Ivory Shores New

If ivory shores are closer than ever before,
then home is coming.
If by the tides some old rocks new wash up,
then home has returned.
If by the sun I see fields and sand and manna-dew,
then home is sunning.
If by the grave of the mind dormant memories rise,
then home is alive.
If by the heart of eons we awake quite undimmed
of shores uncollared, unsettled, unsinned—
then home is near.
If by a stone of old rocks new I can skip
back to ivory shores of dark winds,
oldest waters, and long-lost kin

then home is here… I do, I do.

Truly a 21st Century

And I awoke to a Black President. He, too, sings America.

Such jubilation. To be alive when hundreds of years of strife and struggle and humiliation have come to a head, a striking point of triumph and vindication for African Americans, is tearful, joyful... wonderful.

I was just about to purchase a book of poems by Langston Hughes, one of the pivotal voices of Black America during the Harlem Renaissance in the 1920's (not to mention one of literature's luminaries in the 20th Century, black or white). I don't care how much money I don't have, I'm buying it; and Obama's book Audacity of Hope (not just because he's the new President Elect.) It was his audacity, his voice, his intelligence, his charisma, his clear message of change and unity that offered something fresh and vibrant in a nation that has been, and it is the truth, running on the fumes of old white men. Not since the days of Kennedy (the 33rd President, no less) has the nation been so alive with the promise of youth and integrity and promise. But unlike Kennedy, who was born and bred in the Kingdom of Camelot, Obama comes from another stock, a perspective that straddles the racial and the social barriers.

Now, I'm not one for blind optimism, so I will have to concede a level of skepticism (I'm skeptical of any politician, black or white). He has much to do, and much to prove. He is inexperienced, but so was Bush. He was an oil magnate with an experienced Daddy, and the luck of having a tragic event push him to the level of "savior". (Yikes! People really did think that.) Lincoln was inexperienced. A lawyer who took the trials and tribulations of a troubled nation and transformed himself so that he could transform a nation at its own throat. The Union is, at the moment, less internally unstable, yet no less challenging in its maintenance. Is Obama ready to keep the glue that has held this nation, at times tenuosly, frightfully, together? History will tell.

Blog?

Blog? Blog? ... I'm sure I know what that is. Oh, right. This thing that I'm writing in. Dagnabbit, I am so lax when it comes to these things. Well, whatever.

I've been busy with poetry and screenplays. Fort Stone revisions are slow going, but that was to be expected. I'm in no rush for novels. Here are few other book covers I've made over the past few weeks. I'll never have anyone else's cover for my book. I've decided that. Call me stingy.

Book Covers

These are the tentative covers for Fort Stone, a novel, and It is of endings..., a book of verse. Just going for visual impact right now. Would like to know reactions.

The Fort Stone is this big door because a big door figures into the story, and it comments on the real nature of this Fort Stone, which is in fact made of wood.

Streetcar

He watches close that streetcar named Desire
and all those therein.
He watches it conjure up damp black streets,
then vanish into the stale hissing steam,
hover above the clamor and squawk,
in between the rubber and oil,
and land, unnoticed, amongst a thousand hands
pressing and plucking and prying.

He listens to that streetcar sound against the soft
erratic whispers of night-bar sooths.
He listens to it land like a thousand birds
descending the shore, that super-metallic screech—
so familiar—of wheels on long parallel lines
going straight into the
heart of everything dark and hot.

He sees what that streetcar has brought back
in refrain:
a man playing cards,
all cheaped-up on cigars,
and smells of thick tars—
a liquor so black
that night envies back.

He keeps a close eye on that streetcar,
because no one else will.
He keeps quite close so that one day he
might help the man off,
or join him.

Return from Noveland

There and Back Again, a tale by Andrew Riley.
No! shit! Already been done.

I try to stray from what others have done, although plot lines, themes, and archetypes are quite difficult to stray from. As Keats might have said, There are no new themes, just thinking of new ways to work them.

From Sept. 29th to Oct 3rd I wrote. Well, not all the time. It started off well enough. 16 pages the first day. Then 4 the next. And it wasn't from a lack of enthusiasm, either. It was... Sickness! A damn cold. Thank you very much, Couldn't have happened at a better time, Why don't you leave me alone, Don't you know the stock exchange is falling from the sky! In all I wrote 40 pages (70 book pages), and I managed to flesh out the major themes, establish a hefty, (almost) plausible plot line, and develop many of my characters to the point where I'm beginning to care what happens to them. God, I hate that. So when one dies, I tear up. I'm very cinematic in my visualizing of scenes, so I got music going in my head, accompanying all this. Lets just say, when you're writing the raw bones of your work, it gets a little weird. I can't wait to shape all this into something believable, poignant, adventurous, and, possibly, lasting.

