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I’m listening to Beatles songs recorded by other artists, and I am blown away at how these simple tunes have withstood the test of time. A hundred years from now people may re-record these same tunes and it will still sound wonderful. Kind of like new folk music in a way that Big Rock Candy Mountain or Down to the River to Pray remain timeless classics that can be re-recorded over and over again.
I love Netflix on-demand. I have a Mac-Mini hooked up to my TV in my room, and it acts as my DVR and DVD player, as well as a general web browser and music machine. With Netflix and a broadband connection I can watch movies and TV shows whenever I want. I enjoyed myself last night with News Radio and Fawlty Towers, then fell asleep to No Country For Old Men.
I had a really strange dream. Every night lately I dream of strange things, but last night was kind of weird. I dreamed I was with a woman, then I was following the woman kind of hidden-cam like, over her shoulder. I could see her as she was dealing with a person in town, wherever it was. This was a place I have visited before many times in my dreams, just never in real life. There was this guy with her that kind of looked like Danny Bonaduce, curly red hair and skinny with pale skin and freckles. There was some sort of emergency, and she knew she had to get out of town. So she and this guy, I don’t remember his name so I will call him Danny, start leaving. They were on the outskirts of town, at a gas station mini mart, and the road next to it was wide surrounded by lush green grass. The only thing in the sky were a couple of white puffy clouds against a blue sky, but it felt dark only because of the urgency to leave. There were no cars anywhere, so she and Danny stole a couple of yellow forklifts.
They raced each other down the road then up a hill. At the top of the hill was a nearly empty one room shack that used to be a gas station. Inside was a man, she told Danny, that she had to talk to. He needed to wait outside and watch the forklifts. She went inside and at an dusty wooden table in the middle of an empty and dusty room sat a man on a four legged chair. He stood and said “I’ve been waiting for you Angel. I knew you’d have to come.”
She just stood and didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Her breathing became ragged trying to hold it all in, little gasps of air in and out, in and out. Her hands went up then down, almost touching her face, then finally wiping tears from her eyes. She couldn’t see outside, all of the windows were dirty or boarded.
“Well?” he said to her, arms open for a hug.
She ran to him. He held her and they hugged, then kissed hard for all the years they’ve been apart. Time disappeared with their clothes, and suddenly they were teenagers again. Not bothering with the table or the dust of the room, then fell to the floor together and made love.
Danny waited outside until he could no longer anymore. A bus of tourists pulled up and wanted to explore for some reason, so Danny rushed in to find them on the floor with their clothes scattered everywhere. He grabbed the table they tossed aside and put its side, along with the chair to act as a barricade between them and the tourists. Angel and the man kept kissing and didn’t seem to mind the people coming in.
At some point in the dream I became the man kissing Angel. And I remember everything about her, how her hair smelled (like a spring morning) and how her pussy looked shaved and clean. It smelled of sweet honeysuckle and tasted wonderful. She was a gorgeous woman with reddish blond hair and average breasts. Skin was a creamy white, and her smile lit up the entire room.
I woke up still feeling the struggle between not giving up the love-making and needing to keep her safe from the prying eyes. It felt like she didn’t care about anything but being there in the moment with me right then.
The strange thing is the full range of senses I have when I dream. The sights, the vibrant colors, the smells. I remember that it must have been morning, early because it was still rather cool and the grass was wet between my toes as I ran across it with Angel and Danny to get the forklifts. Even now, I still feel the sensation between my toes of the wet grass. The dusty room smelled of cold dust, in the way that only old dusty buildings of 60 years or more can smell. Like the air in there is preserved while the wood around it decays with time.
As the man, I felt in my heart how I loved Angel and missed her like I would miss my arm if I ever lost it. A big gaping hole in my chest that had been empty for so long that I got used to the spot being unused, was suddenly full again, and I had to do everything I could to pull her into it and not let her go again. I was desperate for her, desperate to wrap my arms around her and never let her go. And we didn’t have time, we lost too much already and needed to make up for lost years in the second our bodies touched. It wasn’t explosive; rather, it was an implosive process. We had to do whatever was possible to become one in that instant.
It was weird, but I could also read the woman’s thoughts. The whole time traveling to the spot, there were a million things going on in that head. Thoughts of him, how they were going to get out of there, how they could make it. Danny, what was going to happen to him, and where would he go. He was good to travel with and she loved him like a brother and knew he felt the same. She thought of the color of the sky and wondered about rain for a brief instant, then about the sun and how hot it would get. Contradictions abounded unrestrained, and her thoughts raced faster than she did when she ran to get the forklifts.
