CREATIVE WRITING's topics - tribe.net

call for submissions

2009-11-04T19:06:46Z

Emerging Visions visionary art ezine #15, Shifting Perceptions ~ still awaits you
Shift
and all strict and sure
rearranged in light-swift display
hues of the every day
bending, twisting, flying
Leaping into play

http://emergingvisions.blogspot.com

share and enjoy as you scroll down to the Submission Guidelines (below the Contributors' page)

Then, Share your visions to commingle into a fine fruition of

Peaceful Co-Creating - Emerging Visions visionary art ezine #16

send your submission to me by early October

have fun~

make it happen...

libramoon42@mindspring.com

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 3 replies

Shadowcast Audio Anthology Now accepting Submissions

2009-10-22T21:49:37Z

I'm looking for story submissions, as well as Cover Art and Theme Music. Genre is irrelevant as long as the theme has a dark element. So if any of you are in the market check out the site @ www.shadowpress.wordpress.com

Thanks
__________________
Jason Warden
Editor/Administrator
The ShadowCast Audio Anthology

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 1 reply

Vantage Press Seeking Authors, maybe copy editors?

2009-09-30T18:22:01Z

Vantage Press is often seeking authors, sometimes copy editors too. (NYC based, not sure if people can work from home or not)

Just saw a recent ad.

Here's the website:

http://www.vantagepress.com

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 0 replies

Dodge Poetry Festival Update

2009-09-29T15:46:53Z

http://www.dodgepoetry.org/

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 1 reply

All behavior seeks reward.

2009-09-27T05:39:02Z

http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/916/86a/91686ada-fa50-46cc-8c23-417a2c5e5c57

my initial response is the standard spiel , there are no absolutes, including the above.(as well as this), some behavior seeks reward some time, some behavior seeks nothing at all, some behavior finds some time to spend
close to being bored. when some sneeze, some near may say bless you, when some hiccup. What is there to say? sneeze is a type of orgasm or spasm, hiccup is what? goowik says, "A hiccup or hiccough (pronounced /ˈhɪkʌp/ HICK-up), is the spasmodic contraction of the diaphragm that repeats several times per minute."
or just once, hardly ever in a lifetime. gw continues, " In humans, the abrupt rush of air into the lungs causes the epiglottis to close, creating the "hic" Hiccupsound.ogg Hiccupsound.ogg (help·info) sound. In medicine, it is known as synchronous diaphragmatic flutter (SDF), or singultus, from the Latin, singult, "the act of catching one's breath while sobbing."The hiccup is an involuntary action involving a reflex arc." the pretenders requested that one stop their sobbing. behavior may be its own reward or even punishment, if that were your coin of your realm. existence is a bright light in day, a glowed dark absence where sleep takes hold with comfort and rest. The term "hiccup" is also used to describe a small and unrepeated aberration in an otherwise consistent pattern. Causes...Hiccups (singultus) can be caused by many central and peripheral nervous system disorders, all from injury or irritation to the phrenic and vagus nerves, as well as toxic or metabolic disorders affecting the aforementioned systems, I'll be back. it is 10:52, here is what I did, >"Again there is a reward for doing so, a release of guilt, and responsibility" <sounds like original sin concept or call it guilty by nature
innocence is presumed. what is there to release when no guilt exists? it (meaning guilt) happens true enough, when it does not occur. where does that leave what is accepted or rejected? sounds like you are proposing a carrot and a stick. eat the carrot or not, burn the stick and build a flying machine and leave for higher ground
then go plummeting to the rocky coasts of Madagascar. >"if someone has limited energy and expends that energy it is only rational that they seek some kind of response or reward or why do it?" <I see a question mark, yet the question seems to be begging a response, and a change of subject ensues. Now that you have left reward behind, I see that it is response that you seek. Feel better and sin no more. or stop dragging your borrowed guilty nature at home, if there is where it was acquired. conclusion: some behavior seeks response.
perhaps all, except for rhetoric, that appears to not require a response. sounds like ice breaker material, small talk, leading to.........something to eat, something to build. good luck, I wonder what a good response to a single hiccup might be? bless you is taken by sneezing, spasms of all sorts like a response I think. in kind, of well wish and the rest. Love came shining over the mountain, love came shining over the sea, love came shining over my baby<chrissie singing. hey! Treatment. Ordinary hiccups are cured easily without medical intervention; in most cases they can be stopped simply by forgetting about them. extraordinary spasms may require an interinventive response. more good luck, may you never get enough, be good, take care, of bod and company.
glen

over and IN

Absence. I dreamed of you again last night. How I wish I did not. How I grateful I am that I do. You are always with me and yet I cannot find you. You exist in some far off place in a far off time and yet you are always with me in the here and now. Are you only the smoke of my dreams or memories of a reality a long time past. Will I ever know? Do I really want to know? How I hate this memory that leaves these tears on my pillow. How happy I am for this smile they leave in their place. borrowed Tamara, stolen like a thief, that almost always gives back, more than taken, shared relief, respite, enjoy! Digital rectal massage has been recommended as a remedy that causes immediate cessation of hiccups and which should be tried before resorting to drugs. some doubt as to if land reform causes any permanent change, as cycles endlessly spin control to and fro. Back to the ancients, that cast the world into the shape it has retained for millennia.
almost certainly any simulation would contain knowing players, and those players would be constructs with a historical beginning, that included the basic myths we continue to be saddled with, their inability to forget and their unwavering stubbornness to continue trying to not remember.
ACHOO!!~"I don't know. Are you serious?"

bye@pvn&tr Staff
an open source initiative
not at all imitative

"For example if there is a God who is omniscient, his knowledge would not be axiom based."

possibly a useless example, in so far as it answers everything and nothing.
omniscience might cause simulation in order to observe thought waves in a dimensional form, any early creative form would soon learn boredom and soon after learn to hide it, thus forgetfulness is born, not long after forgiveness becomes a default selection, omniscience is forsaken.
The ensuing mess is left behind for others to cleanup and fix.
Enjoy! Suffer the consequences otherwise.

[Reply] [Parent]

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 0 replies

Fiction and Poetry in Oct./Nov. Asimov's

2009-09-25T20:10:58Z

My poem "Derivative Work" and novelette "Flotsam" appear in the October/November Asimov's.

From the intro to "Flotsam": "Elissa Malcohn burst into our pages in November 1984 with her intensely powerful story 'Lazuli.' Although another tale appeared in our Mid-December 1986 issue, we've been waiting twenty-three years for the third. We're delighted that the hiatus ends with 'Flotsam,' a story that was partly informed by Elissa's employment at a government contractor during some of those intervening years."

Matt Bruensteiner, Garbled Signals (http://garbledsignals.wordpress.com/2009/09/09/asimovs-octobernovember-2009/ ), commenting on "Flotsam," writes:

"As a young girl Mercedes discovered a biological 'impossibility' in the polluted coastal waters of her city. The discovery, and the way it was denied haunts her throughout her life in the working class world of the US-Mexican border. Working blue collar jobs, she spends her free time researching the impossibility she’s sure she remembers from childhood. An excellent story, which does particularly well at blending the story of Mercedes as a person between cultures into an sf story."

My story in the mid-December 1986 Asimov's was "The S.O.B Show," a fond spoof informed by five years of volunteer planetarium work. The title took its name from the field's nickname for the "Star of Bethlehem," or Christmas, show.

"Lazuli," a science fictional treatment of childhood sexual abuse and my first professional sale, single-handedly placed me on the final ballot for the 1985 John W. Campbell Award.

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 2 replies

Fun Writing Exercise

2009-09-25T13:59:12Z

What is your memoir in 6 words?

http://www.care2.com/greenliving/what-is-your-memoir-in-6-words-2.html

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 0 replies

Poetry Resources

2009-09-24T22:20:48Z

thought folks might enjoy some miscellaneous stuff. If this is too off topic, let me know and I will delete the thread.

thanks...

and Enjoy!

A few poetry resources...

Poetry Readings Online:

http://bordersmedia.com/odp/

+++

more online readings

http://resources4poets.homestead.com/OnlineReadings.html

++++++++++++

Poetry International - large website, tons of poetry,obviously a lot of international poetry - in original langauge and with translations, videos of readings...

http://international.poetryinternationalweb.org/piw_cms/cms/cms_module/index.php?obj_name=www

+++

Poems of Rumi

http://www.khamush.com

+++

Poems of Hafiz

http://www.hafizonlove.com

http://www.allspirit.co.uk/hafiz.html

+++

Poemhunter

Their database contains 168,207 poems from 16,474 poets.. 126,006 Songs.. 10,148 Artists.. 64,870 Quotations..

http://www.poemhunter.com/

+++

Dodge Poetry Festival

http://www.dodgepoetry.org/

largest poetry festival in North America, takes place once every two years, in New Jersey, near the Pennsylvania border

+++

good haiku links..

http://www.sacred-texts.com/shi/jh/jh02.htm

++++

and some haiku poets

Issa

http://oaks.nvg.org/issa.html

+++

Basho

http://oaks.nvg.org/basho.html

+++

Buson

http://oaks.nvg.org/buson.html

+++

http://oaks.nvg.org/other-haiku.html#others-haiku

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Poets House in NYC

http://www.poetshouse.org/about.htm

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 1 reply

Jon's Poetry

2009-09-23T15:53:01Z

Vaulting Height Moon View
White Grey, A Soft White Light Peace
Blue Canopy Sky

Sky Vast Vast High Height
Tiny Black Dotted Sky Flight
Wisps, Vaulted Power

Super Blue Cool Dawn
Movement Flashes The New Sky
Dawn Calligraphy

The Red Sharp Shock Orange
Fall Maple Leaves By Hundreds!
All Stop Stark Against Sky

Suburban Landscape Dreams,
The Sky That Would Wish To Be,
Full Floated Fluff Stuff.

+++

these two are from a writing prompt
“to one who has gone”

Now And Now And Gone,
Hands Held To Head And Screaming
All Tear Born Scarred

Quake; Shaking, Rattling
Rock Cavern Hollow Heart Tear
Wishing Wet Eyes Would Speak

+++++++++
another darker one

Paper Shreds, Flailed
The Scattering To Empty
When I What Was Once

+++++++
an “insomnia” haiku

Lagging Nagging Now
Oh No The Again Again
Laughing Dancing Bones

+++++

from an image of Bryce National Park

Stark Erosion Forms
The Eons Of Slow Sculpture
Sand, Beige And Sweet Reds

+++

From an image of Ikebana

On The Table Lines Speak
There Content Colors Reply
My Eyes Stopped, Joy!

+++

from an image of Zion National Park

Soft Red Meanders
The Quiet Life In Corners
Sandstone Beauty Pause

+++++

From the image of a whale and sunset

Gentle Setting Orb
A Whale Celebrates The Sun
Big Happy Boy Splash!

++++

From the image of a peony:

A Gentle Offering
Open Hands Up To The Sky
This Proud Standing Pink

+++

Grand Canyon

http://www.aqua.co.za/assa_jhb/new/Canopus/Can2004/094%20The%20Grand%20Canyon%20Arizona.JPG

Open Vast-Scape Sight
Glorious Red Purple Hue
Thrown Here For Our Eye

+++

http://www.webpages.uidaho.edu/~rfrey/images/lotus.jpg

Pond Is Cool Water
There Supported Standing Up
White Flower Smile

+++

Eyes And Millions And
Tall Trees In The Everywheres
Black Bird Eyes Darting

+++

Big Big Belly Paws
White Bouncy Ready Peppy
Happy Tiger Day

http://www.babyanimalz.com/images/baby.tigers.jpg

+++

this one is from a photo posted in the Photography Tribe

Greens Seek Blues Seek Peace
There! In The Waning Corner!
Blue Rainbow Mushroom

http://gophoto.tribe.net/photos/f877ec4f-76ce-4eff-b208-bb925c0d23a9

++++

Bossman comedy ones

Sugar plum sweet joy
The tasks he gives me to do
I love my boss so

Soft flower petals
The words he speaks to me
Gentle Dear Bossman

Gentle Dear Bossman
I Brought My Gun Today
Who Is The Boss Now?

+++

Black And White Stripes
This Mime Is Driving Me Nuts
Mime Murder Smile-Joy

+++

White Star Center Dance
Sharp Cool Blue Spiral Primed
Otherworld Pinwheel

http://www.hermann-uwe.de/files/images/blue_flower.preview_0.jpg

+++

Bird Bird Bird Hop Hop
Peppy Pop Popping Hop Hop
Wind Gust, Glance, Then Gone

+++

Die Huge Silverfish
Object Of My Frustration
Thwack! I Feel Better

+++

Water Wishes, Wants
Mixings, Blues, Lines, Whites And Breath
Stop - Satisfaction

http://www.heilmandesigns.com/waterfall-crystal-creek-2.j.jpg

+++
Canvass And Palette
Soft Orange Purple Caress
Sweet Pastel Sky Sigh

http://www.cadtutor.net/ibank/raster/sky/source/sky-13.jpg

+++

Rose And Dew And Gray
Soft Simple Quiet Morning
A Taste of the Sky

http://www.georgeledger.co.uk/images/monochrome/rose%20and%20dew%202%20B&W.jpg

++++

Sky Deep Sky Blue, Rich
Sand Grass Are Hair Stalks, Rich Lines
Sharp Funk Touches Sky

http://www.qedata.se/bilder/gallerier/litauiskt-galleri/sventoji/strand-dag2.jpg

+++

Beauty's Lonely Tear
She Waits For One Who Is Gone
Flower Petal wind

http://www.duckdaotsu.org/11/LadyXiangsm.jpg

+++

Two Haiku-sketches from a picture inspiration

She Shyly Wishes
While Wondering What Elves Do
Hides Her Face And Smiles

Glowing Living Free
Sunlight Playing In The Field
These Tinies Are Gold

http://www.fotosearch.com/comp/BNS/BNS198/YPL024.jpg

++++++

That Someday I Might
The Richer Reds Dissolve, Burn Deep
Flame-Licks Tick, Tick, Tick

http://www.gladlylearn.com/Flames1024.bmp

+++

Secluded Aqua
Haven From Daily Task's Toil
Water-Peace-Mind-Rest

http://www.indodaman.com/images/The_most_famous_waterfall_in_Khao_Yai_Haeo_Suwat_Waterfall.gif

+++

comedy haiku

She Surely Knows You
She Tells You All This Daily
You Do Not Listen

http://www.americansforprosperity.org/includes/imagemanager/images/old_lady.jpg

+++

Strong Colors Dancing
Power In Every Breath
Sky As Yellow Fire

http://static.flickr.com/29/67810981_637ae582d2_b.jpg

+++

Odd Horizontal
Silly Staring Goat
Curiously Bent Eyes

http://www.shoreshheritageranch.com/photos/DSC00732_eye.JPG

+++

Little Bear Mister
Ready To Hug The Whole World
Happy Forest Day

http://imagecache2.allposters.com/images/pic/NGSPOD04/108627~A-Grizzly-Bear-Cub-Stands-with-Arms-Outstretched-Posters.jpg

++++

Take Me Back And Home
To Sleep Among Rose Petals
Dream-Rest In Eden

http://www.instruction.greenriver.edu/lmmueller/Portland%20rose%20garden.JPG

+++

Three Thoughtful Tears Today
Slowly, Deliberate, Calm
Broken Bones, Mourning

+++

Bloated Ugly Puff
Drained Wasted Bold Useless
Another Today

+++

Quiet Pale Breeze Wafts
Peony's Stinging Sweetness
All-Awed-Stark-Silence

+++

Scrawny Little Brat
Spawn Of Some Restless Gremlin
Spitball In My Ear

+++

NY Commuting
Crazy Anger Race To Nowhere
Tick Tick Tick Tick Tick

+++

Wobbly Baby Walk
Tender Chubby Cherub Cheeks
Blossom Sunrise Smile

+++

Pale Neck Lifted Back
Awe-Glory Waking Expanse
The Sky Standing Up

http://www.oursaviorchurch.org/school/faculty/gthorp/wp-content/uploads/2007/04/cornfields.jpg

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 44 replies

experience of being loved

2009-09-19T17:59:49Z

I love you like the moon loves the sky
constant and beating like my pulse
louder as your near
throw away my fear
and join you in a life
wow
get a life
thank you
for giving me a wondrous filled life experience of being loved

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 0 replies

Fun Exercise

2009-09-13T02:38:01Z

go to any random book on the shelf..

go to the first paragraph and take the first five nouns you see...and create a poem...

here's mine...

cap, place, driving, ramp, pole

His cap was bouncing in the north wind,
Moving through the city,
Moving through the city streets,
This place, it was desolate, uninviting and cold,
As three Fall leaves danced slowly on the cracking asphalt.