I lost some sleep, coughed, my head ached, my chest throbbed, I barely wrote anything on Friday (just summaries for the chapters of the fourth and final part). Whatever. It was exactly what I needed to get something down on the page, practically from beginning to end so that I understand the arc, the flow--to an extent. You'll all get a taste of it after I revise the first chapter for a writing contest (Narrative magazine: http://narrativemagazine.com/30-below-story-contest).

I'd give a synopsis, but I don't feel like it. I'd rather you wait till I've further developed the story, and posted excerpts from the first chapter. The deadline for the contest is Nov. 30th, so expect an excerpt just prior.

To anyone else who wishes to take on a blitz-write (as I am going to call it from now on), make sure you have nothing else to do. That doesn't mean you can't do anything else, but no work, no engagements, no appointments, nothing external is going to pull you from the keyboard, the pad of paper. I watched a few movies, even went to my girlfriend's house one night. Yes, that's external but it was Wednesday, I was feeling slightly better, and I had written that entire day anyways (12 pages). I needed a break, and her house was as good a place as any. Take breaks. Don't write from dawn till dusk, or Midnight to midnight, unless you're an insomniac. Some days are better than others. Even if you go in with guns blazing, following days you may find yourself out of ammo. Recharge, charge back in, and let it flow. Don't revise. That comes later. It's all about getting the beautiful, fragmented, floating idea onto the paper... it will read like shit. Cheers.

Another Blog

I must have gotten bit by the blog bug because whereas before I'd not touch the likes of it now I have two in stock and therefore am doubly entrenched in the spontaneous world of bloggature (Yes, I just made that a word).

Check out my other blog here: http://eulalyceum.blogspot.com/

Just started so give it time to blossom.

More Poetic Nonsense. Ha!

Here's a couple poems. Ooh, what a treat. 8 days until my 5 day blitz. I'm excited, and interested to see how my body handles 18 hour days of typing, scribbling and staring at the ceiling as if it were the sky. You know, Thoreau was right--we writers do need to get into the open air more.

Hint: The key to feeling and appreciating poetry, nailing down its sound and nuance, is to say it aloud, and more than once. First time is a bit awkward. The more you do it, the better you are at finding rhythm, and feeling the underlying emotions. Enjoy.

White Noise
The munching Apple—
Click clack crunch croo:
I swear to God I’ve never
Heard such tender coo,
Such melodious rhythms
Of the clanking Bank changing
Over its millions billions zoo.

The chomping Apple—
Grating baking scraping phwapp!
Listening closer I tend to
Drift into somnolescent nap,
And dream of Rexes and Royces
And Royals and Rocks
All tapping wildly on dented
Drums out of the Staten Scrap.

The nibbling Apple—
Faint hush whisper swoon:
Not this place, not anymore,
Now that what smacks is toonish doom:
Though, even in Golden times
It rang and banged and bellowed
And bleat at night and blared unto noon.

From through the window,
Even but forty stories too high,
Sounds of the drying Apple—my
White noise sends me sleep... and pie…

See Sweeter, See
Some soft sigh may wake you by May—
Or not, and leave me pining, pining
On and on and away.

What petals of what flower might flutter
Your eyes ajar, to snap you fast and calm
From sleep—a place far too far.

A kiss—no. Too rough a shake to
Shake you out from dreams and images sweet:
An image of me? Keep it, for sure
It is far far sweeter than what eyes see.

Hint of The Continent

This is a long post so bear with me.

This excerpt is from the first short story of eleven short stories, a collection called The Continent that is preamble to a novel, Elsewhere. Here's the project description I sent in with my admissions materials to Lesley University (hoping to go next year).

The Continent will be a collection of eleven short stories, each following an individual in one of ten cities of the fictional landmass, Continent. The story of the eleventh individual will follow him through what he has participated in, seen, or heard of in regards to the events of the previous ten. He is the subject the following novel, Elsewhere, in which he returns fifteen years later to Continent to face his own, and many other, demons.

These short stories are an exploration of individual experiences within a degraded society. Each character faces some facet of the totalitarian-like, corporate driven syndicate, Sage, as it conducts its operations with little regard to human cost, societal values, or any brand of justice. Sage’s nihilistic bent is either shared or shunned by the characters.