She worried over the semantics of borrowed or stolen, especially when it didn’t really matter what possession meant right now. Never once worried about going to jail – I remember that there was very little concern for the law, and there was no thoughts about police. Her thoughts became more focused as they drove together, Danny and her, to the top of the hill. A checklist went off in her brain over her looks, hair, makeup, how much she didn’t care, then worried over them again. As she topped the hill, her mind sharpened when she saw the shack and just knew. Suddenly she wasn’t moving fast enough again and her mind raced ahead of her and she thought about him and what happened and if he would be the same and if he would still care. Too many thoughts, but all with the same purpose of running in there and throwing herself at him and holding back because she didn’t know what to think. It was all there, in her head. All of it.
Then she saw him and all the voices in her head fell silent. Even the well-intentioned ones, like how to breath and stand up struggled to get through the silence at seeing him again. She struggled, felt like crying and laughing and somehow doing both. Then he smiled, and nothing else mattered. She loved him like she always did, and rushed to him to show him.
So the story I am working on is really stretching me. Poetry is something that is a mostly foreign concept to me, but I am creating a story right now where the lead woman can only speak poetically — meaning, she only communicates through rhyme and symbolism. The protagonist is unique in that he is one of the few characters that can fully understand everything she says, and even understands the symbolism.
What I love about this character is that I can foreshadow the entire story and put everything in the front of the novella. She also isn’t bound by conventional rules of conversation, so she can express anything she wants whenever she wants. Also, as she is pretty much the only true female in the story (there will be other women, just not as a major component, her role really symbolizes how often times women are right, but it takes the right kind of man listening in the right kind of way to really understand them.
I haven’t decided yet on love scenes, and whether or not to have them as part of this story. I can see the two main’s romantically involved, but I am trying to relate it to how it improves or impedes communication. Does it engender closeness between a man and a woman? Or does sex get in the way of honest communication? I believe that when a relationship is healthy, physical intimacy does improve how we communicate with our partner. When a relationship is unhealthy sex can compromise honest communication as a partner then may feel like they need to compromise their feelings/desires/wants/needs for their partner’s happiness. We can become blind to flaws and problems because we see what we want to see and rationalize the difference.
My story would be a lot less complicated without factoring sex into it, but there might be no way to avoid it if the characters demand it. It is funny, but that is the key. There are times when I write and the scene just appears before me and I hear the voices speaking to me. I write what happens as it happens and I can barely control the direction. These people in my head usually end up dictating what happens, and no matter how I plan I just see it happen. My problem is that I feel like an artist that can see something to sketch or draw, but cannot remember how to hold a pencil to make the line straight.
Practice, I must.
The story I started (S&P) is now in a first person narrative. Tried it in third person and I found I have some pretty nasty habits. One, I am some kind of magic time traveler, as I have all sorts of fun with past and present tense. Second, and this is a biggie, is that I tend to write in passive voice. First person helps me keep my tense correct, and it also forces me to acknowledge the passive nature.
Sarcasm is a wonderful thing. I am fairly dense, and so it takes me a while at times when the great mirror is applied backward in my own direction and I realize that someone just took a well aimed poke at me and I failed to even recognize it. Such is my naivete — for those in my life employing sarcasm as a teaching tool for me, please be patient! Just know that I will get the joke about two days after it was intended, and I promise you that it will be even more devastating to me than ever. Sarcasm does age well like wine, unless it is poorly done, then all you’ve got is vinegar, and … this analogy was going someplace when I started it.
Bzzzz. Bzzzz. Bzzzz. I left my phone on vibrate. Normally I set to normal ring tone when it is charging, because it is also my alarm clock. Tonight I didn’t — I didn’t want to wake up too easily in the morning. I rolled over and checked who it was from. Restricted. Great.
So I thought about it, through the fog of waking and sleeping, I considered who could it be that is calling me at 1:09 am in the morning. I have some friends, when they call from their phones it is always restricted. On the last ring I answered.
“Hello?” My voice was tired, sleepy, barely making it through.
“Is he there with you right now? Is Pedro there with you?” came a slightly effeminate male voice.
“I’m sorry? I…”
“Pedro! Is my boyfriend there with you right now? Where is he? Is he there?”
I rubbed my eyes and sat up. ”I’m very sorry, but I think you’ve got the wrong number sir.” My customer service-trained instincts kicked in, and I noticed it after I said the sir. I shook my head at the thought. ”I really don’t…”
“PEDRO!” He cut me off. I could tell that he was slurring a little. “I found your number on his phone and I want to know what you are doing with him!”
Great. A drunk-dial. ”I really wish I could help. Sorry, but I really don’t know who you are talking abo..”