An old man was driving an old delivery truck,
Going through his steady daily routine,
Up the ramp,
On to the highway,
And he would make it to the Poconos and home to the kids,
Where on the third Saturday of every month,
The fishing pole beckoned to his favorite pond,
And the kids, in tow, with their rods,
The soft crackling of the stream,
And everything was all right again.

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 0 replies

Humorous Human Blog

2009-09-09T23:51:24Z

a little comedic blurb -

Ok, so, the other day I was going about my business...when, apparently, smoke started coming out of my mouth.

Which, as you can imagine, for a non-smoker, is not exactly a welcomed experience.

As my thoughts turned to spontaneous combustion, amid the grand wave of terror that struck me, a little whisper of reason was creeping around the corner.

And then, I remembered, ah....I had just sneezed (hard!) about five times. And before that I had taken some vitamins. Must have been some powdered calcium somehow coming up...

Was a pretty exciting 3.5 seconds.

A nice humorous human moment...

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 0 replies

Help Outlaw Corporate Political Pacs OCPP

2009-09-09T22:54:44Z

http://tribes.tribe.net/outlawcorporatepoliticalpacs
Outlaw Corporate Political Pacs OCPP
.........Stop Corporate Money .............
created 09/09/09

This tribe has been created in order to bring people together, who believe that corporations have corrupted our nation. And who believe, that if we come together this can be changed.

In general I am very much against censorship however this is NOT a tribe for arguing the premiss and anyone who does so will be kicked off. (You may advertise a tribe here, that has been created to disagree with us. But keep it short.)

Useful constructive criticism intended to improve our ability to achieve our ends is welcome.

If you choose to join us, Your mission is to find articles and news that will help to educate us, as well as organizations that support our cause. And to help bring in more people thru email, Tribes and other social networks. If we are successful I will start a website to continue the work.

It is my intention that we will never ask for cash donations and that this will be an all volunteer organization.

Lets start a movement to make our nation a better place with equal political power for all.

Outlaw Corporate Political Pacs OCPP
http://tribes.tribe.net/outlawcorporatepoliticalpacs

Grass roots movements start with a handful of people. Please join us. We CAN make a difference.

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 0 replies

Please Help name our organization

2009-09-09T22:52:54Z

Please Help name our organization

What is the one obstacle, to getting better laws passed in the U.S.?

Why is it so difficult to improve legislation on financial issues, health issues, credit card gouging, environmental, consumer fraud and on and on?

It is because we allow huge corporations to contribute vast sums, to our politicians election campaigns.

If we want change, in all most any area, we must stop the millions of dollars that corporations are sticking in politicians pockets!

The only way we can accomplish this is to work together to get the law that makes this possible repealed.

If we are willing to give some of our time to this effort, we can get this changed.

So what do you think we should call our organization! Any ideas?

I think we can come up with something more clever then
End corporate funding of politicians. E.C.F.O.P.

Any ideas?

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 3 replies

NaNoWriMo in Mexico!

2009-08-30T15:49:06Z

Are you doing NaNoWriMo this year and want to increase your success?

See the web page:
http://bosquevillage.com/nanowrimo/

What is NaNoWriMo?
http://www.nanowrimo.org/

NaNoWriMo contestants: We invite you to the Bosque Village for the month of November to start and finish your novel.

If you are serious about finishing a book in one month, then you want to be in a place that is designed to support all the energy you put into your audacious goal.

the view of the lakeThe Bosque Village is in a beautiful forest in the Mexican highlands. The residents and volunteers at the Bosque are dedicated to providing a creative atmosphere for NaNoWriMo participants. You will be away from the city noise and free from the obligations of family and friends. The Bosque invites writers to put themselves into an ideal space for winning NaNoWriMo 2009.

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 0 replies

I forget myself

2009-08-25T01:01:43Z

not always me
some voices visit, inhabit
and speak these words below
above the fray I fly
but it's
not always me that flies.

time seems to move in one direction,
emotions and their expressions/interpretations,
descriptions, statements, convictions, goals,
explanations, discussions, agreements, arguments, judgments.
intelligence and reason rises and falls with tides, sunrises,
sunsets, impulse, wild hairs and deliberation.

we laughed, we cried, screamed for mercy and with delight.

"But the voice of this poem is you."
of course my voice, joined in chorus
so dear, I leap as with love,
they were gathered in such fine company
it is our pleasure revealed.

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 0 replies

Self-Publishing Resources

2009-08-25T00:39:14Z

a couple of non-Tribe folks got back to me with Self-Publishing Resources:

these two look interesting:

www.blurb.com

+++++

https://www.createspace.com/

- a subsidiary of Amazon.

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 2 replies

Help brainstorming a story?

2009-08-23T15:15:15Z

I'm hoping to enter into a contest at my school, but I can't decide what to write!

This is a high school contest. I really want to enter in this because, as a senior, it's my last chance. I have several projects right now, but none would qualify as there is a set theme. The theme is beauty. Any and all help is appreciated!

I have a few ideas, but I can't seem to organize any into a storyline.
-physical beauty (as in cliques, unreasonable standards, stuck-up girls, etc) *This seems a bit overdone to me. What do you think?
-nature
-true love, personal sacrifice
-human life in general... different personalities & cultures coming together to form the human race... I'm not sure if I've described this one very well, but I hope you get what I mean.
-beauty having a different meaning for everyone, depending on their personal life experiences... beauty being what one makes of it

Thx! I'm eager to hear your ideas.
-Jessica

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 2 replies

Worldcon report; story in Year's Best SF recommended reading list

2009-08-12T22:19:27Z

You can find my long and photo-heavy report here:

http://hurricanecountry.blogspot.com/2009/08/bonjour-hi-worldcon-report.html

Among the highlights: My story "Hermit Crabs" is on the "recommended reading" list in The Year's Best Science Fiction, 26th Annual Edition. And Electric Velocipede, which published the story, received the Hugo Award for Best Fanzine.

That makes three publications in which my fiction has appeared that won awards this year. Riffing on Strings won an IPPY Silver Medal and Unspeakable Horror won a Bram Stoker Award. Not bad :D

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 0 replies

Where and when do you do it?

2009-07-24T10:00:18Z

Write that is :-)

I struggle to find the time in my life to sit down and put pen to paper or infact bash the keyboard. I most often write during my lunch hour at work. I find it is an escape from the pressures of my job.

I'd like to write more at home but at the moment I have an ancient PC that takes a decade or two to boot up so........I don't bother.

When and where do you do it?
Are you disciplined or lazy like me?

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 7 replies

Self-Publishing Question

2009-07-20T18:23:03Z

Can anyone direct me to a self publishing company that has more options than the "flip book method."

thanks!

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 0 replies

Stories of the Flea

2009-07-16T02:01:35Z

thought this page of enthusiasts might be interested
in some modern fantasy realism and sci fi lite
focusing on the character's psychological position
in supernatural or otherworldy situations
these stories of the flea are told in multimedia form
from the back of this beastly world

www.storiesoftheflea.com

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 0 replies

Blog Write - July 3rd. 7 Deer. A psychotic bee. And a dog named Sandy.

2009-07-08T05:05:27Z

So, Laurie was supposed to be off today, Friday, the 3rd. But work had an emergency and she was on the puter all day, working from home, managing yet another crises.

She is a hero.

Why she tolerates me - I have no clue.

After a long exhausting day, we decided to say the heck with our diets and go out and eat some seriously caloric, basically unhealthy (but fun) food.

The Universe decided not to allow this.

So, on the way to a car, I saw a dog on the neighbor's lawn. Now, a dog has frequently been parked on that lawn. A Golden. He lives there - in the back anyway. But he frequently gets out. I have put the dog back so many times now, that I have developed it into a science. The dog is not a particularly cooperative dawg. This dawg enjoys the freedom and finds it a great affront to his dawg pride and dignity, to be placed back in his confinement (a large backyard). So, anyway, I have developed the "fetch the stick" method of dawg removal. I fetch the stick, dawg chases the stick. When I get close enough to the backyard, I throw the stick into the backyard and run to close that gate before dawg senses the betrayal of the thing.

Unfortunately, dawg was not in front of dawg's house. It wasn't the Golden. It was another dog. So, I went up and down the block, trying to find out who's dog is was. I even asked at the house of the kid who was just arrested by the ATF (no, not joking). I had returned their dog in the past - at the time, not realizing that I was returning a dog to a wanted gun-toting drug dealer. Anyway, not their dog.

So, I went to dog on the lawn of the nice people whose little kids I give Halloween candy too. Little Mollie is so cute, it should be patented. She takes karate. She is about 7 inches tall. Ok, not that short, but short. It is terribly cute to see the very very wee ones in their little karate
gis. Anyway, back to dog.

So, I say to dog, "Dog, come here" fully expected the arrogant indifference of dawg the Golden. But this dog, who I named Blondie, because she's blond, comes quite obediently. She has a collar. I grab the collar, take off my belt and make an improvised leash.

Blondie is quite willing to go into the house. We give her water while trying to figure out what to do. Laurie heads off to buy some dog food and some tacks for the posters we are going to make. Blondie has registration tags, but no name tag with an address. It is 7:30 PM on a Friday night. I figure that Blondie is staying for the weekend and my cholesterol party is going to have to wait. Anyway, I decide to call the police. The guy is very nice, takes down the tag numbers and offers for animal control to come by. But, I figure...hey, why send Blondie to doggie prison, when we could put her up till Monday.

Laurie comes back with the food, Blondie is quite satisfied with the cuisine...and everything is hunky dory in the land of the Jersey suburbs.

We take Blondie out in the backyard and tie her up to a tree, so she can walk around. I start to go around the neighborhood to put up the posters, when I here a scream from Laurie. She is by the dog, and I figure that Blondie and Laurie no longer get along....and in a very serious way.

I run my bad back laden bloat of a body over to her...to discover that she is being attacked by some swarm of bees! I am tired, tired from the Blondie adventure, not knowing what to do, the bee is stuck somewhere, stinging her, can't get it away, I don't know what else to do...so I grab the garden hose and douse Laurie to chase away the bees.

For anyone who has ever been in a relationship, I can say this: that dousing your loving partner with water is about as enjoyable (in terms of payback) as getting stung by a swarm of bees. So, anyway, I douse Laurie. She is soaked, her glasses have flown off and gone.. but, the bees are gone.

I escort Laurie back into the house. I go back to talk to Blondie, who by now is herself freaked out by the swarm of bees, by Laurie screaming, by the neighbors running to see why Laurie was screaming...and apparently, by the financial crises, as Blondie is a reflective, caring and thoughtful dog and has been greatly concerned by the diminishing Asian markets.

The leash is now wrapped around the tree 900 times. I take half a millenium to untangle it, while trying to keep Blondie from losing it completely.....and head back into the house....where....of course.....Laurie, apparently, is still being attacked by a swarm of bees, now inside our house!!!

I come up to her and see the bee...(it is actually just one, but, apparently a pretty devotedly psychotic one). The little demon is entangled in her hair, unfazed by the garden hose dousing and still on its victim, my Laurie. I grab the little demon, the little demon falls to the ground. I execute him with my near ancient tennis shoes. Well, just one. But I am fat and the weight on one tennis shoe on the end of a big fat NJ hippie is enough of a match to send the psychotic bee to bee Heaven - where, no doubt, he will be entertaining the other bees for decades with a story to get them all laughing hysterically about the pathetic little humans that we all are.

The bee is done and down and gone. But Blondie is still around. Now I discover that Blondie had actually growled at Laurie and Laurie, post bee incident, is none too interested in Blondie's questionable behavior. Matt from next door, the owner of lovable pit bull Tootie, brings over a leash and some dog food.

I look for the glasses. They are nowhere to be found.

I don't know what to do about Blondie, so I just take her for a walk. She really starts to pull and I think...hey, maybe Blondie knows where Blondie lives! So l let Blondie lead and she does, for a bit anyway, but then it just stops. There is a man hanging around on the next block and I ask if Blondie looks familiar. He thinks so. So, I head up the block, find some neighbors who recognize Blondie! Of course, the owners aren't home. I arrange a multi-vector inverse non-linear piece of calculus to weigh all the variables in resolution to the problem...and, in another hour, Blondie is taken in by a neighbor who has contacted Blondie's owner. Her real name is Sandy.

I get back to Laurie and check in on her. I get a flashlight and realize that I will be spending the next few hours outside, looking for the glasses on the lawn.

I find them. And actually, reasonably quickly. The neighbors a couple of houses over, who I never really talk to, I look at and just shout, "Yes, I found them! I can have dinner!" (did I mention the weight issue?)

I bring them back to Laurie. We decide to go out and eat pancakes at 10PM. Pancakes, it turns out, are very good at 10 PM. Laurie gets some with chocolate chips in them. I don't know when they started putting chocolate chips in pancakes, but whoever decided to do that is a genius. That person deserves to win a Nobel Prize. Heck, Dr. Chips deserves all of them.

We head back. We decide to take the scenic route. Apparently, deer, in NJ, also like the scenic route. One is on the side of the road, about two feet from our car. I stop to encourage little Bambi not to become road kill. Bambi does not speak human. She moves away for a second and is quite ready to return. But we are in an empty park at 11PM...and there are so few cars and Bambi is about as safe as she could ever be in NJ. And, by the way, exceedingly cute. Even cuter than the little kid across the street in her karate gi.

Bambi, as it turns out, has cousins. Six of them at least. We meet two more sets of deer, three in each, going home. All just a couple of feet from the car...and these are on roads more well traveled. So, I make more serious efforts to be annoying to Bambis #2 - #7. And with success. Being annoying comes easily to me. I actually don't have to do anything. Apparently, it is my natural state. The Bambis appreciate this and move along.

July 3rd. 7 Deer. A psychotic bee. And a dog named Sandy.

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 2 replies

Deviations reviewed at Old Musty Books; Unspeakable Horror Wins a Bram Stoker Award; more

2009-06-24T22:23:56Z

Rachel Baker at Old Musty Books writes, "If you are looking for something different with a great story line, I would suggest reading these books. They are very well written and draw the reader into the story, possibly against their will."

My blog entry has the details:
http://deviationstrilogy.blogspot.com/2009/06/thank-yous.html

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 0 replies

short collection of stories

2009-06-22T03:44:30Z

anyone know anything about finding publisher's for short collections, like 5 stories @ 75 pages total?

genre: satire, graphic novel, ficiton

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 7 replies

firewood (original poetry)

2009-06-19T22:31:34Z

Here is something of mine:

*Firewood
Gathering firewood in the field behind the house
twigs blackened and stiff as charred matchsticks
grasped in chubby mittens
the crows scold, scatter brightly, fiercely, deathly,
louder than their raucous laughter
sharper than eyes that burn from heatless light
the children’s boots punch holes through
a plaster-meringue floor tinged Arctic-blue with cold
as Grandma’s fist hits hard into bundled dough for bread
Grandpa cracking walnuts at the kitchen table
swallowed in a lumpy sweater of ash-tone
the collected sticks crumbling hot in the woodstove
Careful, meticulous, they pick out the shattered
fragments of shell scarring the pock-marked face
of an ancient, splintered bowl, a relic from another day.
He conducts an orchestra of fingers
that move and glide through air
like silent violins that fear the night.

