For about five years this site hasn’t been as regular as it was for the first decade. That is because after traveling and writing like a passionate dreaming madman, I settled down, or so they say, as the saying goes. But, as the days go too fast and I’m around the age when the great existential void starts to rear into focus, I’m going to post every other day with work that I’ve been typing on my typewriter when I get a few minutes to myself after work before I go back up the hill. Life has become comparable to The Myth of The Sisyphus, but it’s way more fun than the legend would have us believe. I’ve worked every day during the pandemic and released another book. Into Madness We Spring: Novel Words During A Pandemic. About the American Hustle and the whiplash of waking up, and maybe one day I’ll release all my books for free on this site, which is an undertaking by itself with little financial reward. But the rock isn’t a bank, it doesn’t care about money, so you have to deal ya dig while you dig, and smile as you go back down and up the hill as the sun rises and the sun sets. Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da. Isn’t that another common thing that they say? Whoever they are. A joke? Probably. Buy one if you want. I’d like you to read it, and later today I’ll start posting from a collection of poetics I’m working on that will be edited and framed in yet another real book called (For Now) Rocky Mountain Canary. Which is another word for Mule. Which I wanted to call this last collection of disjointed and mostly spontaneous pseudo Haikus before I dive back into writing yet another novel (sounds exhausting) that I’m sure will take me three to five years. But doing a quick search I found Mule already exists … Here. I haven’t read it so I don’t know if it’s good or bad, but yeah, maybe it’s a hidden book gem. Who knows. Anyway, that’s about it. And if anybody that has been a long time reader of this crazy blog/site/narrative/journal/the theory of whatever, I somehow found myself running a wonderful bookshop at the dead end of lake Michigan, where I’ve implemented my never say die writing attitude during the pandemic, and we’ve survived, just as I always do to write and sell/make books, another day, so … what I say now I’ve said before, and I’m not all that sure what any of this means or if anything I’ve said is good, (I’m inclined to think reality is made-up of nonsense and chaos) but…
The Myth of the Sisyphus is real, but it’s not as dark as the story goes, it’s about dragging that rock for so long that you don’t forget about the rock, but you begin to love the rock, you, forget about love after love soaks into your cells, now, you are the rock. The myth vanishes. It’s just you, gravity, the hill, the sunrise and sunset, forever and ever, until ever is irrelative. A joke? I sure hope so. Thanks for reading.
Click on book cover to be directed to bookstore’s website if you want to buy.
Novel Words During A Pandemic: This is a book about a man, a writer, a father, a husband, a son, an American. A story about the great existential hustle, about getting up every morning and finding something to push you into the beautiful void. A book about small business, small towns, cold springs and humid summers. This is a book written by an author who is still after twenty years writing books trying to figure out what it means to actually be a writer. It’s about piles of books in a bookshop about zoning out and eating ice cream and chocolate brownies in the middle of the night. It’s about non morning people forced to be up before sunrise, and cash registers and death and life. A book written to future adults meant to be sung around a campfire during august. A book about telling stories and learning there’s no such thing as a hero’s journey. This is a narrative written on a typewriter during a pandemic, using spontaneous prose to meditate; a book about simply, another day. Into Madness We Spring; Novel Words During A Pandemic. Written by Andrew H. Kuharevicz. Published by West Vine Press 162 pages. 2020.
the 4th poetry & prose collection from Andrew K. Typed on a typewriter after the memories were made. Written in a 150 square ft tiny bookshop during the summer, these words are about standing in the rain in Manhattan, walking from Cambridge Massachusetts to Michigan, adults vs. kids, lakes and tree climbing, capitalism, Catholicism & being normal, the sound of a typewriter, books on shelves and the shrines we base our existence on. This little book is about something. That is a true statement.
Forward by Steve Shultz & afterword by Andrew K., an essay about a writer losing their writing. Okay. Birds. Quiet. Please. From the person who typed-up Poetic Poverty & SLACKER AD—NAUSEAM, okay birds quiet please is the third collection of words printed on a stack of paper that is called a book, written by Andrew K. Here we find words about the moment before the moment, about spacetime and jumping into Lake Michigan. Here is a writer not at the height of his powers, simply, doing and being and trying to figure out what any of this madness means. okay birds quiet please. It is a book, of words, from the number one selling absurdist poet. Andrew K lives a life surrounded by cats and books. Andrew K.’s future plans are as unclear as his past plans, and he told the editors he’s going to move out of the United States soon, where wherever he ends up, he’ll write little books of absurd poetry until the sun explodes.
The final stand-alone novel in The Adventures of a Dying Young Man Series. Started in 2006 author Andrew H. K. has followed a character whose direct lineage is a Postmodern Tom Sawyer. Everything stops in the year 2096, but first we go to the swamps: Henry has roamed trying to sit at his typewriter and tap the Great American Novel. But it hasn’t happened and doubt it will, because out the window no matter what window, the world keeps blowing things up. So Henry, older now, living in the future, where zeppelins have replaced clouds, where the gadget called Brainpodz has replaced much of critical thinking, where the hip kids are now Cybernik Poets & Neo Mod Nature Cats, who hang in speakeasies and rave in electrified pools; The Future is no place for a novelist; as Henry Oldfield says himself, “This is the end my faceless friends. The end of the story, just a story, about how it came to this: “
Adventures In American Writing 