Most, if not all, of the characters are haunted by a lack of intercourse (both sexual and conversational). This leads to acts of depravity, of escapism, of sado-masochism, and creates an overwhelming sense of alienation and loneliness; all the while natural forces surround, at times intrude or even bombard their already tumultuous lives.

In some characters, this leads to sociopathic behavior that is neither condemning, punishable, or off-setting. At least it isn’t to many of the Continent’s denizens. Violent crime is routine, and only punishable if it happens to work against Sage. The syndicate’s pseudo-judicial system holds military-like tribunals to punish and execute the worst offenders, all behind closed doors.

As for the cities themselves, they are an eclectic collection of dystopian dynamism. These include the urban monstrosity (Urbanopolis); a desert shanty-city with over a dozen palace-like prisons (Baron); a derelict, ramshackle town that has been without rain for over a year (Fringe); and even a city surrounded by agro-chemical processing plants that have poisoned much of the Continent’s drinking water and shorelines (Nautis). Characters and cities alike will exhibit a wide range of personalities and conditions creating a sense of incredible instability and lack of hope. It is not to say that the stories have no positivity, or that rays of hope do not shine through, but The Continent is a dreary lead-up to the final character’s fate and subsequent adventure in Elsewhere. It is in that story he matures and gains a sense of right and wrong, compassion, and justice, whereas in The Continent he is completely devoid of such sensibility.


Digs
Location: Fringe

Digs knew something was off when a new patron whined, “Salt!” quietly and harshly through his teeth. He wasn’t exactly a patron—never ordered anything from the bar. He was just in a dire, inexplicable need of a single item.

“Don’t have any salt at the moment, umm…” Digs replied, rotating his mythically large hand about the air.

It took a moment for the man to get it. “Oh, uh, Prad, Prad,” he answered jerkily.

“Well, Prad, like I said, I’m fresh out.” A lie. But this fellow had a subtle aura of distrust and failure glowing about him, and a faint hum that was a song of some past thing. Digs wasn’t about to satisfy him just yet. Normally, for any drifter, for any woebegone soul—even a desperate criminal—he’d readily give the giant shirt off his back as a blanket, serve up a heaping plate of food, drop off drinks until they were passed out. It was no matter—but this Prad. “What do you need salt for, anyways?” Digs said calmly after a good long moment of watching the sort not stumble about, but list fluidly from side to side as if blown by intersecting winds, and dig his sliding feet into the floor as if to sand the rough-shod smooth.

News of no salt hit Prad hard.

“Questions?” Prad seethed, a heated, unstable look in his eyes. “I thought there were no why questions from the bastard bartender of Fringe.” He sat down on one of the stools, violently, and dug his elbows into the dark wood of the counter, his long shag of grimy brown hair falling over his gray eyes. Which was fine, Digs thought, because his drooping lids suddenly flapped open like pull-down shades—blinkless, and so he ended up looking a wide-eyed fanatical ass. “No questions. None.” Prad impressed his stomach into the edge of the counter and shuddered as if his bones would explode out like a fragment bomb. “Just give me the salt, already.”

“Well…” the bastard bartender did not appreciate this dire rub, or the treatment of his bar. If the first sight of this Prad hadn’t already got under Digs’s skin, this freakish verve was more than enough to give him pause. Such behavior was not unexpected from these wayfarers, but this Prad had gone from a swaying tree in heavy winds to the spastic gusts themselves. “You’re thinking of years ago, my friend. And I told you already, good sir,” he continued in his calm etiquette, “I’ve none left.”

“No salt! Damnit.” He didn’t catch on to the near sarcastic courtesy, his worn mind too fixed and shallow, nor did he ever raise his voice above a solid, biting whisper. “I’ll look like such an ass, do you know that.”

“Is it pressing?”

“Don’t you hear my voice? Don’t I sound like I’m pressing you?” He did, and Digs was already wearing thin. Not to the point where he’d give in and give this flop the salt just to get him out of there.

“Such an ass,” Prad repeated.

No, he was more getting closer to flicking him off the stool with that arm-strength middle finger he had there. It was in his voice. A back-throat anamoly, a slight hard crackle, like water pulling back from the shore. Digs had been the bastard bartender of Fringe, and even though Prad had said it, it was obvious he failed to remember just who Digs was, or what had transpired four years ago. But just as Digs saw some sorry sinister gleam in his eyes, Prad glimpsed the distinct flicker of rage in Digs’, like fire licking out of the gaps of a giant steel furnace.

Spot of Poetry

Aside from prose, and screenplays, I also write poetry. It is, in fact, my first writing genre and have a book of published poetry, Icono. After going back over that poetry I realize I was far too hasty and should have waited. But I was impulsive and felt I needed something out there, pressed and bound, immediately.

