotle with good man Dewderonomy. He was in Hawaii for all of January, but he’s back now, and we like it that way.

Last night was a goodly time with goodly people. Merriment and all that, but i feel like the dead newly risen today, which is a mixture of goodness and badness, of course.

Recently finished Amnesiascope by Stever Erickson who becomes more and more my hero with each passing day. He makes me infinitely jealous, breaks my heart, makes me laugh, makes me never want to consider writing again, and inspires me like no one else. Reading one of his books is an experience that can’t really be described. Anyway, there are a few parts of that book that just struck me as so perfect and beauteous and true.

First, a conversation between the narrator and a woman. They’re discussing the nature of women.

‘Well…’ I fumbled. ‘Women are less forgiving.’

‘Yes’

‘They’re less willing to take responsibility for their contradictions.’

She didn’t say anything to that.

‘They’re less romantic.’

‘They’re less romantic?’

‘Of course that isn’t necessarily a good or a bad thing.’

‘Women are less romantic than men?’

‘Yes.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Actually, it’s the only thing I’m reasonably certain of.’

‘I don’t know any women who would agree with that.’

‘That’s because for a woman, romanticism is a pattern of behavior, or maybe a ritual, whereas for men it’s a matter of life and death. Assuming he’s the sort of man who was ever willing to die for anything in the first place.’

And then some fifty pages later.

One invents one’s beauty as one invents one’s name or destiny or dream; and a thousand exchanges transpire between the dreamers: I will be the face of your dream, if you will be the dream to which I can give a face.

That last sentence there, especially that one, more so than most entire novels that i’ve read, absolutely crushes me, sucks the air right out of me, and leaves me a collapsed marionette.

Check him out if you’ve an extra day or three to read a novel that will change you.

twenty nine

My story, Dead Words,  published today over at Lobster Cult Magazine. It’s a newly started magazine by my friends Phil Jourdan and Jack Joslin. There are some great writers on there including Catfish McDaris who worked with Charles Bukowski, which should be enough to interest some of you.

I always have all these things racing through my head, words upon piles of words to write in here, but ,by the time i get to my computer, the words’re all gone. So it goes.

Reaching after what cannot be named.

twenty six

I’m a bit miserable at the minute. These things pass. They always do.

My moods, they’re waves on a blank shore.

It’s stupid to talk about undiagnosed mental issues you think you may have, but i do sometimes wonder if i’m bipolar. It’s silly, but i even just did a quick bit of research, which, i guess, i do too often, and it fits. Cyclothymia or Bipolar II Disorder seem to be the most likely culprits. It’s actually kind of scaring me a bit reading all this, which is silly. You should never ever diagnose yourself or read too much into the qualifications of diagnosis unless you’re a trained professional, which, at this point, i am not.

But, yeah, it’s all there, really. I don’t think i’ve ever had full on mania, but i would probably say that hypomania is a good descriptor for me a lot of the time. Sometimes i hear music, you know? Not even music i know, but music that’s inside of me, i guess, or somewhere between my ears. Bah, i could go on about how i get, but most of you know me. And, yeah, depression rears her ugly head pretty frequently, but i know how to please her better than i used to, so she flies off to bother some other poor miscreant.

Maybe i’m just a moody kid, though. It’s probably mostly that. Despite all my instabilities, i keep my balance well enough to not fall off.

Anyway, don’t read too much into those disorders up there. My mind’s just all over the last couple days and i’m feeling a bit down in the mouth.

Ennui, yeah?

January’s a terrible time to be alive.

twenty five

Sometimes things’re so beautiful, i can barely even stand it. My chest swells like my heart is the ocean and my body is a tea cup. I can barely breathe or move and i’m nearly crying or dying, because it’s not always so easy to tell. And i need to scream or to kiss you or to just know that you, whoever you are, whoever you need to be, or whoever you once were, is out alive or exists because i hear it. I hear music, the gentle strings that caress these keys and it’s all a full moon blazing at night, bathing me in light that i swim in, swim towards something, whatever it is or was or wants to be, because i’ll never know until i’m already past it and i’ve forgotten what it felt like as it slipped through my fingers, but, sometimes, when the wind blows right, i can smell it again and i’m four, flying down the sidewalk asking my mother if my cape’s blowing in the wind like i always dreamed it would be, like it had to be, until i’m back on that rooftop smoking cigarettes and trying to inhale as much of the moon that i can’t sleep without or even properly live without.

I don’t sleep much anymore, but my dreams are relentless and they tear into reality.

A blank shore with still water so clear it’s not there,

twenty four

My dreams are never the same, nor are they different. At least i still do, because when it stops, it all stops.