Click. Well, not a click, just the absence of a click one hears when a cell line goes dead. Like a light subliminal buzz that goes away, or white noise that just disappears.
Poor fellow. I’ve been there, in the middle of the night, crying my eyes out over a woman that just walked out on me just hours after she promised she wasn’t seeing anyone else and I was hers forever. I know the heartache, the inability to breathe, the hurt that it causes.
Sleep eluded me the rest of the night. I tossed and turned, and finally I just took the laptop out and began to work on my NGAN — Next Great American Novel. So far it is titled “The Samurai and the Poet.” Since living in Japan I have come to love all things Japanese, especially the nature of the Samurai. The basic story is that boy meets girl, boy works for girl, girl is betrayed by a third player, which in turn betrays the boy, boy is captured, never loses faith, escapes and is triumphant in freeing girl and they live happily ever after on a great big pile of gold.
So far I’ve written the boy’s history and family dynamics, and I am at the point that I will be writing the introduction of the girl. I decided to sleep on it and had a very vivid dream involving my samurai protecting someone as one of his duties, and he took on three assailants of various degrees. In the battle, his family sword was broken, but he still overcame and used the pieces of his sword as two weapons. Cool dream too.
The girl is the poet in the story. For as long as anyone can remember, she can only speak in poetic form. The only problem is that no one can understand her fully. The imagery she uses can be interpreted many different ways and if someone is paying attention she can foretell the future.
The other aspect I have been working on in my head is another main character — an ex-football jock that has turned mercenary when he was disgraced by illegal drug use. He was never famous to begin with, but he is the leader of the group that hires the samurai to help them fight.
Three men will also turn up from time to time in the story. Everyday men, just normal guys. One is the past, the other is the present, and the third is the future. They will convey their portions of the story and set background for events through the use of newspaper or when they are playing cards, or talking about things they heard on the radio. Past will talk about how things were, Future will talk about how things will be, and the present lives in the now and complains about the current event. These three will talk freely with Poet, because they clearly understand her — whenever she speaks she speaks of the past, present, and future all at the same time.
The Samurai wears a business suit almost all the time in the story. Occasionally he will be in something more casual, such as a pair of simple cotton slacks and a white t-shirt, or business casual shirt. Rarely will he carry his family sword and later in the story he will loan it to a museum for safe keeping on display. His family wealth already secured, he focuses solely on the family business and in continuing the tradition of his fathers.
There are songs that I love for their lyrics, and sometimes more than the music itself. There are many tunes by Sir Elton John where the lyrics are rich and vibrant, as well as The Moody Blues. Pink Floyd is another.
Then there are songs where the music itself is absolutely amazing. An Elton John song I can think of is Bennie and the Jets — without looking it up, can anyone really decipher what Sir Elton sings there in the middle of that? But the passion he attacks the piano with is unmistakable. Brilliant song.
There is a song I listened to from Tears For Fears that has stuck with me since it came up in rotation on my iPod. Here it is:
Lyrics to Famous Last Words :
After the wash
Before the fire
I will decay
Melt in your arms
As the day hits the night
We will sit by candlelight
We will laugh
We will sing
When the saints go marching in
A for a heart
B for a brain
Insects and grass
Are all that remain
When the light from above
Burns a hole straight through out love
We will laugh
We will sing
When the saints go marching in
And we will carry war no more
All our love and all of our pain
Will be but a tune
The Sun and the Moon
the wind and the rain
Hand in hand we’ll do and die
Listening to the band that made us cry
We’ll have nothing to lose
We’ll have nothing to gain
Just to stay in this real life situation
For one last refrain
As the day hits the night
We will sit by candlelight
We will laugh
We will sing
When the saints go marching in
And we will carry war no more
I don’t know why, but it speaks to me on some level these days, a level deeper than I can comprehend. It could be part of the “never can go home” scenario, because this song also reminds me of the summer of ‘89 and time I spent with my two best friends. Nostalgia aside, it really does strike me as something powerful.
This is one of the lesser knowns, on an album that was mostly about the Beatles send up of Seeds of Love on the radio. However, it will forever be one of my all time favorite complete albums — something that is more rare than now than ever before. That is a rant for another day, as it turns to night, and we will sit by candlelight. We will laugh, we will sing, when the saints go marching in. And we will carry war, no more.
Today I am writing. Yes, I am logging the number of words I hit today and this is where I will keep myself on track. What is it exactly I write? In participating with a VERY excellent podcast, I am working all of the assignments given as a way to stretch myself. The Jordan Castillo Price has her place on the web at http://packingheat.net and gives some very practical advice and solid encouragement to people new, such as myself. I highly recommend it as a place to stop and listen for a while.
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