Let me say, I really just want to write, but well if you’re me, a person that has to work triple as hard as most people do, well then, dang, you have to pull double duty on everything.
I’m finally getting my writing goals in some kinda list and at least minimally organized. I’m working on a book right now called visions of michigan, it will be done in two weeks (took 2 years) but Ill probably come up with another name, and I’ve got five contests to send it to, so hopefully I’ll atleast get second place in one of them, I should win all five, ok, two.
After that, well I already have adventures of a dying young man completed, but I don’t want to even consider self publishing that unless I can finance a large scale distribution and tour, and when I say I don’t want to consider it, well I don’t, not right now. I want people to read the whole of both books in real life before I show up at their door mat with a wagon full of novels. And just to let people know, not like it probably matters for many people, but I’m really going to be removing all content that I’ve previously posted from adventures of a dying young man and visions of michican/florida. The site will, for now, while I have to stay on track and work according to schedule, this blog-thing will work as my journal and note page that I share with the public, outlining how I did, or did not, get these damn books out. Hopefully by the winter I can write a new novel, something unlike I’ve ever done. I’m ready. My writing career in this silly backwards money filled world is not. Thanks society.
Anyway below are three section that I read into this new recorder to end my night ten hour work day, give or take many breaks. It sounds terrible. I had to whisper and so what, here it is…
oh, For some reason there’s this strange echo that I couldn’t figure out how to turn off, but well, I need to go to bed, and that means, give it a try. I hate to wake up and I hate to go to bed. I love sleeping, the motion is the hassle for me. I’ll do this once in a while, and it really does help me with the editing process.
Full text under recording:
1. And before I could say anything to her she would be back asleep, as lovely as she ever looked. I, on the other hand, well I went right back into some kind of trance, that four in the morning trance of imaginary wanderings, back into the wave of infinite sound that carried me onto each coming hour and further out towards the looming days and days and man oh man so many days. Even without that normal type of human sleep, well still, even on two hours a sleep a night, still man, yeah, sure did, well still I always felt refreshed and ready to go, or so I forced myself to believe.
The sounds kept coming. The sounds of the tongue tangled on roots drinking up all of these smelling-things and sensual finger things, all these experiences and sensations that just became one with each other and were all real and not visibly detectable at the same time. Dreams, yes, this was just a day dream. But for me, as Sophie really had her some of those real dreams, those closed-eyed dreams, well my dreams tasted like chocolate as well as a ripe tomato freshly picked from the vine. I smelled cotton candy and also dill pickles that smelled like fields of corn. I heard sounds of ice cream-trucks that looked like trains that used coal, and the coal wasn’t the color black at all. No, the coal was a red rose playing the xylophone, and the coal tasted like blueberries, and the rose that was the coal danced into the fire, the fire which smelled like campfires and tasted like oatmeal cookies. Everything just melted together in love with the dream, the dream that I had as I just looked at the screen window, the dream I was having in the middle of the night, a dream that wasn’t real at all, but man I tell ya, it was a dream that tasted and smelled and felt as relatively existent as the wet morning dew that covers the lawns as the sun rises on just another day’s clear sky, the sky that showers your perception with the colors of pink and green and see through bubbles of water, even when it hasn’t rained in over a week. Just dreams of the colors of the morning alone and rubbing your eyes when the sky looks like a dream, but it aint no dream. The dream doesn’t feel real, but man oh man that sunrise is as real as real can ever be. My dream of those sounds that came from out that screen collaborated with all my human senses weren’t real, but man oh man how they felt as real as some of those dreams that really happened, those dreams that humans now call memories of what really did take place.
2.Here’s some setting for the time: Better get out of the way, and soon, because yeah, like a train crossing going down well out there in the cold night, away from the smell of the caffeinated cube filled rooms; far-far but not that far-far away from the bodies and the blood-race of those cells that move within those punk-rock veins that seem to love to play duck-duck-goose with the fetish of insecurity, well yeah, that’s it, what you hear is the winter learning how to talk. Those are the words that are born right before the exhale of the steamed locomotion of the forthcoming snowDOWN. This will be the last day you can jump in a pile of leafs like burned skin does in the summer; leafs that now block out the sun as you sit under a tree by the coast. Leafs, just dead leafs, and how dead? As dead as those summer memories that recall the last august of your misinterpreted youth. All of those brown and yellow dead leafs that soon will crunch in the frozen morning’s orange fragmentation. And how Soon? Well soon is now, the mosquitos blood-bite has healed, and now, well sorry to bring you up to speed, but now has just a second ago gone by. The first of many icebreakers is here, the snowDOWN as we call it. So let’s just get this out of the way: it’s winter.
3. I only see illusions made up of these drunken distractions of the time that is forming all these fake wrinkles made by fake smiles bending a new mold upon my face. I can’t see anything but scattered particles and atoms breaking apart. My very existence is being ripped apart by what’s inside of me, not what’s out there. If Apsotolo and the brunets of the night think I’m lost, well yeah, they’re more accurate than they’ll ever realize. They see a young man. They see Henry Oldfield. They don’t see who I really am becoming. They don’t see the reflection that I do, and man, well what I see are atoms of all these mismatched shapes trying in misguided instruction to stick together. I see a human being that’s not even there, not in this room; I don’t see the kid that I am, at least not the one that they see, the one that’s kicking them out of my apartment. I see myself from perspectives that don’t yet exist, and I’m worried for myself. I’m a worried young man, not a vibrant young man who is a lover of all that is good, and that’s what they said I would find if I opened my eyes, and I did, I think, and well, I don’t see anything that they see. I see a dying man. I see the words that are there but are now lost, and it, my life, it, it means nothing. I want to love good things. I want to be put back together again. I know what they’re thinking as I throw socks out through the crack in the door that blocks them out; they think I’m lost. They’re right. They’re more right than they will ever even know, and this being lost, well this is the reason I need them to go.
Adventures In American Writing 