This poem is for a new book, one that I'm to enter in the Dorset Prize, from Tupelo Press. 1st Prize is $10,000 and publication. Yeah, I think I could go for that. I'll post several of them periodically as I work and rework them. Poetry has always been both fun and a deep mess. You have to pluck from places you wouldn't normally go, and it's quite draining. Could be why I haven't even touched the stuff for six or seven months.

Death Lies

I would, if
the Powers that be might let me,
(They might as well, it’s a mutual enemy)
but I’d sure punch the face of Death
and hope that it would
not hook back.
A Golden Gloves bout,
or up-the-anty with
Vegas Night—
dance round it dance round it dance round it—
butterfly butterfly butterfly:
not even a finger did touch and
old heavyweight death lies.

In Need

This has nothing to do with writing, but it does with art. I need a camera. Immediately. Hmm... I wonder if Batman could help?

My Five Day Blitz

I was going to wait until next week to post this, but I just couldn't wait.

From Sept. 29th to Oct. 3rd I will be sequestered from society. I know, it's quite mad, but for the good of my craft I must embark on this perilous solo journey to conquer... something. I'm sure it's something stupendous, something that will define my character, and so on and so forth. No but, really I am going to take 5 whole days to write a novella, a short novel, of about 100 pages. That's the median, anywhere between 80 and 120.

I'm used to jumping from story to story, adding a little bit to this, a little bit to that, sometimes giving more time to one story, but ultimately shifting to the next and leaving the others to tread water. This is a huge deal for me, so if you wonder, What the hell is that boy doing? This is all about getting to the nit-grit, to bring out as much as I know about writing and blitz the hell out of it. I know I'm going to be the living dead, and I might even--I can't believe I'm saying this--drink coffee for days on end. Wow. Wasn't so hard. Anyways, I'm dropping a tentative synopsis below. Needs some work. Add some more details when I work the outline a little more. Oh, hell, I just throw up the outline next. Of course, such things are ephemeral. Once I start writing anything can and will happen.

Fort Stone

Eli Marc, a curious, talented boy of 10 lives in Fort Bell, a small town in the middle of a vast, forested state. Eli spends much of his time amassing and pouring over comic books, creating fantastic stories of his own, and avoiding the family cat that, as far as he is concerned, is the black demon of the netherworld (i.e. his basement). But lately, Eli has spent much of his time in the Eighth Fossil Wood, about two miles north of his house, with three of his closest friends.

What exactly have they been up to?

What else would pre-adolescents be up to in a forest but building a fort! A wooden one, half latched on to a dying weeping willow, at the base of giant formations of globular stones of the North Temple Rock.

Of course, the fort needs a name. Upon the completion of the impressively robust edifice, that can withstand the wickedest storm, each of them heads home to ponder some infamous, sky-shaking handle.

The following morning no one agrees. That is until Eli points out the one thing they all missed. It’s surrounded by stones. Why not call it that? And so, Fort Stone is christened.

Eli and friends will face a few challenges to maintain their base of operations as other kids get wind of their castle and encroach upon their exclusive ground. And a mysterious, mute girl shows up unexpectedly, even violently, and Eli is never sure where she stands, who she is, or what wild thing she might do.

Fort Stone is a story of young friends at odds with the forces of nature, the forces of childhood, the forces of the growing heart, and the strongest force of all: the unknown.

Loglining

Here's just a few of the screen stories I've been working on. Some are fairly new, others I've been working on for years (yeah, that time thing). But, sometimes a story must wait in limbo until your skills are up to par, so that you can give it all the gusto needed to bring it to fruition. Enjoy.

Stocked
Logline: Eli, a dairy clerk at Green Market, is confronted by a sinister covenant with a serial stalker, but he is the least of Eli’s worries as he contends with the bizarre store manager, Jones Martin, who seems to be stalking him as well.

Havoc
Logline: Havoka, a villain-child on the island world of Psychoville, is taken as a protégé under the mysterious and powerful villainess, Specula. After months of abuse, Havoka seeks to sever her strained ties to Specula, and plots to have the Old woman arrested.

The Temblor
Logline: The ill-mannered, middle-aged Ridder L. Jones uses his vast fortune and general popular appeal to set out on a worldwide tour of some scheduled, and some impromptu, extravagant events in hopes of revealing the exorbitant and apathetic attitude that people exhibit in regards to their environment.