On the black gallows, one-armed friend,
The paladins are dancing, dancing
The lean, the devil’s paladins
The skeletons of Saladins.

Sir Beelzebub pulls by the scruff
His little black puppets who grin at the sky,
And with a backhander in the head like a kick,
Makes them dance, dance, to an old Carol-tune!

And the puppets, shaken about, entwine their thin arms:
Their breasts pierced with light, like black organ-pipes
Which once gentle ladies pressed to their own,
Jostle together protractedly in hideous love-making.

Hurray! the gay dancers, you whose bellies are gone!
You can cut capers on such a long stage!
Hop! never mind whether it’s fighting or dancing!
– Beelzebub, maddened, saws on his fiddles!

Oh the hard heels, no one’s pumps are wearing out!
And nearly all have taken of their shirts of skin;
The rest is not embarrassing and can be seen without shame.
On each skull the snow places a white hat:

The crow acts as a plume for these cracked brains,
A scrap of flesh clings to each lean chin:
You would say, to see them turning in their dark combats,
They were stiff knights clashing pasteboard armours.

Hurrah! the wind whistles at the skeletons’ grand ball!
The black gallows moans like an organ of iron !
The wolves howl back from the violet forests:
And on the horizon the sky is hell-red…

Ho there, shake up those funereal braggarts,
Craftily telling with their great broken fingers
The beads of their loves on their pale vertebrae:
Hey the departed, this is no monastery here!

Oh! but see how from the middle of this Dance of Death
Springs into the red sky a great skeleton, mad,
Carried away by his own impetus, like a rearing horse:
And, feeling the rope tight again round his neck,

Clenches his knuckles on his thighbone with a crack
Uttering cries like mocking laughter,
And then like a mountebank into his booth,
Skips back into the dance to the music of the bones!

On the black gallows, one-armed friend,
The paladins are dancing, dancing
The lean, the devil’s paladins
The skeletons of Saladins.

Nice try Vikings.

twenty three

Claude Debussy, besides having a stupid last name, is a brilliant composer and, at times, all one needs.

Amoral:

1. not involving questions of right or wrong; without moral quality; neither moral nor immoral.
2. having no moral standards, restraints, or principles; unaware of or indifferent to questions of right or wrong

Neither moral nor immoral is the important part of those definitions. And the indifference part. Amoral does not mean some beastly human who rapes and steals and kills. It simply means that they think right and wrong are silly concepts. Like the world is ever so dichotomous, like good and evil hang in equal balance, like they exist at all.

Morality is the weakness of the brain.

–Rimbaud

Morality exists only in humans. It’s a fabrication. Animals treat one another as the ought through biological necessity and something deeper, some sense of true love for the other, which is just another form of themselves. We have that, too, but we’ve renamed it morality and added all sorts of unnecessary rules to it.

I was going to make this grand sweeping post about the nature of morality and how i feel about it, but i’m tired. Or lazy. Amounts to the same thing, really.

I have no need for good souls: an accomplice is what I wanted.

twenty two

Added a bunch of links over on the right side there of people and writers I know trying to blog it up, as it were. Fantastic writers, really. I encourage you to check them out.

Today, instead of me talking, i’m just going to repost what Richard Thomas posted at his blog, because it’s fantastic news and he deserves it.

RICHARD THOMAS SIGNS WITH OTHERWORLD PUBLICATIONS

IT’S OFFICIAL
My debut novel, a neo-noir thriller called Transubstantiate, will be out in June of this year. I’m really excited that OWP wanted to launch their company on the back of my book. They are a husband and wife team, very smart, connected, and energetic. They love my book and are behind it 100%. It’s a risk I know, new small press, but I’m optimistic and pumped up.

There will be 100 signed/limited hardcovers, as well as a much larger print run of paperbacks. I’ll be talking about this everywhere, so I apologize in advance for the constant whoring of myself and this book all over the internet.

What can you do for me? If you’re here, it means you’ve read my work, most likely, or are here to do that very thing. If you like what I’m doing, do whatever you can – buy a copy, promote it on your blog, Facebook, Twitter, MySpace, book clubs, other forums – whatever you’ve got.

I think this is a really great book. It won’t change the world or cure cancer, but I think it’s a fun book, wild and sexy, fast paced and interesting. You’ll get action, violence, sex, a bit of the surreal, the horrific, the fantastic, and the gritty noir that I’ve loved reading from the trio here.

There is a synopsis and the first chapter over there ——————————–>
under novel excerpts.

Thanks again, and wish me luck.

Peace,
Richard

FOR MORE INFORMATION VISIT:http://www.otherworldpublications