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 2 replies

31 Different Translations of One Basho Haiku

2009-06-12T05:37:03Z

Thought folks might get a kick out of this website:

http://www.bopsecrets.org/gateway/passages/basho-frog.htm

It has 31 different translations of one of Basho's haikus. The range is so big, between the various pieces...you can hardly recognize them as being the same poem.

I guess the only way to truly tell is study Japanese!

take care,

Jon

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 3 replies

Three writers

2009-05-21T21:14:21Z

HI everyone,
I'm disseminating this nice interview with Natalie Goldberg ( plus Greg Levoy & Miriam Sagan) and I thought that it could be interesting to post it in this tribe... ; )

warm greetings
Zorro

Interview with Natalie Goldberg: "Life is detail"

http://www.futureprimitive.org/interviews/156

...also:

Interview with Gregg Levoy

Gregg Levoy is the author of Callings: Finding and Following An Authentic Life and This Business of Writing (Writer’s Digest Books). He has written for the New York Times Magazine, Washington Post, Omni, Psychology Today, American Health, Reader’s Digest, New Age Journal, and many others, as well as for corporate, promotional and television projects.
A former adjunct professor of journalism at the University of New Mexico, and former columnist and reporter for the Cincinnati Enquirer and USA Today, he is the recipient of a 1st-Place writing award from the Associated Press, and a Genesis Award for "Outstanding Newspaper Commentary" for a New York Times Magazine essay.
http://www.futureprimitive.org/interviews/138

Interview with Miriam Sagan

Miriam Sagan is the author of over twenty books, including a memoir, Searching for a Mustard Seed : A Young Widow’s Unconventional Story (Winner best Memoir from Independent Publishers, 2004). Her poetry includes Rag Trade, The Widow’s Coat), and The Art of Love.

Sagan directs the creative writing program at Santa Fe Community College, and has taught at the College of Santa Fe, University of New Mexico, Taos Institute of the Arts, Aspen Writer’s Conference, around the country, and on line for writers.com and UCLA Extension. She has held residency grants at Yaddo and MacDowell, and is the recipient of a grant from The Barbara Deming Foundation/Money for Women and a Lannan Foundation Marfa Residency.

http://www.futureprimitive.org/interviews/120

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 0 replies

Riffing on Strings Receives IPPY Silver Medal

2009-05-21T17:02:21Z

Riffing on Strings: Creative Writing Inspired by String Theory (Scriblerus Press), which contains my story "Arachne," has won an IPPY Silver Medal. Details at http://bit.ly/BjqdR.

"Arachne" originally appeared in the Dec. 1988 issue of Aboriginal Science Fiction. Writing it was a fabulous ride that I blogged about here:
http://hurricanecountry.blogspot.com/2005/07/weaving-without-loom.html

The anthology includes fiction, poetry, essays, artwork, and a play. Congratulations to editors Sean Miller and Shveta Verma and to all contributors! Ordering info at
http://www.banyancollege.org/scriblerus/index.php?option=com_content&task=section&id=6&Itemid=38

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 2 replies

Appetite Released/Upcoming Radio Spot/Oasis/New Plains Review

2009-05-18T04:31:49Z

Vol. 2 of my series, Deviations: Appetite, is now live! The sequel to Covenant was originally slated to be released by Aisling Press in 2008, before that publisher folded. I'm now offering both volumes as free downloads, with plans to release Vol. 3, Destiny, in December.

You can tune in on May 28th at 6:30 PM ET to hear me on Blogtalk radio. I'll be Mark Eller's guest on Chronicles ( http://www.blogtalkradio.com/MarkEller ), a joint project of The Write Stuff (http://www.thewritestufftv.com/ ) and Shadow Play Entertainment.

I'll also be a guest at Oasis, the convention hosted by the Orlando Area Science Fiction Society, May 22-24.

A creative nonfiction piece appears in the "Short Takes" section of New Plains Review's "Service" issue, Spring 2009.

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 1 reply

Literary magazine looking for character-focused writing and photography

2009-05-02T21:26:16Z

Conclave: A Journal of Character is looking for character-driven writing and photography.

Conclave is an annual print journal that focuses on character-driven writing in short stories, flash fiction, creative nonfiction, poetry, and prose poems. Conclave also includes black and white photographs and excerpts from plays: monologues, scenes, single acts, or one-act plays.

This year Conclave is also awarding the 2009 Conclave Character Prizes in Fiction, Poetry, and Photography. All submissions will be accepted April 1 through July 1, 2009.

For more information, see online submission guidelines at www.conclavejournal.com

Thank you.
Valya Dudycz Lupescu, Editor
Conclave: A Journal of Character
www.conclavejournal .com

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 0 replies

What do you think ?

2009-04-24T17:22:10Z

A little writing I did:

Pe, pe peo ple said his brain was infected by devils
In fected by, in fected by, in fected by devils
People said his brain was infected by devils
On top of a hill, partly hidden by a group of tightly knit oak trees, sits an ivy covered mansion. Its large windows, tall floors and opulently decorated well kept halls inevitably inspire old wealth. Money you can loose with a drug habit and a couple of well intentioned friends. Wealth?, you can’t get rid of wealth. As generations pass it gathers a mind of its own. The family relinquishes all responsibility to lawyers and smart money growers. The only occupation family members employ: gratuitous spending and mingling with their like. So removed from the world of ordinary mortals they no longer seem to be a part of it.
A large room, ceiling engraved with lions and eagles surrounding the masonic sign .A sturdy sculpted massive wooden door, held together in iron straps, is facing a big top rounded window. The white walls are lined with bookcases loaded with eminent, classy looking books, the classic signs of an impressive and valuable book collection in a house where nobody reads.
It’s sunny outside, golden white glinting upon every surface. But upon passing through the window of this room the light becomes cold, grey and depressing. The feeling you get when sitting in a dark room glancing outside to the bright sunlight. Bats like this feeling, it makes them feel secure, why can’t some men too?
An old bitter looking man sits in a tall, oak, armchair – its arms are sculpted in the shape of two lion heads roaring and showing their teeth. The man sits with his back to the window, in a dignified, yet leisurely position. Impeccably dressed he wears: dark colored slippers, a pair of smooth gray silk pajama pants, a silk ruby red caftan with a black low neck & thick black sleeves & a thick red foulard around his neck. His face is dark and covered with gray three day old stubble. Eyes are black, penetrating and seem to blaze anything that they point at. The hair is full, soft, grey and combed back as only italian mafioso’s know how. His hands are wiry and seem to clutch his beautifully adorned glass of cognac, reminding of an eagle, perched in a tree upon a rocky mountain and scanning the valley below.
As with most old people his most habitual facial expression was firmly itched upon his face. As such, even the smiles of Augustus Cromwell have a menacing look to them. This is because his most accessed emotion is anger, with hate as a close second. Known to his closest “friends” as Augustus C, he is as bitter as wormwood and as mean as only a man who has had everything and enjoyed nothing can be.
A thought carelessly goes through his mind, grabbing his attention and discharging one of his constant smile/scowls: “They will all die! There we will all be equal and their happy, empty, useless lives won’t mean anything”.
The air is thick and anything that can be heard pains the ear. Every sound in this room is born of the deepest silence. And, as the first sweeping note of a violin solo brings/sings hope, so does every noise here sing desperation and emptiness. OR The air seems to vibrate with even the smallest of noises as the deep silence of this room seems to be always broken by sounds that have the effect of smashing glass upon a weak heart.
A servant opens the door, he asks softly:
- Will there be anything else, sir?
- Get out of here James, go back to that rundown house of yours! he spits in a bitter spiteing tongue.
James voice changes to cold and official:
- Very well, have a pleasant weekend sir. He turns and leaves, slowly closing the door behind him.
- Fuck You! the bitter old man yells, interrupting a sip from his drink.

Augustus Cromwell sits alone, smoldering, half muttering, half yelling to himself:
- Damn these servants, you pay their fucking kid’s schools and this is how they behave! Vermin!
The air is still.
A sharp pain in the chest. Every heartbeat is a hammer slammed to his eardrum. Tightness grips his throat. Sweat pours from every pore: salty, wet and cold. Augustus Cromwell is dying. He knows this and decides on an aristocratic pose for his soon stiffening corpse. His shaking hand places the cognac on the small XVII century hand sculpted coffee table next to him. He leans back trying to still himself. The pain jerks his chest and sends his body to the floor. His mind curses: “(Why doesn’t anything ever work out the way you want it. By Monday, I’ll be smelly and swollen. I should have exploded myself in a sunken coffin”. Heaving throes shake the body. It gasps for air. It dies.
Silence. 13 seconds pass. If anyone where there, they would have noticed that a hundred years seemed a lot shorter. And, as the falling tree that no one hears, this sensation leaves a memory only in the mind of the universe.
As if from every point on the window, the air ripples.
A see through figure raises itself up from the facedown carcass. Its body is young, supple and somehow... ideal. The apparition looks around as if savoring its surroundings, stretching and flexing its body. It slowly starts showing discernable features.
The hair is black and the eyes are even more piercing. Augustus’s face is glowing white with health, yet, underneath the robust skin, the old man’s scowl still lurks.
NOTE: A spirit is not the same as a ghost. A ghost is a spirit that is free. A spirit is what is left of us when our bodies die – sometimes called a soul, but rarely as this usually has a different meaning.
A crackling sounds starts building in the room – a black portal bubbles itself into existence upon the surface of the window.
NOTE: A war scythe is a vicious looking weapon that is used by death angels due to its extensive offensive and defensive capabilities. It mainly consists of three parts: a 1.80 meter long, straight, lightweight metal shaft called a snaith, a blade and a grip. The blade is 60 centimeters long, sturdy and curved; it is mounted perpendicularly to the toe of the snaith. The upper end of the snaith consists of a heavy spherical holding grip. This has three main uses: to allow the scythe to be grasped securely, even while swung one handedly, to counterbalance the weight of the blade allowing it to function as a quarterstaff and, finally, to bludgeon as a mace.
The death angel tightens his hold on the grip of his scythe, with a mighty push of his huge black wings he pounces through the portal. His eyes sting as he bursts through, as if jumping wide eyed into water.
The tightly held metal ball is slammed into the apparition’s chest, smashing its body through a bookcase.
The spirit of Augustus screams, the air turns into searing needles, halting the death angel midstride in his advancing attack. The spirit kneels and immediately jumps forward, an electrically blue energy emanating from the clenched fist of his extended arm.
A counterclockwise spin of the scythe blocks the attack, fluidly followed by a blow that crashes the metal ball into the apparitions jaw, sending it to the floor. It narrowly avoids a downward flaming scythe strike so strong it judders the decking.
Nimbly, the young Augustus lifts himself upon his hands to a crouching position and explodes into another deafening yell. The sound climbs higher and higher, caressing every pain receptor it can reach. It slowly seems to take shape, catching fire.
Blake buries the blade of his scythe into the ground, holding onto it for balance against the tidal wave power of the scream. His huge black crow-feathered wings close around his body; an imperfect sphere is engulfed by raging fire.
As his energy is expanded, the yell dies down.
The death angels wings spring open, dispelling the smoke; he closes the distance. He slashes downward and diagonally.
Augustus dodges, the scythes blade passing over his head as he rotates his torso.
Quick as an arrow, Augustus rotates his torso around the scythe, its glistening blade passing over his lowered head, grabs it by the heel and lodges it into the floor’s wooden planking.
The disarmed death angel is grabbed by the neck, lifted into the air and violently slammed to the floor.
Having already grabbed the apparition by the wrist, Blake pulls it downwards. His metal heal connects with the nasal bone in a muffled crunch. In one fluid graceful move, Augustus Cromwell’s body is lifted onto the same foot, thrown to the floor, and straddled. The Askaran Dagger pierces his throat to the hilt.
NOTE: An Askaran Dagger is a modified Xiphoid – a retractable forearm dagger, a class of weapons whose blade is housed in a forearm worn wristband. The Askaran Dagger is a single bladed weapon, with one sleeve, housed in a simple, dual spring loaded guide rail. It differs from an assassin’s tool in regard to the fact that it must be manually retracted. The sleeve allows the blade to double its length, reaching 40 centimeters above the knuckles. The blade is sharp, double edged, 3 centimeter wide at the base and made from an unknown metal that is as hard and lightweight as titanium, but shines as only polished silver can. This weapon is intended for piercing but has enough length and resistance to be used for slashing as well.
Golden white blood drips from the blade, it blackens and hardens before reaching the ground. The air feels as a just sheathed sword, the smooth impeccable end of a consummate action; completeness as an attribute of motion.
Energy flows anew. Clothes shred and rip themselves away from the body, as if of their own volition. The chest is exposed. With rakish speed the sign of Caiaphas is carved deeply into the apparition’s otherworldly flesh.
Most onlookers, had there been any, would have thought this symbol looks corporate. They would also have thought that this isn’t a noteworthy observation. The fact that corporations share similar characteristics to what we usually deem as evil: ruthlessness, selfishness, cruelty or irrationality would not have occurred to them; neither would the fact that beings with similar mental characteristics, share similar physical characteristics, no matter the inner workings of any particular universe.
Blake’s wrist is slit, the sacrifice is made.
Deeply, the ritual of Baqir is asseverated:

Puon het lordw ni a tReag hitew droush Upon the world in a great white shroud
Tiss het engal tiwh het rakd gwins fo Khan, sits the angel with the dark wings of Khan,
Sih deah si gihh, ubt sih reath si wol, His head is high, but his heart is low,
Lifedl tiwh het naip fo naterel feli fwol, Filled with the pain of eternal life flow,
Ubt vene sa sih naip verne vesdicee, But even as his pain never deceives,
Sih lliw ot perwo verne His will to power never recedes
Nad roughth sih lliw: And through his will I now command:
Het tingpar fo royu nibeg nito tandist sevalh The parting of your being into distant halves

Blood drips upward from Augustus’s lacerations. Tiny droplets spin around each other, faster and faster, bubbling, extruding hair-like tentacles, weaving themselves into a golden ring: two serpents with hollow eyes, one devouring a large, oval ruby, the other coiling around it. A new Mnemon’ankh is forged.
NOTE: Mnemon’ankh - loosely translates as memory of life. Such artifacts come into existence at the separation of the mind (memory, personality, ego) from the spirit (essence, the primal you, what is left when everything that is changeable is stripped away). It encompasses all the memories and experiences of the birthers life.
A sturdy silver chain slithers silently through the air; it flows through the Mnemon’ank’s orifice and closes behind Blake’s neck. It lets itself fall, clattering with other chains and rings.
The death angel hoists the mutilated body on his shoulder. He slowly walks to the portal. The moment he passes through flames erupt. Books burn, blackened blood boils, glass cracks. As the blaze devours the room its former aspect returns.
The room is unchanged, yet quite different. The feeling is warm, the air is peaceful and the light seems to have gathered strength, peering through the glass and playfully casting the shadow of an old willow tree next to the corpse of an old man.

Sugestions & usefull criticism is quite welcome.

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 0 replies

The Age of Cynicism.

2009-04-22T15:59:23Z

As age progressed throughout my life. With it came the hope of wisedom, along with the need to explore, discover & reveal.

My intellectual capacities have been avid in its quest for knowledge, but along the way somewhere, cynicim creeped into my lifes observations.

It took another persons lifes work ie: C.S.Lewis & the Narnia Chronicles & other critic`s views of his work for me to see this quality of cynicism at work within myself.

Revealed in a documentary & book called Planet Narnia by Michael Ward, was not only C.S.Lewis`s path of life, but the way he dealt with it in the Narnia Chronicles, which lay undiscovered until now.C.S.lewis was himself in younger life, a cynic!

Here is my take on it & how it has related to me & others who may feel the pressure of this poke.

`Cynicim for the most part is the bitter & unresolved tongue of lifes pains & disappointments, desperately wanting to both justify & argue its case, laying bare its intellectual armour.