The Fringe
Logline: A storied, professional Clay Army squadron has gone rag-tag, and slightly mad, on the outskirts of a major campaign where they’re joined by an inept spy, whose skills as a cook prove to be his only worthy asset, while sporatic engagements with the enemy are repeatedly interrupted by a rebel group who appear to be neither friend nor foe—just annoying as hell.

The Volunteer Vassal
Logline: After a young woman escapes from a slave state, and traverses over three hundred miles to the free west, she finds that her husband and daughter have been sold into the very state she escaped. Defying her parent’s orders, she heads back to find her family.

Time is on my side

Where to begin? Well, why not get down to the nit-grit of what it is I do. Without trying to explain in exorbitant and mind numbing detail what it is I write and why and what I hope it effects, and who it will... blah blah blah... I'm just going to post some of my loglines (the one or two sentence pitch for a movie that summarizes the tension.) This way you'll get a taste. Then I'll follow up with snippets from some of my screenplays, short stories, etc.

I don't want to be too generous, but more will follow.

On another note, I'd like to mull over the time involved with any kind of scribe work. It is no easy task, and when one has too much time the projects can tend to stretch and stretch until the strength, and perhaps credibility, of that story can weaken to the point of absurdity. But should you just cram it all into a month, a week, a few days? No. Not unless you have to. Those who work on tv scripts have little choice in the matter. The demands of television are hyperkinetic, and in my opinion, in terms of content, overly dramatized. But, I suppose that's what people want. Hell, I used to watch Gray's Anatomy. I still watch Battlestar Galactica. So, I suppose I can't be hypocritical. After all, they have to cram a story arc, character development, and a seasonal plot movement all for a half hour or an hour, if the show happens to have a plot.

But what about novel writers? Or feature film writers? Or for short stories, and, hell, for poetry? Shouldn't one wait till it's absolutely perfect? Excuse me, but when is that? You can perfect the hell out of your story and still it may end up like shit. I've found, over these seven years, that perfection should not, not ever, be the goal. Instead, you should focus on gaining an understanding of when enough is enough. It's a sense of rhythm. A sense of structure, character, and action. Where does that come from? Could be intuitive, an instinctual knack. Could be learned through classes, workshops, comparisons, and just good old fashioned try and try again. Magic will not help here. And for the ever present, monstrous, glorious shadow of those who came before, what is called the Burden of the Past, well, that's difficult. If you think Goethe, Johnson, Keats, Hemingway, or even Shakespeare (whether he was one person or five) never had to practice their craft, never had to read or research, oh, well, you might want to get out now. First, if you're reading this blog, you're probably not of that god-like caliber. Second, even geniuses need practice. Mozart (I'm going musical now) indeed composed his first minuet at the wee age of 5 and played in front of a duke. Still, he learned much from his father, and more so still after. Raw talent is just that. Without refinement, without a constant shaping and reshaping of that "ore", as Keats called it, all the time in the world can't help, never mind perfect, a work of so called art.

P.S. Read the Greats. If you don't, you don't know what shadow you're standing in.

For me, I wrote false poems, like the rest, and thought them true because myself was true in writing them. -Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Challenge

I'm about to do something I've never done before. Keep a journal. An online one, no less. I've tried, time after time, to maintain a consistent log of... whatever--thoughts, events, the day-to-day, big ideas, etc. And I can honestly say I've gone no more than a few months, dropped it, picked it up for a week, let it slide into a corner and forgot I even had one until a year later (Yes, it's still lying in the closet with dust and shadows heaped on it.)
This outlet is a way to share my oh so secret (yet unexciting) life with others who might wonder what exactly it is I do. Well, I write. And I read. And other things which this blog is not concerned with. While this is a journal I don't intend to write about my day to day. Who gives a shit about that? No, this is more a jot-down-pool of my escapades in writing, and world creation as most of my stories take place in non-existent locales. Think Middle Earth, but not. No Orcs, or Wizards, or Hobbits, or a damned whispering ring. I love Lord of the Rings; one of the most lasting and exotic works of the twentieth century. But I, unlike many others, shy from plucking Tolkien's masterwork. It's been done far too many times. I don't rehash. And while some of my stories are indeed of the fantastic, not all are fantasy. I've many more projects, rooted more to reality, in store and I'll outline them in future blogs.
The challenge of this blogging thing is keeping with it. I'm not entirely sure what exactly I'll write about, if I'll stay with it, or even if it is in my interest, at all, to reveal my work. Yet here it is--a place, a page, a possibility, and I have no idea if it will do me any good or not.
Here's to the unknown.

Good writers borrow. Great writers steal. -T.S. Eliot