Landslide

The Landslide has brought me down. It's true, I have been afraid of changing, but time makes you bolder and children get older.

A thousand thanks to Stevie Nicks and Lindsey Buckingham for giving us this song and letting us share.

You'll see, this one goes on the page, under the pen, but Lord Almighty what a Holy evening. Closest I've been to Religion, I don't know, maybe since birth.

I have mentioned the boring details to a few of you, you know what I'm talkin' about Willis...

Re: Vision

Seeing anew, again. The world threatens to swallow and engulf what I might attempt to hold up in reply. It's a game of mirrors, and I don't bank on having a steady hand. However, I *know* there's stuff in the attic, and all it needs is light and an eye to see her by. Tomorrow is devoted to this book, God save you if you can peer in an find enjoyment. (Hint: there's some of us out here who actually *do*)

http://www.trentu.ca/faculty/jjoyce/

Oh, but wait, there's more. The Eagles. Take it to the Limit. You knew, didn't you? Its what underlies it all

Unfortunately, it's all upside down

If you just want to delve into what I've done so far with this story idea, check out this site:

http://sites.google.com/site/hitheringwaters/

However, I won't be spending any more time there. I had a friend who suggested I submit my revisions to Blogger, but they end up upside down. I want the finished product to be rightside up, I'm going to spend a year or two working on it, and it will be more or less in the "direction" you find on the above link. It will likely be unrecognizable, I'm a reviser.

With apologies to Ricardo, because, well, I've called him out twice in the past three posts... You know I love you, and, hell, we just met :-)

The mystery of a beginning

It's those opening notes, those are the ones that identify the song. And here's the first big fear. Do those notes sing? Do they affirm the possibility, the probability, of enjoyment for the audience? I'm selfish, I don't write for myself, I write for the enjoyment of my reader. If you're not curious, if you're not wondering, if you're not smiling a knowing smile to yourself "Yes, I've wondered that myself" well, then, please move on. But please, as well, please check back, maybe I can strike the appropriate overture. It's a beautiful world, and language is the lubrication that makes it move. Without the written word, we've got snippets of conversation between amped up broadcasters on a moving horizon cluttered with loud machines full of the sound and the fury. And the sublime and the beautiful take a plunge into the sickening emptiness left behind by a culture that has lost the need to read.

The posts here are just me warming up the word striker. The writing will take place under a gold-plated Waterman given me without warning years ago by my favorite uncle. That story will go beneath the pen, it will be held up to the microscope by friends, and God willing it'll show up on the bookshelf at Annie Blooms (in the center of the vortex) some years from now.

Here's what's happened, I've had an invitation to write, I've had a story set aside, I mapped it out years ago, perhaps it started when I was calling softly for Emese in a dark cold Hungarian house full of passed out partyers. Because I knew, I knew, that the dawning of the age of Aquarius was the song of the devil, and I thought maybe she knew what that meant. She wrote poetry in English, a language not her own, and shared it with me that night, at that party. And then, well, then I guess we all passed out. She was my roommate's student, I made sure to pass on "Sex and Religion" to her by means of him, since he had access to her in his classroom, and he was equally as careful to make sure she knew it was from me and not from him.

Patience please.

Procrastination

I'm working on getting connected and beginning to write, and I'm hoping that anyone who'd like to follow along will. I've got, um, an unusual story to tell, and dammit, it's time to get started


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