Until one day it inevitably meets in battle, another verbal warrior, who is cleverer & has the truth of love on its side. Then the cynic is struck to the ground. The audience who has listened to the cynic`s arguements-suddenly questions both themselves & the cynic`s case!

In this questioning comes doubt-in doubt, the cynic`s force is no-more.The cynic is left with his original question & no armour.

He cannot look around him for the answers, for all he sees is the tattered remains of a battlefield of words.

His armour is gone & he stands naked.

When the words, in all there numbers fall away like raindrops from a sodden body, all that is left, is what you are, your true, vulnerable self- a young spirit that wants to love & be loved! The essence of YOU, before life bullied you away from your innocence, into accepting the views & fears of others.

Humility brings you to your knees at moments life this, your ego has disappated like a passing storm cloud & your eyes clear to see the glory of this life we live in.

The doors that have slammed behind you & before you, suddenly open to let in the light.

The shining pure truth, that is love & acceptance.

This is the pinnacle of human understanding.

An embracement of all that is YOU & all that is different.

For it is not only YOU that is special, but all that is DIFFERENT, that makes YOU.

To fight against differences is to go to war with yourself.

Our paths may not be the same. The territory passed may be familiar or starange, but the destinations are all the same.

We are seeking ourselves, the core of our souls.

The place of love & friendship.

A place to be accepted & to accept....

HOME...a home that is within & without. A place that walks with you wherever you go....YOU & your HOME are one of the same !

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 1 reply

artist's statement

2009-04-08T18:56:14Z

Has anyone any hints or suggestions for writing an artists statement [my first one]?

Submitting to a very well known university for a residency/grant.

any tricks would be amazing and thankfully accepted!

cheers,
niki

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 1 reply

Story Acceptance and Publicity

2009-04-08T02:30:43Z

My story "Judgment at Naioth" has been accepted to the Dybbuk Press anthology She Nailed a Stake Through His Head: Tales of Biblical Terror.

The horror anthology title refers to the incident in Judges 4:21. My story does some Midrash on much of 2 Samuel.

Thanks to Julianne Draper, who profiled me at
http://www.examiner.com/x-6332-Tampa-SciFiFantasy-Books-Examiner~y2009m4d1-Author-Profile-Elissa-Malcohn

Julianne blogs for the Miami Examiner's online Tampa edition.

A second publication in which my work has appeared is up for an award. In addition to Unspeakable Horror being on the final Bram Stoker Award ballot, the magazine Electric Velocipede (which published my story "Hermit Crabs" last year in #14) is on the ballot for a Hugo Award:
http://anticipationsf.ca/English/Hugos
Congrats to editor John Klima!

The interview that hosts Glenda and Tony Finkelstein did with me last October at Necronomicon is now airing on the Internet radio show The Andromeda Library, which broadcasts daily from 4-6 a.m. and p.m. Eastern Time on Ad Astra Radio. Glenda's blog gives details:
http://blogs.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=blog.view&friendId=181623487&blogId=481161835

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 0 replies

Just a bit dissappointed.

2009-04-06T17:34:25Z

I'm just a bit dissappointed. Maybe I was expecting to much. What do you think?

I came to Tribe thinking thast this would be a good place to meet other writers. I hoped that I would meet people who like me were struggling to improve their work, so that I would have a free flowing forum where ideas would be discussed, advice given. All in an environment that offered support.

A lively forum, after all, the fellow members would be writers. People who enjoyed writing.

BUT

The writng related tribes I have joined have been slow. Hardly anyone posts anything.

Was I expecting too much?

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 1 reply

What are you reading?

2009-03-30T16:24:08Z

I feel when I'm not writing well enough, I realize it's because I don't read enough. So it brought me to the idea that I wonder what people are reading these days. So, I'd liked to know. Currently I'm reading, "The Archetypes and The Collective Unconscious," by C.G. Jung, "Crank," by Ellen Hopkins, and Year's Best Fantasy and Horror. I was reading, "Menmoch the Devil," by Anne Rice, but I lost the book awhile ago and recently found it. Haven't started reading it again, yet.

What are you reading these days?

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 8 replies

Unspeakable Horror Becomes Bram Stoker Award Finalist; Covenant Re-released

2009-03-26T18:13:55Z

Unspeakable Horror: From the Shadows of the Closet (Dark Scribe Press, 2008) has reached the final ballot for the Bram Stoker Award for Superior Achievement in an Anthology.

My story "Memento Mori" appears in the anthology, in very good company!

To read about this year's Stoker Awards, given by the Horror Writers Association: http://www.stokers2009.org/
To get anthology details, including links to reviews and interviews: http://www.darkscribemagazine.com/about-the-anthology/
To order Unspeakable Horror: http://astore.amazon.com/darkscrimaga-20/detail/0981863205

Congratulations and thanks go to editors Vince Liaguno and Chad Helder and to everyone involved with the work. And congratulations to all the other Stoker finalists!

In other news, I've re-released Covenant, the first installment of my six-volume Deviations series, as a free download. Details and download link here:

http://home.earthlink.net/~deviations/index.html

Covenant was originally published by Aisling Press in 2007. The sequel, Appetite, was to be released last September.

Downloads of the second edition (ISBN 978-0-9819764-0-2, distribution allowed, all other rights reserved) are available in formats compatible with Kindle, Microsoft Reader, Palm and other PDAs, and Sony Reader, plus .pdf and HTML files that can be read on a browser. I plan to post Appetite before the summer.

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 1 reply

Worse than the Internal Editor...

2009-03-22T07:53:32Z

Is the Internal English Teacher!!!

Thinking of an image....
(And what does this image mean? What does it represent? How should we interpret this?)

Trying to find the right word...
(And why did the author choose this word? Can you think of a better one? Why or why not?)

Thinking of what comes next...
(Predict what happens next. Were you right? Were you wrong? How could one resolve this issue?)

Damn you my Education! You have ruined me!

Argh!

=)

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 0 replies

Def Poetry - "The Hebrew Mamita" Vanessa Hidary

2009-03-06T09:54:57Z

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ubdGjzzJiVs

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 0 replies

A Cautionary Tale: Let The Seller Beware

2009-02-27T09:15:20Z

See this post for info:
http://hurricanecountry.blogspot.com/2009/02/let-seller-beware.html

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 0 replies

The Lunch Blog / Coffee Poem Blog

2009-02-19T18:34:34Z

Hi everybody...

Hope everyone is doing well.

Got out a bit today and caught a little lunch...and jotted this down. My writing chops are a little rusty...not quite catching "it", but maybe a decent line or two in there....

The Lunch Blog

The Daily Special - Hope and Encouragement, only $7.95

I got out today. Made it over to a diner that just opened and sat down. I was next to the pastry case. It was filled with...well, it was filled with joy. The pastry chef had made a bunch of cute little desserts shaped like a cow, or with M&M's - all bright colors, dancing around in mirth.

I was filled with thoughts of worry and anxiousness, waiting to see where the day would take me.

I noticed two old men walking in. Both wearing caps of World War II veterans. I don't see many of them anymore. One of them must have been 85 years old. He was shuffling past me and I stopped for a second and began to think more deeply about him, about who he was and what that generation meant. This was a warrior. A man who risked his life to bring down Hitler and world tyranny. And here he was, having lunch with a friend. It moved me. I don't know why I caught the moment. I don't know why I didn't think he was "just another old guy." But I didn't.

Then another vet walked in...and another and another...until perhaps 10 or more had walked in. And I recalled my Dad and my step-father - both who had served in WWII. What a generation! What a generation of honorable men!

I finished my lunch and walked outside. There was another veteran in the parking lot, walking around. I didn't understand. Then, I saw a car with an open door. He was looking for the owner. 80 years old or more and still looking to help and protect others! The warrior code had never left this man, this Atlas helping to hold up the world. And his discipline was infectious, as pretty soon several people in the parking lot became concerned and tried to help.

I left there, moved by the honor of these great men, and injected with a new sense of hope and purpose and joy. Warriors, still out there, fighting for what was right...and, for me, smashing this day's doubts and sarcasm and disillusionment.

The Daily Special - Hope and Encouragement, only $7.95

+++

I also wrote a poem, maybe 15 years ago...about just the warmth, the "hearth" of drinking some hot coffee in, on a winter day.....

This is My Japanese Tea Ceremony

Is the wind, wind?
Does the wind have particles?
I find them imbedded in me,
(What is it I find embedded in me?)
when I walk on winter mornings?

I can see the sky's clear, clear blue horizon-strip,
As I walk on winter mornings,
Walk on to my corner little coffee store.

I love coffee.
I love the white paper cups, the smells, sugar packets,
Their red plastic containers.
I love coffee.

My store's Jersey check out girl says, "How're ya today?"
With the slight of a note trailing off, singing, fading.
I smile at her and joke, "You're too old for me."
Check out girls can look with mom eyes,
Can look clear through,
Can look with eyes that love,
And she says, "You're funny,"
Eyes smiling with mom-love.

I love the coffee odors,
The quiet stand on counters are all old friends.
Tan-brown dignified coats pass in and out,
And have passed in and out,
All these many memories held in the stains and packets.
How may quick hellos and goodbyes I have loved!
I love coffee.

Coffee, the hot things,
They warm me.
My time has come,
I walk out on my winter morning.

The sky's distant blue strip,
It, it calms and calls, beckons, says, "Here, my friend,
I offer you another day."

I drink coffee,
In my oasis, I drink the warm things deep inside me.

take care,

Jon

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 0 replies

Blackbird - Video Essay Submissions

2009-02-09T15:22:06Z

BLACKBIRD - AN ONLINE JOURNAL OF LITERATURE AND THE ARTS
SPECIAL CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS: THE VIDEO ESSAY

http://www.has.vcu.edu/eng/resources/blackbird.htm

Postmark / Email receipt deadline: April 3, 2009

About video essays
Like its print counterpart, the video essay is an attempt of personal reflection while engaging with the facts of the world. The video essay, writes Phillip Lopate, “wears proudly the confusion of an independent soul trying to grope in isolation toward truth.” Agnes Varda, the poetic French filmmaker who coined the term cinécriture, or film-writing, best described the promise of the video essay when noting that, for her, writing meant more than simply wording a script.

Choosing images, designing sound—these, too, are part of that process. At its best, the video essay combines the visceral power of sound and image, building a sympathetic resonance with language and taking a direct route to the senses. We believe this emerging form of creative nonfiction to be, by its very nature, personal, poetic, open to invention. We invite your explorations.

Specifically, Blackbird is seeking video essays between two and ten minutes in length (with five to seven minutes being an ideal).

Submissions accepted for publication will be asked for accompanying text, preferably a process statement about your work.

Work is intended for publication in the v8n2 Fall 2009 issue of Blackbird.

Submitting via email
Do NOT send work as an attachment. Rather send an URL link to an online version of work.
Send all email submissions to transom@vcu.edu -- This email address is a submission drop box only.

Begin the subject line of your email with Video Essay.

In the body of the email, type or paste your cover letter, which should include:

* your name, mailing address, email address, and phone number.
* the title of submitted work.
* work's exhibition history (if any).
* URL link to online version of the work.
* (standard formats preferred: .mov, .avi or .swf)

Submitting via regular mail

* Mail your video essay in a page-size manila envelope, your full name and address on the outside, to Editor, Video Essays.
* Video essay must be submitted in one of the following standard formats: .mov (Quick Time), .avi (AVI file format), or .swf (flash).

Include a cover letter, which should include:

* name, mailing address, email address, and phone number.
* the title and length of submitted work.
* work's exhibition history (if any).

Media must be clearly labeled with name, email, and title of submission.

Media will not be returned.

All correspondence regarding submissions will be by email.

Mail submissions to:

Blackbird
VCU Department of English
P.O. Box 843082
Richmond, VA 23284-3082

Accepted video work will be hosted on our server and remain online in our archive.

Direct all queries to: blackbird@vcu.edu

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 0 replies

A question on terminology

2009-02-07T19:02:02Z

What do you call someone who is in charge of a will? I was doing an editing check on a short story I wrote and realize I referred to a character as being "an executor of the will" I honestly don't even know if that is right, but I thought I would check. Also, what do you call someone's belongings? An estate? Also, what does it take to transfer property? A simple signature?

It's only a small part of the story, but I would rather it be correct than not.

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 2 replies

Advice on Research

2009-02-07T08:31:01Z

Hey all,

I'm thinking of a writing a story dealing with the issue of Alzheimer's as part of the plot. But I don't know much about the disease, nor about the emotional journey one has to deal with when having a loved one suffer from this affliction. I did however have a grandmother suffer from lung cancer, and I wonder if the emotional journey is the same and would I just transfer my own experience with this to a different affliction? The plot of the story itself would in fact be very close to what I dealt with my grandmother (who practically raised me) but of course with the "what if?" factor thrown in.

Personally, I'm fascinated and saddened by the issue of Alzheimer's which is why i wanted to write a story that involved it, but with no personal experience would my depiction be trite and superficial?

Any advice is greatly appreciated.

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 6 replies

Iowa Summer Writing Festival

2009-01-22T22:54:54Z

I have heard very good things about some of the Mid-Western writing conferences...I think this is one of them, but not entirely positive...

thought I would pass it along

(I have no connection with the group)

Iowa Summer Writing Festival
The University of Iowa

http://www.uiowa.edu/~iswfest

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 0 replies

For Disabled Writers and Filmmakers

2009-01-18T17:42:53Z

This company is looking for disabled filmmakers and writers. I believe UK residents only:

Magic Hour is a groundbreaking new UK-wide short film scheme aimed at disabled filmmakers. We are looking for writers and directors with passion and talent to make bold films which portray disability on the screen in a way that is innovative in both form and content.

http://www.themagichour.org.uk/

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 0 replies

graphics

2009-01-13T19:37:56Z

I need a graphics/paint program. I am not an artist, but I am a SF writer, or trying to anyway. I would like something that I could put 3D object together to make a space ship or the like. I would like to use jpgs and bumps to bit map over objects. And I'd like to make maps. Is there a program that will do all of this that is relatively cheep?
I am thinking about CorelDraw and paint shop pro. Anyone know anything about them? Or is there something better out there?

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 0 replies

Covering All The Bases

2008-12-25T20:57:46Z

The song/video below is something I wrote not too long ago. The music and vocals are recorded by another tribe member, Selkie who is not only a talented musician and artist, but also a true friend.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_daTsixfb04

I'm covering the bases
Looming in high places
Catch me if you can
Catch me
Watch me

I'm circling the vision
Living with the collision
Take me if you can
Catch me
Watch me

Now I'm falling from the clouds
From high atop the endless sky
Trickling down like raindrops
Drifting along until the day I die

Slowly flying across this place
Endless games and holiday parades
Trickling down like snowflakes
Fluttering down
Spiraling down
Touching the ground

All I hear now are the shapes of time
All I can see are the spheres and the divide
All I can taste are the random pieces of lime
All I can smell are the oils and the grime
It's just not feeling pure

I'm covering all the bases
Taking my time with millions of faces
Learning the language and letting her in
Living and jumping in a room full of sin

Catch me
Watch me

By: Bruce Clifford
10/29/08

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 0 replies

Need critical regard

2008-12-22T17:41:13Z

Hey everybody

I'm kind of new to the writing game, well I've been writing most of my life, it's just only become serious recently. Anyway I've been wirting short stories (aiming for twelve by the end of the year) and I have finished one. What I really need now is some critical reception. What could I do better, what is good, does it all make sense etc. Of course, during the first to wherever I'm up to now drafting process, I have had one person aiding me slightly, but I really want more feedback. So anyway I was wondering if some people here could help me with that. Basically I'm not going to put it up on this post because it is 5 a4 pages and well yea. But if anyone is interested in helping could then please just reply on here with an e-mail address and I'll send them a copy which they can scrutinise in anyway and send back to me with notes for improvement.

Thanks

Max

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 6 replies

20 December, Northern hemisphere

2008-12-20T14:07:39Z

That sun is sinking,
Lower and lower every day,
Dragging its belly
Across the horizon -
I hope it doesn't disappear for good
This year,
That the earth tilts
Back the way it usually does
At the winter solstice -
But who knows for sure?
Maybe this is the end
Of that old habit
And the planet cuts loose and drifts
Into the cosmic, bitter darkness,
Taking itself into oblivion along with
All our silly dreams, our dramas,
Our fears great and small,
Our superstitious daily habits
And all that passes for thought - who knows?
Sooner or later
Everything will just drift apart and
Disappear, won't they? - but wait,
Let's just wait and see,
Say a little prayer, if you like,
Or just light a candle or
Give someone a warm smile
And maybe, just maybe,
Once again the earth will tilt
Back and the days will grow longer
And we can go on
Hopelessly dreaming
For another year.

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 0 replies

Dodge Poetry Festival

2008-12-17T05:27:30Z

For anyone interested, Coleman Barks will be performing poems by Rumi at the Dodge Poetry
Festival later this month.

One of many poets at the festival.

It is in Western NJ, near the Pennsylvania border, about a 1 1/2 hour ride from NYC:

http://www.dodgepoetry.org/

take care all,

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 2 replies

The Way They Leave Me

2008-12-16T16:11:01Z

(Really Really looking for feedback.)

The Way They Leave Me

She walked up to the line, an American. She had on a light brown knee length skirt, a sleeveless blouse and heels too high for Bangkok. I'm third in line and this means she will not be my fare, but I watch her anyway as she gets really close to the first driver’s face and seems to stay there for insurmountable moments and reasons. With her Western authority, she simply shakes her head no and moves on to the number two guy in line. Same thing. Her flared nostrils leans her forward and then she leans back with a frown. Then it's my turn.

I sit on my manual Yamaha recently washed and glare at her. In similar manner, she approaches, moves her lips close to mine opens and closes her mouth just barely enough for me to see the pink that exists within her.

“Sukumvit sam sip tap nuguen,” she says this and I can almost smell her breath. Impressed that she knows a little bit of my language, I give her what she wants. I breathe okay all over her. She gives me a nod, removes her sunglasses for a brief deep look into me. In that second, for the first time I see how scared she is. She gets on, grazing my hips briefly as she wiggles into sidesaddle form. Then I tell her what my mother used to always say to me: “Don’t let go, or die.” She smiles, but I say this in Thai, so I have no idea if she understands.

My father’s from India, but from what I’m told he didn’t do right by her and stayed on his side of the race fence. Had a wife and some kids with his people. She always referred to him like that: “he’s with his people and you’re with me. We’re our own people.” And we were, she and I. He taught her English and she kept learning for me, so that I could figure out my father’s people if I wanted to. I learned enough from her to help me with the Western customers.

Mom would always drive the motorbike in skirts and dresses. They never flew up because I stood in front of her and this would invariably hold them down. As early as two I’d stand upright in between the steering column and the driver’s seat, my head barely high enough to reach my mother’s waist. To me, this was the magic they spoke of when they lit incense and talked about Buddha, the feeling in between my mother’s warm legs, on a motorbike, going 70 kilometers. I had to be at least two because I remember when I’d get nervous or excited as she drove, I’d pee in my diapers. She’d always yell as she started the ignition “don’t let go, or die,” and I always believed her, everything that she said, until she failed me and let go.

It was the way that she left me. We were driving down Rama IV, the traffic had recently opened up and her speed picked up. I was five, so instead of standing in between her, I sat. She controlled the steering, but I pretended it was me. My mother was an artesian in her driving; she’d see five moves ahead in her traffic dodging. There seemed to be a rhythm in her head that lane changes were in tune to. This was my place to feel bigger than life; my time to dream with my mother’s smell behind me— her fingers and hands right in front of me. Sometimes she’d whisper into my ear. More or less they were sweet nothings left over from some good mood. She’d tell me how beautiful I was, how the sound of my laugh helped her, that she loved me; and, I’d feel the squeeze of her knees against mine always glad for traffic. This was my time with her.

So since traffic had recently cleared we were driving fast, maybe faster than normal because it felt like the shackles had been lifted. It was late December and the air was less humid and the faster she drove the more we felt it. I think she must have been drunk on the air because she should have braked when we approached the stopped cars at the light, but she waited till the last second and when that second came I wasn’t scared. I was in the womb of her legs. She was my Buddah. But the bike was old and badly maintained, not that I knew this—I was five.

We hit the stopped car. “Don’t let go, or you die,” and I listened.

The force of the impact jolted me and my legs brought me down to a squat in my five-year old position. My mother let go and flew above me like an angel with clipped wings because she splattered onto the cars in front of us. Everything seemed to bend around me. It was hot, the bike and street. As if the cool air had been tainted, as if her essence was absorbed, the humidity seemed to increase. When I wiggled myself out of the bike mold, I tried to swallow all the air to keep her with me. I sat on the curb, hugging my knees, so mad at mom for letting go. That’s how she left she me.

***

She’s trying not to touch me, but not doing a very good job. I can tell that she wants to hold on and not die. I can feel her knees lean up from her sidesaddle lean. It’s nice. She smells like Jasmine.

“Where you from,” I ask.

“USA, California, Hollywood” she yells but doesn’t need to. She’s right by my ear.

“But I live here,” she continues yelling. “ Chan Pen Kru.”

Then her touch disappears when we reach the stop light; I turn my head towards her and watch her navigate the sidewalk in her heels. She hands me money and says something that I don’t understand. This is the way she leaves me, the way they all leave me.

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 2 replies

I Forgot

2008-12-13T12:22:16Z

Eos arises to wake Helios to ride his chariot across the Heavens,
As I arise to the invariable dawn of the dilapidated day to come.

Bringing with it an insipid populace to digress,
In muddled masses within their own bemused existences.
Through the mind's eye impeded by an expedited culture,
Intolerable of uninhibited thought;
Or could it be that I am intolerant?
Intolerant of the conventional social life that is the American dream,
Of a house,
Two-car garage,
Wrapped in a white picket fence,
A wife,
2.5 children,
A cat,
Dog,
And a gerbil.
I shudder in fear at this fate of a 'civilized' life,
Wilting away within a growing darkness of the monotonous,
Mind-numbing parasites that are the upper middle-class...
Day after day, their meaningless lives drone on incessantly,
Reminiscent of a pair of twin propeller engines of a DC-9,
Throbbing in thunderous succession.
The very thought of this sort of habitual routine becoming my own,
Aggravates my psyche into feverous madness,
Frantically clawing away at the roof of my skull,
In hopeless desperation to flee from the cubicle working class drudgery,
Until death do us part...

Eos arises to wake Helios to ride his chariot across the Heavens,
As I arise to the invariable dawn of the dilapidated day to come.

I sigh with a heavy heart,
Mulling over endless inquiries of what is,
Can,
May,
Could or could not be,
A pure and true awareness of self.
Is there, no longer, a place on this shallow Earth for a free mind?
Have we as Humanity hit a brick wall?
Who, then, is left to ponder and question
This progression of knowledge and lack of understanding as to why we are here?
What has happened to the, ever increasing, theories of what comes next?
Where have all the philosophers gone?
When will selfishness, greed, hate and bloodshed become taboo?
...If ever...
Peace is not a hope in this day and age;
Instead becoming more and more like a deplorable cruel joke,
A might more mythical than a man liviing in the moon...
...Made of cheese.
What has happened to us since the Renaissance?
Is this what has become of the Age of Enlightenment?
Why is every novel idea to come along, now challenged as false,
Before contemplated upon as a possible truth?
How has Mankind become the stagnant, socio-cultural idiot savant it is today?
Will we ever stop with this obsessive compulsive,
Self-gratification to 'upgrade' our lives?
HDTVs, iPods, Blue Ray Discs, Digital Cameras
Or anything else we may come across in the new mega-stores of gadgets galore.

Forget Global Warming.
Forget Starvation.
Forget Disease.
Forget the War.
Forget the Threats of WWIII.
Forget Poverty.
Forget the Hate.
Forget Genocide.
Forget the Exchange of Blood for Oil.
Forget the Dying and Dead.
Forget it All.

Shut yourselves away from the rest of the world,
Hiding within your comfortable suburbanite track homes,
And complain about the REAL problems of your own little worlds:
Rising gas prices,
Raised taxes,
Recession,
The switch to High Definition
And the size of your fucking television set.
Utter nonsense to prattle on and on about,
Sheltering the populace from the callous realities of this newborn century,
Frighteningly evocative of 1984.

Eos arises to wake Helios to ride his chariot across the Heavens,
Illuminating an ever expanding, chasm unto social redundancy.

Michael Stipe sings it best:
"It's the end of the World as we know it... And I feel fine."

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 1 reply

Would friends (and all are, on this cool site, it seems) help me get my blog listed? THANKS THANKS THANKS!

2008-12-09T17:03:57Z

www.facebook.com/home.php -

begging, yes, BEGGING, friends and readers to link onto my Facebook page and add themselves as readers/fans of the 2 blogs posted. I'm wanting to be added to the creative blog network which is has some spots left, but I need 15 fans to be included. THANKS SO MUCH!

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 0 replies

New here.

2008-12-06T05:25:58Z

Just joined. Looking forward to reading other posts and related sites. Love to have you check out my profile -- feeds from my blog Wordslut (and another, I think) are posted. Glad to be here. Editing my book and needing to go out into the world a bit.

-Janice

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 1 reply

Cyber-Real-World

2008-12-05T22:11:18Z

Back to reality,
Where I always was
But chose to ignore,
Instead dreaming
Of who you might be,
Wanting you
To be the missing half
Of me.

This cyber relationship,
Being able to sidestep
Real world conventions,
Mind to mind transmission
Without the usual
Checks and cautions of
Body to body communications,
The gaps in our knowledge
Filled by dream and fantasy.

Time passes,
Cyber time and clock time,
Our imaginations reach
A peak of ecstacy
And slowly fall, fall
Back into the everyday
Reality and
Without the nourishment
Of bodily truth
Recognises dream as dream,
Becomes tired, bored,
Melancholic
For what has passed
And slowly, slowly turns
Back to reality.

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 2 replies

Love Haiku

2008-12-05T22:08:25Z

Like kindling, my heart
Touched by your gaze,
Turned to fire and light.

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 2 replies

Ouch: A Fairy Tale

2008-12-02T18:39:54Z

(Short Story for Young Adults)

When Arienette walked into her high school poetry class for the first time, only one head turned. Checking her map of the big, newly renovated school and her schedule, she stopped just inside the door and tucked a single ringlet behind her ear. In the third row, in the fourth seat from the end, Patrick turned his head and noticed her. That’s all it takes, you know: the first noticing.

Patrick suddenly wanted with all his heart for Arienette to sit next to him. It’s difficult to say exactly why. Something in the way she held the stack of books cradled in her elbow, and something in the way she had obliviously stopped in the doorway,
temporarily barricading several impatient students into the hall, enchanted him. His eyes never left her as she chose a seat in the front row, but slightly towards his side of the classroom.

From Patrick’s seat, he could see her face occasionally in profile as she looked around nervously. He felt as if he’d seen her before in a dream. As casually as he could, he picked up his bag and moved one row down, and just imperceptibly more toward the center, placing himself in her peripheral vision.
She opened a composition book and wrote feverishly, her hand to her forehead. Tendrils of loose curls spilled from between her fingers. He couldn’t read what she was writing. Patrick thought that she had the saddest face he had ever seen. Despite that, or perhaps because of it, he fell in love with her immediately, and resolved to ask her on a date after class.

The forty-five minute lecture wore on, their tweed-jacketed and full-bearded teacher passing out the class syllabus and making his rules. Patrick studied, intently: the back of her neck, the curve of her ears, the exact shade of her hair, the way she held her pen, the pressing of her palm to her forehead when she concentrated, and above all, her frequent, quiet sighs between bursts of writing. Patrick thought about, extensively: fastening a necklace around her neck, tucking her chestnut hair behind her ears, holding her hand, reading what she was writing, and above all, kissing the sigh off her lips.

Suddenly, a chorus of scraping chairs and clearing throats signaled the end of class. Patrick had been thinking of everything but how to get her attention. The moment found him unprepared. The girl was stuffing notebooks and papers into her bag, and getting out her campus map.

“Wh- what are you writing?” he asked her quickly. He immediately regretted it. The intensity with which she had been writing suggested that it wasn’t class notes or a to-do list. She had probably been writing something deeply personal. But the girl didn’t look up. It seemed she hadn’t heard him. Sometimes Patrick spoke so quietly that people around him simply didn’t react. If you had been there, you might have heard an exhalation, an under-the-breath sort of mumbling, but you probably would not have noticed, either.

He inhaled sharply, intending to try again and ask her name, as she stood and walked out of the class. Patrick sighed. It reminded him of her.

He went about the rest of his day, being assigned textbooks and expectations and seats and projects. He couldn’t stop thinking about her. At lunch, his friends all made fun of him for being so spaced out. “You have to be more light-hearted about girls,” advised his friend Roy, stuffing four crinkle-cut fries into his mouth. Almost instantly, he swallowed and continued. “Just have fun, don’t be so emotional about it.” Patrick studied Roy’s pale, full-moon face.

Roy didn’t have a girlfriend. Patrick wasn’t sure that he ever had. Roy did, however: listen to relationship psychology on the radio, have a drawer full of dirty pictures, and chat constantly with girls online. “I hate to break it to you, Roy,” Patrick said, “but I won’t be taking your advice on this subject.” Bluntly, he stood up with his lunch tray and threw his trash away. With a furrowed brow, he scanned the cafeteria for her one last time before leaving.

The day wore on as it does when you are lovesick and miserable. Each passing moment was both hopeful and heart wrenching- not to mention long. Time never moves as slowly as it does when you are in love with someone who is somewhere else.

Shuffling his high-top sneakers as the dismissal bell rang, Patrick walked into the newspaper office for their first official meeting. He pulled out a seat at the particleboard table and rested his forehead on his backpack. His hair was such a deep, shiny shade of jet that it was at once darker and brighter than his black backpack, which was brand new. All he wanted was to go home and sleep so that he could see her again the next morning.

As Ms. Fjord began welcoming them, Patrick raised his head. He turned to look at the clock, and who do you think was seated behind him? Arienette was scribbling busily in the same composition book, and reluctantly met his gaze with her clear green eyes for a moment before returning to her work. Patrick turned around, locked his eyes straight ahead, and thought as quickly as he could. This meeting would only last a few minutes.

Ask her name then ask her to do something. Her eyelashes are so long. What do girls like to do? Girls like movies . . . No, too dark, I‘ll seem creepy. Of course she has green eyes. The mall? Too loud. She likes to write. The library? She’ll think I’m insane . . .

“So I’ll see you all here tomorrow before school,” Ms. Fjord concluded, clasping her hands. Determined not to miss his chance, Patrick swiveled, in one motion, completely about-face in his desk, finding himself with his nose almost touching the top of Arienette’s head.

“Hey,” he said in his best-practiced nonchalant voice. She looked up, biting the lower left corner of her lip.

“Hey?” she asked, shyly backing away to increase the distance between them. Was he talking to her?

“Do you want to-” Patrick’s words stuck in his throat and he coughed a few times. “I mean, maybe sometime we could go ice skating. Tonight.”

“Oh,” she said. Arienette thought of how much she would like to go ice skating with the boy. But she had to, as her mother said, ‘remember her condition’. And remember she did. A skating rink was an awful place, especially keeping her condition in mind. Flailing around on razors over a hard sheet of ice? Ice skating was impossible.

Patrick could see that her heart was pounding like mad. “What’s your name?” He interrupted her thoughts. She looked at him again. She liked the way that his hair fell over his face, half-obscuring one beautiful, bright eye the color of polished mahogany.

“Arienette,” she whispered. She saw the confusion pass his eyes. “A-R-I-E-N-ette. It’s unusual,” she said, a bit louder.

“It’s pretty. I‘m Patrick,” he said, smiling. Every time she lowered her eyes from his, he dipped his head a bit to catch them again.

“I- I can’t. I just - I’m really sorry,” Arienette managed to say before breaking into sobs. Clutching her composition book, she turned and ran as fast as her legs would carry her.

* * *

The next morning, Patrick woke up with a strange expectancy in his chest. It felt like Christmas morning, or when you got the part in the play you wanted the day before. It’s the feeling you have in the morning when something life-changing has happened that you have to think a moment to remember. He remembered Arienette. The expectancy rose into his throat. He remembered she had cried. The expectancy sank to horror and settled at the bottom of his stomach. Patrick flopped face-down into his pillow and made a small, whimpering noise.

While making his breakfast, he did not think of Arienette. He read the latest issue of the 1950s Husband Guy comic, spilling cereal on the ingénue’s face. He dressed, purposefully not choosing anything that would provoke accusations of “trying to look sharp” from Roy. However, when brushing his hair, he did think of her. Although he would never admit it to you, he spent much longer brushing his hair than usual, and it looked quite nice.

Arienette woke up from a dream of ice skating. It felt so real. She laid motionless in bed, trying to remember the dream, trying not to break the spell. She saw Patrick, lowering his head slightly to catch her eyes. Oh, how awful. Oh, how mortifying. The beautiful boy from her poetry class had asked her on a date and she had cried and run away. Ice skating. Why couldn’t he have asked her to go somewhere else?

While her mother made breakfast, Arienette thought of Patrick. She picked out a green sweater with a bit of angora in it, a grey pleated knee-length skirt, and the grey ankle boots she imagined looked elfin. She put her hair up, purposefully messily, wild curls all over. She wondered, for a moment, if her idea of pretty was the same as his.

As if to answer her, her mother entered the room, holding a plate with scrambled eggs, a whole wheat muffin, and sliced honeydew melon. She tilted her head a bit and looked at Arienette suspiciously. “You look pretty,” she said, handing her daughter her breakfast. “I believe you’ve done your hair.”

Sighing, Arienette took the plate from her mother’s hands, thanked her, and sat down at the breakfast table. Her mother took a chair across from her, and looked at her askance. All at once, she took note of: the flushing excitement in her daughter’s cheeks (highly suspicious), the clarity of her daughter’s eyes (no drugs), the width of her waist (not pregnant), and most of all, the way she was so distracted by her thoughts that she didn’t notice her own mother studying her (love).

“You‘ve met a boy?” her mother said. It wasn’t really a question so much as a declaration. Arienette looked up at her mother, surprised, a forkful of honeydew stopped halfway to her mouth.

“Well, yes,” she said.

“Remember-”

“My condition,” Arienette mocked. “How could I forget it. He asked me ice skating, mother. I cried and ran.”

Arienette looked as if she might cry again, as she finished her breakfast. Her mother sat silently for at least three minutes, then asked, “Is he nice?”

“Oh God, mother! I mean, really. Is he nice? I don’t know! I didn’t go ice skating with him, so I don’t know!” Arienette’s face flushed a trifle past radiant into a sort of splotchy discontentment. Her mother knew she would cry any minute.

Conspiratorially, she asked, “Is he cute?” Her daughter smiled in spite of herself.

“He’s beautiful,” she said, sighing. She took her plate to the sink and, agitatedly, herded bits of uneaten egg down the garbage disposal. Cautiously, she slammed her plate into the dishwasher, sparing no force with the fork, which made a wonderful clatter but did not break. “Are you driving me to school or shall I walk?” Arienette said in a huff, brushing her updone hair, which now felt ridiculous, out of her eyes.

Her mother picked up the car keys and stood at the door. She surveyed her daughter one last time. “Tell him the truth,” she said. “If you like him.” Arienette sighed.

In the car, she leaned her forehead against the window and watched lines of trees blur by. How could she tell him the truth? She only knew the boy’s name, and he would never believe her. What sort of a person is overcome by a compulsion to kiss everyone who says ouch? He would think her at least odd, and more than likely insane. Her ‘condition’ had no name, no word you could point to in an encyclopedia and say, “Here.” No diagnosis. No proof.

* * *

Arienette sat down in the newspaper office. She considered, but elected against, sitting in the same desk as the day before. Patrick would probably feel compelled to sit where he had yesterday. This way if he moved closer to her, she knew it might mean that he wanted to sit near her. She took her composition book out and began to write.

Walking in the door, Patrick was momentarily frozen at the sight of her. He held still, then weakly swayed just slightly backward in the knees, knocking into the front of Reid Lynford’s head with the back of his. Reid Lynford, who had been gesturing in an overly finger-pointing way to his football buddy, and making a ‘heh-heh’ sort of a laughing face, bit down on his own tongue rather sharply. “Ouch,” he said.

Embarrassed, Patrick looked at Arienette to see how she felt about this development. She stopped writing, shot to her feet and walked, quickly, towards him. She had dressed up. There was an untamed, foresty sort of beauty to her, especially about the hair and the eyes.

She continued past him and kissed Reid Lynford in a strange, halting manner, said, “Excuse me,” and stepped past them, running towards the girls’ bathroom. She didn’t come back to the meeting.

Arienette knelt with her back to the bathroom stall, her palms planted firmly on the cool tiles. She felt rather dizzy, and sounds had a strange, false quality. A group of girls leaving the restroom sounded like a laugh track on television. She was very aware of the unattractiveness of her cold sweat. She was not aware that she was several shades paler, making her berry-bitten lips even prettier. I have to tell him, she thought.

* * *

Patrick mostly hung his head in horror during the newspaper meeting. Of all the boys in the school for Arienette to choose to kiss, Reid Lynford? Really? All because he had hurt Reid by falling over himself like a fool at the sight of her. The bell rang for classes to begin. Patrick despondently threw his messenger bag over his shoulder, checked for the weight of Walt Whitman: The Complete Poems, and funneled out the newspaper door with the rest of the students.

With his map and schedule, Patrick leaned into an alcove between lockers to figure out which hall he was headed to next in the new building. Standing at the foot of the stairs, with a small group of backpacked minions, each with a bubble-blowing counterpart, Reid Lynford was telling of his latest, easiest conquest.

“I swear guys- wait wait,” he exploded into laughter for a moment. “Okay, okay. I swear I walked into the meeting, and this kid tripped or something and I ran into him.” The group started a wave of snickering and nudging. Reid waited, patiently, for them to stop. “The best part guys, this girl, new and kind of pretty, gets up and kisses me!”

Reid’s bubble-blowing counterpart, Vicki Reddington, smacked him and started frantically twirling her white-blonde hair, rolling her china blue eyes around in contempt. “That total slut!” she said. The other bubble-blowers voiced their agreement. “No sweat, babe,” said Reid Lynford. “I mean, I wouldn‘t touch that with a ten-foot-”

“You wouldn’t what?” Patrick barked, emerging from the alcove like a wolf from its den. “You wouldn’t touch her? You wouldn’t KISS her? You did!” Vicki Reddington started flicking with her fake nails, and a harem of ponytailed nail-flickers gathered around her for moral support.

“Hey, man-” started Reid, lifting his hands in truce.

“NO, man,” shouted Patrick, taking another step toward him. “You LET her kiss you. You kissed HER. And she ran out upset and you laughed and sat down.” Patrick stepped backward with his right leg, dropping his bag and Walt Whitman to the ground. In the same motion, he found himself pulling back his right arm and making a fist. He had never hit anyone before. He wondered if it would hurt.

Patrick threw his weight forward, his fist coming around his right side in a fantastic arc, hurtling toward Reid Lynford’s stupid face, and it felt so good already that Patrick didn’t care if it would hurt.

An enormous fist, the likes of which superheroes clutch their women with on comic book covers, wrapped around Patrick’s wrist. The bubble-blowing harem wailed, as if Patrick were going to burn their cabins and injure their men, leaving them staring wide-eyed at the smoldering rubble, with hungry children clinging to their helpless hands. There were twelve boys running toward one Patrick.

* * *

Coming to consciousness. Ouch, ouch. Oh, ouch. Was that blood on the tile? If it was blood, it was definitely his. On sitcoms, the principal always comes around the corner and stops such massacres. Lifting himself up on one elbow, he looked behind him for his bag. Arienette knelt, clutching it to her chest, knees folded up to her shoulders, holding Walt Whitman safe in her arms. He winced at her.

“Ouch,” he said. She laughed like bells strung on a kite’s tail.

“Ouch?” she replied. She kissed him on the lips. Fireworks and lightning, hot chocolate in December, milk and honey, windows down on a breezy night, she kissed him. “I have to tell you something.” And so Arienette told Patrick of her condition. And he believed her.

“What class do you have next?” he said.

“Chemistry,” she said, squinching up her nose. Her nose had freckles and squinched adorably. Patrick nodded.

“Health,” he answered, squinching his nose in kind. He discovered that his nose hurt. “Ouch.” She kissed him. Fireflies and fog, peach lemonade, swinging on the playground, windows up in the car with your best friend and singing, she kissed him. “Wanna skip?” he asked.

Arienette had never skipped class before, and she never would again. Patrick had skipped twice before this, and would skip once to go to a concert senior year. That time, Arienette would refuse to go. This time, though, she considered, and decided that it was worth it just this once. And so she said yes, put her hand in his, and said, “I want to get away from here with you.”

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Writing about ones life & experiences creatively for nonfiction publication?

2008-11-24T02:42:33Z

After years of having numerous friends, acquaintances and other people suggest I write a book(s) at least about some of my specific life experiences, their advice is taking hold in me.

So recently I've started reading books about writing non-fiction books & articles, and very recently to just put some rough thoughts down onto paper.
Am experiencing some indecisiveness about how personal & specific I want to be about some things and people, in consideration of actually publishing it for anyone to read. In deference to my own & others privacy as well as simple readability.

Anyone here have experience writing & publishing autobiographical books or articles? I would love to learn of different peoples' experiences & choices in choosing what to print & what to keep private, as well as how you crafted a truthful, biographical experience into a creative & pleasureably readable story?

Also, if anyone knows of friendly, unpretentious writers groups, gatherings or informal get-togethers in the San Francisco east bay area, or surrounding areas, of people who share writing as an interest and or profession, where a newbie writer like myself would be welcome I would love to know about them.?

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 5 replies

it looks like a Dildo, plays music, etc.

2008-11-23T15:46:19Z

Here is a link to my posts about a tiny single-reed, conical bore horn in the key of E with nine tone holes that overblows the octave, is as loud as a zurnah, sounds like a tiny saxophone crossed with a blues harmonica; and looks like a very erect adolescent penis-if you happen to be black.(or like coloring yourself?)(assuming the proper gender proclivities of course!)

This is at a thread called FERAL FAUN DISCUSSES RADICAL FEMINISM where you need to scroll down from the top of the page to read the evolution of the little horn. <http://theicarusproject.net/forums/viewtopic.php?t=11100&start=15>

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Short Story Competition

2008-11-21T19:53:08Z

http://www.writersdigest.com/short

(Deadline: Dec 1st)

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Writer's Digest Poetry Contest

2008-11-13T22:59:36Z

http://links.mkt230.com/servlet/MailView?ms=Mjk3ODEyNAS2&r=Njg3NzE5NTA2S0&j=MTAzMDczNjIxS0&mt=1&rt=0

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Finding Time to Write

2008-11-10T15:15:47Z

article -

http://freelancewrite.about.com/b/2008/11/07/how-to-find-time-to-write.htm?nl=1

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 0 replies

The Snow Leopard

2008-11-07T15:23:04Z

how's this for some incredibly dense, descriptive language...without being too much??

Just incredible to me, wish I could write like this:

excerpt from The Snow Leopard by Peter Matthiessen:

"Long ago some traveler brought poinsettia and oleander to Tatopani, and there is a tea stall in this village. Across from the tea stall, on a thatch roof, grows a cucumber with yellow-flowered vine, under the eaves, on the clay windowsill, a flute, a wood comb, and a bright red pepper lie in happy composition. Beneath the windowsill small children tumble, and one little girl, sedate and serious, changes her clothes from top to bottom. In the mud street, in the rain, three small boys hunching knee to knee play cards beneath a black umbrella."

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 0 replies

Creative Writing Classes

2008-10-28T15:43:27Z

both my gal and I have done well with Gotham Writer's Workshop...

I took fiction writing and comedy writing classes through them. My gal took sci-fi writing.

http://www.writingclasses.com/index.php

(I have no connection with the site)

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Freelance Writing - Intro

2008-10-23T21:17:45Z

http://freelancewrite.about.com/od/basicsoffreelancing/An_Introduction_to_the_Basics_of_Freelance_Writing.htm

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 0 replies

Synchromystickz Dictionary

2008-10-22T15:43:09Z

Kev the Poet's Synchro Dictionary

23 Synchronicities - There are 23 letters in the Latin alphabet, W = 23rd letter of the alphabet. It's symbol is 2 points down, 3 up. The human biorhythm cycle is generally 23 days. One measures a circle beginning anywhere. It takes 23 seconds for blood to circulate through the human body. 23 days in the male sex cycle (according to Tantrists). The human body has 46 chromosomes, which are paired, in somatic cells. Generative cells have half this number, 23, which is the number of chromosomes each parents gives to human deoxyribonucleic acid. The "Dog Days" of summer begin on July 23rd when the star Sirius, in the Constellation of Orion, first rises from behind the sun. (See 'Siriusly', and 'Synchronicity'.)

2012 - December 23, 2012, huge cycle ends in the Mayan calendar. Many people mistakenly believe this is when the Mayan's believe the world will end but this is wrong, they merely end the calendar. Many spiritual thinkers expect vast change, astrologers hae stated that the Earth is moving into an area of more light and energy as our slar system moves into alignment with the centre of the galaxy, many scientists believe magnetic poles will shift which could create vast changes in the landscape due to Earthquake and volcano activity, many 'lost-it's try to tell you what will happen . Nobody knows shit.

Anarchy - a state of where no individuals or groups have precedence or power over others and ideally everything works harmoniosly without regulation or policing. Is often mistaken with, 'a state of lawlessness due to the absence or inefficiency of the supreme power', 'havoc', 'chaos' and infrequently used by as an excuse to throw bricks at policemen who are in the employ of oppressors, however that is misuse of the word Anarchy and should be treated as such.

Ayahuasca - a combination of South American roots and vines boiled into a tea which is considered sacred to South American shamans. Reportedly psychologically and physically healing. From a subjective point of view it provides the drinker with a connection to the divine, and both a physical and emotional enema. From an objective point of view it floods the body with DMT which is normally naturally secreted by your pineal gland during dreaming and your pineal gland floods your body when you're born and when you die. Usually drunk only in ceremonies with experienced spiritual and psychological journey facilitators (also known as shamans.)

Body English - among many other things it is a clothing company, a skatepark sponsor and organiser of the St George Hippy Ghetto Fun Jam (was that what it was called?) Body English is also one of Craig Reynolds many aliases.

Baba - used as a prefix for someone's name when they have said something wise, or used sarcastically when they have said something outrageous. "Oh, Baba 12 Volt!"
Also used in India as a prefix for the names of Holy men.

Babylon - all parts of the current political and economic system that are corrupt and intent on fostering inequity and inequality. See: "Babylon System", by Bob Marley on the Survival Album. Originally a part of Iraq (ancient Mesopotamia), arguably the first decadent city, recently bombed by George Bush's financial dependents. Some may argue that 'babylon' bombed Babylon.

Babylons (plural) - tits.

Blagger - someone who is skilled in the divine art of getting things for free. (See 'toblaggo.')

Bole Nath (pronounced 'bulleh nardt') - ask a sadhu.

'Big T'ings Occur' - Phrase, meaning stupendous events have either happened, are happening, or are about to happen. Also the title of an interdimensional cabaret at Mr Wolfs.

Dope - Good, fantastic, great (few people that word for drugs anymore.)

Fantabulous - Fantastic and fabulous. Obviously.

Ganja - Cannabis, The most familiar short-term effect of cannabis is to give a "high" — a state of euphoric intoxication. "The acute toxicity of cannabis and the cannabinoids is very low; no-one has ever died as a direct and immediate consequence of recreational or medical use (DH QQ 219223)." Tests performed on mice have shown that the ratio of cannabinoids (the chemicals in marijuana that make you high) necessary for overdose to the amount necessary for intoxication is 40,000:1. For comparison's sake, that ratio for alcohol is generally between 4:1 and 10:1. Alcohol overdoses claim approximately 5,000 casualties yearly, but marijuana overdoses kill no one as far as any official reports. I am neither condemning nor condoning anything. Following the publication of two 1977 JAMA studies, the American Medical Association (AMA) officially announced its support for the decriminalization of marijuana. In reality, marijuana has the effect of slightly increasing alpha-wave activity in your brain. Alpha waves are generally associated with meditative and relaxed states, which are, in turn, often associated with human creativity.

Hippy - Context specific. Often used in a derogatory way to describe someone who uses anti-capitalist and anti-establishment philosophies as excuses for being lazy. However also is used as a compliment for someone who is anti-establishment, anti-capitalist and has a relaxed attitude towards life.

Hoody - essential.

Hold it down - to limit behaviour which could be considered as disturbing, anti-social or illegal.

Holding space - to use your presence, especially at ceremonies, to maintain a calm and calming atmosphere.

Hottie - a visually attractive person, usually a woman.

Lost-It - someone who has taken so many psychedelics that they appear to have misplaced the script for their own lives, or 'lost the plot'. eg "He keeps making insane outbursts and offending people, I don't want that 'lost-it' back in here."

Maggers - The Magpie

The Magpie - we're not really sure. (See Temporary Autonomous Zone,

Man-scan - to look for something lost, but not look very hard. "I couldn't find it, but I only did a quick man-scan."

Media-Ninja - someone with advanced digital information absorption and networking abilities.

Munter - someone who frequently gets inebriated to the point they can barely walk or talk.

Munted - one who is inebriated to the point they can barely walk or talk.

Ninja - 1. somone with athletic ability, especially advanced yoga practioners, capoeira players or circus skills.
2. someone who dresses in all black and uses the ancient Japanese art of killing people silently. Please refer to classified section.

OMI - pronounced 'omey', Open Minded Intuitive. Someone who is open-minded about spiritual ideas but does not necessarily believe anything or everything they hear. Someone who avoids dogma and tries to stay detached from points of view. Someone who trusts their intuition whether to accept or reject something. Someone who combines both the scientific and the spiritual in a marriage of logic and intuition such as the seemingly paradoxical findings of quantum physics (electrons have no concept of space or time) mirroring the wisdom of ancient spiritual teachings (space and time are illusions created by the individual external observer) of Buddhism, Hinduism, Yoga and Tao. Generally spiritual thinkers who wear hoodies and baggy trousers. (See 'Rainbow Ninja')

Rainbow Gathering - Rainbow Gatherings are temporary intentional communities, typically held in outdoor settings, and espousing and practicing ideals of peace, love, harmony, freedom and community, as a consciously expressed alternative to mainstream popular culture, consumerism, capitalism and mass media. Rumoured to have started with reference to the Rainbow Prophecy, however many if not most attendees appear to be unaware of the prophecy. Isolated from 'festival culture' by the absence of drugs and alcohol (most of the attendees do not appear to consider cannabis to be a drug.) Due to the strict drugs policy Rainbow Gatherings are generally despised by munters. This gives those who are on a spritual path for reasons of ego a reason to believe they are better than others, they are wrong.
(See 'Rainbow Prophecy', 'Rainbow Warrior' and 'munter'.)

Rainbow Ninja - A Rainbow Warrior who does not look or act like a hippy and can therefore communicate with munters. For example somone who does reiki in squats. (See 'Rainbow Warrior', 'hippy' and 'munter'.)

Rainbow Prophecy - A Native American prophecy that after Europeans have nearly killed all the Natives, the land and seas are polluted the spirits of the Native Americans will return in the children of those who killed them. These children will be members of a Rainbow Tribe, of all different colours and all different nationalities. The Rainbow Warriors, of the tribe would use only the force of peace.
(See 'Rainbow Warrior'.)

Rainbow Warrior - 1. someone who uses 'only the force of peace' to help maintain balance in the eco-systems of 'mother earth', frequently found at eco-activist blockades and protests bringing peace to the front line.
2. someone who likes the sound of the Rainbow Prophecy and would rather be a reincarnated Native American warrior or shaman than 'Bob from Ealing' or whatever.
3. two ships of the environmental pressure group Greenpeace have borne the name Rainbow Warrior.

Shambala Festival - a great excuse to dress up and act like a tit, the most fun Kev the Poet had in 2007, the home of the Bristol Massive Roller Disco.

Shambhala - in Tibetan Buddhist tradition, Shambhala (also spelled Shambala or Shamballa; Tibetan: bde byung, pron. De-jung) is a mythical kingdom hidden somewhere beyond the snowpeaks of the Himalayas. A utopian place in Tibetan myth - has been called both a physical crystal temple and also a meta-physical temple in the 'heart.'

Shambhala Warrior - the most important quality of the Shambhala warrior is being non-aggressive. The Shambhala warrior is defined by gentleness and fearlessness. As Chogyam Trungpa said it, "the first principle of warriorship is not being afraid of who you are." The ultimate goal of the Shambhala path is to create an enlightened society of wise and compassionate human beings, which is the tradition of the Kingdom of Shambhala.

Shrooms - Mushrooms. I am neither condemning nor condoning anything.

Shanti - literal translation is 'peace', however also used to describe peaceful settings and anything that is influenced by India.

Shantify - to make shanti, eg, putting up drapes, burning insence, or getting someone stoned. (See 'shanti'.)

Siriusly - usually sarcastic remark on how silly, or un-serious a situation is. Specifically if it has mystic or spiritual significance, hence the reference to the star-system Sirius which is written to have had contact with the Dogon tribe in Africa (Google 'Dogon Sirius', I mean it, siriusly.)

Standard - Something that happens frequently or something that should happen frequently.

Synchro - (See 'Synchronicity' and 'Synchromysticism.')

Synchronicity - is the experience of two or more events which are causally unrelated occurring together in a meaningful manner, usually beneficial coincidences with spiritual significance, although the benefits may be incidental, financial or health related. The concept does not question causality, it maintains that just as events may be grouped by cause, they may also be grouped by their meaning. The meaning of these coincidences is for the individual to determine via logic and intuition. Carolyn North, author of Synchronicity: The Anatomy of Coincidence (Regent Press) - "It gives us a sense of hope, a sense that something bigger is happening out there than what we can see, which is especially important in times like this when there's so many reasons for despair."

Synchromysticism - A state of consciousness where dynamic context is attributed to phenomena, allowing patterns, themes and insight to arise out of a web of connections. "The art of realizing meaningful coincidence in the seemingly mundane with mystical or esoteric significance."--Jake Kotze, The Brave New World Order (See synchronicity.)

SynchroFlow - a series of synchronicities, and the experience of each synchronous coincidence leading to more beneficial coincidences (See 'synchronicity'.)

TAZ / Temporary Autonomous Zone - An area, or zone, which is not subject to control from outside; is independent, self-governing; is independent; and it subject to its own laws only. 'The Temporary Autonomous Zone, Ontological Anarchy, Poetic Terrorism' is a book by anarchist writer Hakim Bey.

The rules - unwritten smoking rules regarding social smoking behaviour, eg "I gave you the toblaggo so I get twos, you know the rules!" (See 'toblaggo' and 'ganja'.)

Toblaggo - a request for a donation of tobacco. (See 'blagger'.)

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Jack Kerouac Reads from "On The Road"

2008-10-18T17:19:40Z

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_MjPtem6ZbE

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Writing Exercises online

2008-10-15T08:32:13Z

Hi friends. Just a note to let all you writers and would-be writers out there know that I've posted a couple new writing exercises on my book site with titles such as "Everyday Objects as Lenses of Creativity" and "Inspiration in the Mundane." If you're having trouble finding ideas or are experiencing writer's block -- or if you just want something to do -- check it out at www.gateofgalithonel.com. Peace, Ashandra-Aah

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Writing Resources

2008-10-13T15:51:44Z

http://www.poemhunter.com/

lists thousands of poems

++++++++++++++++

Poetry International

http://international.poetryinternationalweb.org/piw_cms/cms/cms_module/index.php?obj_name=international

great site for foreign poems, (everything translated), some videos of performances

+++++++++

Poetseers

site for spiritual poetry

http://www.poetseers.org/

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 4 replies

Worst First Line For a Novel

2008-10-06T10:24:04Z

Comic Relief

2008 Bulwer-Lytton Contest

(to write worst first line for a novel)

http://www.sjsu.edu/faculty/scott.rice/blfc2008.htm

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 0 replies

Story live at Helix and my turn on-camera

2008-10-04T23:02:12Z

My short story "Prometheus Rebound" is now live at the e-zine Helix: A Speculative Fiction Quarterly, issue #10, over at

http://www.helixsf.com/index.htm

I've blogged about the story's inspiration at
http://deviationstrilogy.blogspot.com/2008/10/story-live-at-helix.html

You can also watch me do a turn as "Commander Mal" on Sci-Fi Times TV, over at

http://www.scifitimestv.com/

where I pop in briefly to give the hosts a hard time near the beginning of the show. (An interview with me as myself will air on October 8.) The show streams on Wednesdays at 9 p.m. Eastern and is then "on demand" the following week before it goes to the archives. I've also embedded the premiere on my website:
http://home.earthlink.net/~emalcohn/index.html
(or do a Web search on "Malcohn's World").

Thanks! -- Elissa

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 1 reply

Ayahuasca inspired poetry

2008-09-30T20:42:18Z

Verse 1 (the first cup)
http://people.tribe.net/knowledgeispower23/blog/5da1f748-0ef9-44dc-b2bd-40939ea55a1c

Verse 2 (the second cup)
http://people.tribe.net/knowledgeispower23/blog/e41931f1-8f8b-4301-8433-327b566b8c50

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beth's cafe, seattle

2008-09-02T09:06:22Z

The Stain

At beth’s cafe

There is a stain on the ceiling. It draws my attention like a knife point near my eye. I cannot, for any meaningful period of time, ignore it. It eats at me as I eat at my eggs, consuming more and more of my attention until,…
I look.
At first when I came to sit at this diner I wondered if it was alive. Like a dollop of yogurt might be alive, full of bacteria. Then I wonder if it was alive. Ever, at some point past. I wonder if a ghost haunts it. The area just around the silver dollar sized mark. Mindlessly harassed by it.
Unlike the coin though, it’s not silver, and is formless, without face or tail.
To say that it’s yellow would not be wholly accurate, and to say it’s sepia would be an undue complement, I used to call it jaundiced, but I came eventually to think, that its color was a result of its age and not easily named except to say that it is old colored.
In subsequent visits to the diner, what drew me to it was not any contemplation of its life, or present lack there of, but rather the mystery of its identity. This confounded me greatly.
Perhaps mustard, if only a couple weeks old. Near the grill heat to cure and crack. But not so near as to have come from it. Nor so near any one table or booth as to offer any easy imagining as to how it may have arrived there.
But perhaps, (and perhaps is what drew my attention and held it most firm.) Perhaps it was older than that.
If it were a year older, it could be the yellow of a soft boiled egg.
Or sickening decade old syrup.
Mashed potatoes celebrating their bicentennial.
It could have been jelly at… one time.
“Four hundred score and seven years ago…” Abraham Lincoln intoned solemnly in my head. …”our fore fathers spilled ketchup here.”
Further back still, bleached by age and stained then by time, steak sauce.
I could believe it was, at least as likely, older than newer. there seemed no bottom to how old I was willing to calculate its age before even the slightest perception of nonsence crept into second guess my equations.
How old would it have to be to be blood? Tanned such a curious tired color? A century? The turning of a millennium? Older?
And perhaps I drink too much. And come here too often to feed my hangover, but there was always that. The notion of unlimited age. Of being,…
Older.
That frightening abstraction of time to which the stain seemed to gravitate. More so the longer it was considered. That time so remote that no event or value could be guessed, to which my instinctual response would not be simply, “no, older.” An age so far hoorayed and disused that time had simply cut it down, crushed its memories and recast it into the stuff used to construct the events of the ever on-rushing future.
The entire café indeed encouraged this thinking, as no surface remained in it that was truly white, but deeply browned with age and the catalytic action of grease, and cigarette smoke. It formed barely visible runnels on the walls like sap aged to amber and amber aged again to a slick, seal coat that prevented the passage of time from properly effecting the walls.
Over the outermost of these walls, like the ramblings of an autistic decorator, (Pollok, add hypoxia.)was a mosaic floor to ceiling wall paper of artwork. The submissions of any customer who wished to contribute.
Through some wonder of natural law the tape found purchase on the slickly coated walls.
Uncensored and without regard to tone, message, skill or medium the whole represented exquisitely the population whose donations had given it life, and like them, from a distance, was muddy and directionless. In this way, its jumble of babbling chaos, achieved an order of sorts.
But as one came to rest in a booth near a portion of this mural, the wide static of it was focused and individual personalities came to the fore.
A pencil drawing of the time worn Killroy, peeking over a wall, was rendered in a stiff but confident hand. A top hat adorned with an eye, who’s pupil was twisted into a swirl, sat crookedly on his bald head. Killroy’s own wide archway eyes watched endlessly the dark figure to his left who crept closely behind, no doubt thinking himself unobserved, and who, knife in hand, was prepared for murder. But killroy bellied no fear. His strong fingers cracked the wall over which he peered. He was calm and still, barely concealing a liquid feverish madness that prepared to drive him unstoppably like a violent land slide.
At the bottom of the paper in graffiti style letters “KILLROY LIVES HERE” was blocked out.
Leaves of paper overlapped like decorated scales. A pen and ink warrior vixen sulked beside pastel, water-color water falls that fell up to the sky, and blind crayon mice with guns and iron crosses preened proudly katty-corner from a smudged cadmium and violet interpretation of a passage from the Iliad.
How often a page was added to the greater work I couldn’t guess, but to say that I had never witnessed one going up.
Though, under each leaf was another.
Older.
Inks faded. paper crisp, stained and brittle.
I wonder now, if I were to page deeper, what could I find?
Papyrus with strange runes?
Deeper still?
Clay tablets in Sanskrit ?
Deeper still?
Unremembered gods painted in grease, blood, and dish water?
Above the grill a great black cowling greedily gathered grill smoke and an uncomfortably large and shadowed duct swallowed it. I could imagine the ducts long winding and ragged behind the drywall, taking the smoke to no place wholesome. It seemed carnivorous and hungry. In a near corner pipes and a tank have made them selves at home, and electrical wires wound around the walls as if woven by spiders.
And I see the stain again. It sees me out of the edge of my vision.
The stools once vivid red, when red had first been invented, were now a lustless maroon.
And it whispers to me. “Older.”
Had it been here when the forests had yet to receive its first mammal visitor? Already eldritch and set, in the lush kudzu?
The tiled floor appeared, if ever acknowledged, a still-life of dirt and went largely unappreciated for its accuracy. Though tasteful as far as it went, it was an uncared for print, that ages before the first of things had had a chance to rot back into the earth, had already grown foggy and chipped.
Though it did not move, the stain regarded me.
Had it been here waiting long already when what would some day be this city was at the bottom of the now extinct, monster filled ocean?
I wondered what it must be like, to live for ever, like this place. To be here for ever, and witness the foolish passings of the world. I would see everything change and everything brake down.

Now I am here.
I suppose to my self that the stain attracts my attention because it wants me. as I do it.
Is that so crazy to think? That the stain and the café that have always been here enjoy my company and obsess to see me as well?
I wonder how it would taste. How forever would sit on the back of my tongue. Like dust and honey I think. I don’t know why I think that, but I do.
I mean, it is a café after all, and what’s not to be eaten in a café?

I think, Surely I will grow still over the ages. as I see less and less of what I have not before and encounter more of times recycled novelties. Then finally, with eventual passing, every thing to cross my path, naively thinking its self new and unique, would be to me a memory, vivid now, but also distantly remembered.
With time will I loose my luster? Grow dusty and dry, and brown with the same mechanism that, with age, browns stone? Will some future eye behold me with fear and curiosity? With wonderment of what I had once been?
I find myself wanting that. To live for ever. Even if in such a maudlin way. Always here, existing further and further back against the insistent direction of time.
I hold my butter knife in my hand and wonder how high I can reach. To scrape a little of it and hide the bits in my eggs.
Just a little, that’s all.
There’s no need to be greedy.
After all, there’s plenty of forever to go around.

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Online Poetry Readings? - Internet Radio

2008-08-31T20:08:01Z

does anyone know of any folks doing poetry readings through internet radio?

thanks,

Jon

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Zodiac to Hell

2008-08-27T19:58:45Z

First published by Klaudio Zic Publications, 2008, www.lulu.com/astrology. Copyright © 2008 By Klaudio Zic. All Rights Reserved. No part of this material may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise, for commercial purposes or otherwise, without the written permission of the author, except when permitted by law.

PSYCHOCALYPSE

Mat 18:3 and said, Verily I say to you1, Unless ye are converted and become as little children, ye will not at all enter into the kingdom of the heavens.

The apocalypse, the devil and the twin minds.
A treatise on the nature of the parasite psyche.

1Jn 2:18 Little children, it is the last hour, and, according as ye have heard that antichrist comes, even now there have come many antichrists, whence we know that it is the last hour.

Did you ever wonder why
people do not think with their own heads? No?
Precisely.

Copyright © 2008 by Klaudio Zic, all rights reserved. http://www.lulu.com/astrology

CETVS

There is a dark age when the sun is close to Cetus constellation during spring equinox. We call such an age the Age of Cetus2. Cetus is a large zodiacal constellation3 as visited by all planets, the Moon, Eris and Pluto4. Aries controls Cetus as the Lamb of God checking the Antichrist.
MENS VERA

True love seems to inspire the poet of the past5 as materialism gains momentum. In the dark Age of Cetus, people are dull, narrow and materialistic. Forgiveness is unpopular, lies are matter of fact and aggression paramount. As Dante intimates, the Way has benn lost and Satan roars like a lion.

PSYCHE AGAINST SCIENCE

It is remarkable that scientific procedure meets with a high degree of resistance from the general public. The psyche6 exerts such a pressure on the average human being7, that one feels compelled to listen to the most unbelievable superstitions8 in order to survive. Even astronomers who know perfectly well9 that the Sun is in Libra on November 23rd, will be tempted to accept Sagittarius fr their child's “natal sign”, since all believe in this and many other superstitions. It does not matter where the Sun really is, it matters what the “collective psyche” democratically suggests. Since there is hardly much resistance from true mind, in order to impose his own plans10, all that the devil has to do is make the human being think. Since thought are from the devil, the master of illusion, lord of lies, one can not switch off to non-thinking just like this; one needs practice. One devil, one mind, one ring; it definitively sounds like one man, one leader, ein Teufel, ein Führer. The leader gives an impression of benevolent sacrifice when he says “armiamoci e partite”11, let us arm ourself and you go to war.

DEMOCRACY

In affirming democracy as the only reasonable political solution today, we must nevertheless point at its flaws in the light of our research. It is possible for common people to comment on whatever NASA does, which may be annoying more than just amusing. On one hand, we would never learn if NASA would be a feudal organization, on the other hand, common folk were12 not allowed into the inner temple, which preserved the knowledge intact. Now the common folk became practically omnipotent and all-knowing as armed with Google and everybody is informed. It is improbable to convince a rabble of experts13 into something that would otherwise never leave the inner temple: our skies rotate. The commoner and astrologer will not notice as the real skies were never the object of their studies or interests. Imagine how many mismatches are made anyway?

MENS NASA14

We do not know what our original mind feels like as we have relinquished it in early childhood. It surely feels like heaven, speechless enigma and infinite freedom15. In confronting NASA, the general public expressed concern and disbelief, namely there is a considerable percentage of the population that does not believe that the man has ever been on the Moon. Mars mission is a swindle, the Earth is flat and the Moon is made of cheese. The scientists carefully provided rational and easily understandable evidence, but psyche tends to remain adamant. One is convinced that the Earth is flat as the very Constitution warrants the right to one's faith.

FEUDALISM VS DEMOCRACY

Absurdly, it is democracy that affords the right to believe in a lie, thus promoting the devil. In an ortodox religious environment, all belief is regulated by the scriptures. The prophet has split the Mon in two. The stars fall from the sky. It is all in the Book.

ASTRONOMY

The astrological skies have been frozen in order to never move again. The motion of the sky produces discomfort in the mind of the devil, much as it requires competence. It is a known feature of the devil that it is not mathematically gifted at all. An amazing heap of superstition flows daily as promoted by democracy into the naïve heads of the public. Astrologers16 believe in a sky that does not rotate, with 12 ascendants never changing over the eastern horizon17; a sheer master move by the devil, that has thus fixed human mind18 into an absurd lock19, while torturing it further with many theories and more paradox20. Procrustean as it seems, once that we had devised the 12 zodiacal signs, that absurdly serve as ascendants, too, we had to make fit this 12/12 system into the real sky. This was never done since it is impossible to do it in the first place. Spica Virginis travels from Libra into Scorpius, as if the stars would be punished for our own sins. Spica Virginis has been forced into Libra and it will be in Scorpius, soon. There is more error to come, albeit in its present state, astrology21 is already beyond hope. Thus, the stars have become slowly moving planets in order to fit into a system as devised ny a madman. Unfortunately people like Galileo, Kepler or Nostradamus, apparently believed in such a system. The 12/12 system is an artifice that has nothing to do with the real skies and Academic Zodiac proper.

DISCLAIMER

The reader has the right to believe in any zodiac he fancies appropriate for the purpose at hand. There might be one sky or many skies, according to belief. The Earth might be hallow if someone decides so. The Moon has been cut into halves and is bleeding. Sometimes we come to term with our own believes in terms of symbols. A ten-headed beast is thus reduced to mere political symbolism and the alike.

CONCLUSION

Default mind is not allowed into accepting alien, that is, human, concepts, such as scientific proofs or pure reason. When an author has Spica Virginis in Libra22, he is acclaimed as “expert”. As soon as someone points to Spica Virginis in Virgo, he is a strange star coming out of the rain. Truth has always been for the elite. The Academic Zodiac is the first scientifically proven zodiac since known history23.

Klaudio Zic

Copyright © 2008 by Klaudio Zic, all rights reserved worldwide.
Redistribution of this file in any form is violation of the Copyright Law.
This copyrighted material has been previously published as available from http://www.lulu.com/astrology
Copyright © 2008 By Klaudio Zic. All Rights Reserved. No part of this material may be reproduced or
Transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise, for commercial purposes or otherwise,
without the written permission of the author, except when permitted by law.

1Jesus used to start his sentences with Amen.
Mat 18:3 et dixit amen dico vobis nisi conversi fueritis et efficiamini sicut parvuli non intrabitis in regnum caelorum
Mat 18:3 και ειπεν αμην λεγω υμιν εαν μη στραφητε και γενησθε ως τα παιδια ου μη εισελθητε εις την βασιλειαν των ουρανων

2We speak of three Ages of Cetus in our specialized publications.
3Cetus is zodiacal but also ascendant for the present epoch.
4Pluto never enters Pisces or Aries. Eris is in Cetus for this generation.
5There are still poets in this world, let us not forget them, as true mind is not completely relinquished at all.
6The psyche is a program, the mind of the devil or false ego. You might not have the devil in you but it surely thinks for you. People literally do not think with their own heads.
7Or free human being to be, since the slave of “his own” psyche can be compared to a slave.
8Among our favorites the 12/12 zodiacal hoax.
9In fact they don't!
10To feed on our energy until death is the only devil's plan.
11Benito Mussolini's maxim. Fascism, initially anti-plutocratic movement, is rather strong and deteminant in Italy's current political scene.
12Alternatively “was”.
13People tend to believe on what they find on the Internet. People by everything.
14MENS SANA. An anagram of true mind.
15True Mind Distiller of the RTRRT suite is the key to true mind.
16Calling such people astrologers is hardly a favor, as there have been perhaps five astrologers on the planet since Creation.
17Precession of curse shifts the sky in order to make place for new ascendants or new epochs.
18Properly devils mind, since hardly any humans apart from Jesus, Enoch or Buddha have access to true mind, the original human mind as also found with Zen masters like Shunryu Suzuki Roshi.
19Davy Jones Locker.
20It is worthless that people spend their lives forcing themselves into something that has nothing to do with their zodiacal nature. The error for the zodiac and ascendant is more or less two signs or two constellations. Thus the error is not one but two constellations, and yet people will tend to believe in what they know is a lie. They have been already told that there is one sign of error, but that is not true since the error is clearly up to two signs or rather constellations.
21A reference to sidereal, Vedic and tropical astrology. Our own 22/16 system is based on scientific skies, that is, true natal skies for everyone.
22It has been normally assumed that stars are not where they are. Every astrological system has the same errors, as it will become evident from the first initiation into the Academic Zodiac and RTRRT. The precessed ascendant and meridian constellation set form two separated as well as special studies.
23This does not disqualify the Mayan system, since we allude to modern science.

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Lit Fest SNEAK PEEK

2008-08-27T15:20:37Z

Check out the trial posting of poems, stories, and nonfiction works in the I Write Because I Have To group’s literary festival.

If you write and like some of what you see, please consider joining our open and active group.

Sneak Peek http://iwbiht.blogspot.com/

Group page http://atheistnexus.org/group/iwritebecauseihaveto

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Sacramento comic creators make it to TOP 10 in Worldwide Competition!

2008-08-17T21:58:36Z

Hi, all. This is Ben Schwartz, a Sacramento comic store owner and small press comic publisher with ECV Press. I am also a co-writer with Hai-Na-Nu Saulque on our new project Hank Houston. We entered a worldwide competition to find the best new comic for Platinum Studios to produce and we have made it to the TOP 10.

From this point forward the winner will be determined by your votes. We need your support and help to spread the word! Please take a look at our website where you will find, concept sketches, alien designs, pin-ups, daily webcomics and a link to give us your vote! Give us a vote and tell your friends.

www.hankhouston.com

Thank you in advance for all of your support and help in taking Hank Houston to the TOP!

Ben Schwartz

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Soldiers of Maya

2008-08-07T21:30:32Z

Fear is their sword,
sorrow is their shield,
They are soldiers of maya
And earth is their battlefield.

They pierce kind hearts
With the point of their swords,
And drag innocents to kneel
Before their false lords.

See the works of the illusionists
that make great souls seem small,
Watch the dancers of the night
that make tiny Shadows appear tall.

Look under the liar´s sleeve,
there is only a fake flower.
What is in the pocket of the thief?
Has he stolen away your power?

Those agents of deceit
fight to delude you,
strive to seduce you
live to reduce you.

They need you
to need them,
that hunger will
will feed them.

Fear is their sword,
sorrow is their shield,
They are soldiers of maya
And earth is their battlefield.

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Shakespeare's Theater Found

2008-08-06T23:52:27Z

http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20080806/ap_on_sc/britain_finding_shakespeare

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 0 replies

Dream Journals?

2008-08-02T22:35:50Z

Does anyone try to keep an active dream journal?
I've tried in the past but it always seems difficult to keep it going.

However, for some reason I'm starting to have lots of dreams in one night. I wake up from one, roll over, go back to sleep, and have another one that is completely different.
So, I think I'm going to try to write some of them down.

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 2 replies

help, please

2008-07-31T07:58:42Z

i can't figure out how to get my name/book title/page number on the top of every page in my manuscript. i'm using microsoft word. it's driving me batty. i don't want to do it by hand because i will definitely screw something up. anybody here geeky enough to be able to help me with this?

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 3 replies

How do you get paid to blog?

2008-07-31T07:41:34Z

I use the computer regular & post things up on forums that deal with contraversial subjects..done this for 10 years now..but need some money to survive also, especially in this climate.
So I wondered do people get paid for blogging? or do they have to join some abscure scheme that promises work..but..you have to pay `them` a monthly fee or subscription! I should imagine theres plenty of those schemes available.
So anyone had this experience or have any ideas? I am uk based but that should not matter, this is the age of the computer after all!

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 4 replies

My Poemies

2008-07-29T11:24:14Z

Hey. I am new here. What do you guys think?

http://heatherdugdale.angelfire.com/

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 1 reply

Serialization of Sacred Vow—Searching

2008-07-27T21:18:25Z

The most significant event of your life calls to you, from barely beyond your perception…both imminent and impossible… a call of the heart, of the spirit, and of yourself to which you have not yet been introduced.

Sacred Vow is visionary fiction of a journey toward our one true love…in its infinite expressions…bringing together two individuals from disparate realities—but one spirit—to heal the rift in the Collective Consciousness…a breach that threatens us all.

Installment 2 of 22 Sacred Vow (Dragon's Beard Publishing, ISBN: 978-0-9774271-4-7, paperback, Fiction: Visionary/Metaphysical).

Searching
No longer confined to material experience, Katerina crossed into the dimly lit room, invisible to its inhabitants. She had never visited this world before, never laid eyes on this person, yet Katerina’s bond to the lean, gray-haired man seated at the wooden table was so intense and immediate that she barely managed to suppress the impulse to reach out and embrace him.

He rested a forearm on either side of the tattered book at which he stared, completely absorbed. In a few moments, he began to read aloud to himself, in a gentle voice.

“So long have we been sharing our experience, our becoming, that it no longer makes sense to imagine such a thing as either of us wholly divisible from the other . . . if it ever did make sense.”

Slowly he sat upright, eyes staring in Katerina’s direction, though completely unaware of her, staring through her formless presence and beyond her. A smile spread over his weathered face. Mesmerized, Katerina watched the man’s bright eyes as he began to move his head to the left. The moment his attention came to rest, an undeniable serenity radiated from his face, drawing Katerina to turn and seek out its inspiration.

He was looking into the face of a woman sitting in a large, upholstered chair, motionless, silent, and eyes closed. Upon first recognition of that face, Katerina’s intimacy with it involuntarily pulled her nearer. It was her own face on which Katerina was gazing, many years older, but indisputably her face. Katerina wanted to linger and rest her spirit, weary from all the traveling today, to just take in the simplicity of their life together in this place. But she knew that would be unwise.

Though only an observer, Katerina felt herself beginning to fuse into this life, making it her own. And this reality was progressively laying claim to her. Synthesis into the visited environment was a known problem with this manner of searching. She had been cautioned against becoming too tired and being seduced into idling.

She took one last look at her partner in this alternate life—at the partner of this parallel self. Katerina forced herself to continue the search elsewhere. This man was surely a manifestation of the one she sought, but this was not “him.”

Then she released her hold on this life. The tangibility of another facet of reality dissolved around her, as it had so many times before that day.

When letting go of a visited life, Katerina often had a sense of rapid movement—somewhat unnerving. It was similar to the dream sensation of falling when on the brink of sleep. Except this movement went in all directions simultaneously, including inward.

As Katerina removed herself from this life of hers, she retained traces of it. Though she had visited the place for only moments, that reality had been thoroughly integrated into Katerina’s definition of self, her emotions, and her mind. The same thing had happened with each parallel life that she had visited today. The resulting assimilation of parallel self-definitions was proving to be the hardest part of this task. Katerina could feel something similar to layers of simultaneous lifetime awarenesses building within her consciousness. With each new layer, Katerina’s definition-of-self expanded, but the primary identity receded a little. The more the tether to her prime personality weakened, the more dangerous the next visit became.

These dangers to the visitant were why this ritual was so rarely performed. Only by forcing acknowledgment of her exceptional skills had Katerina been able to persuade The Nine to consent to, and assist in, her searches. With each passing in and out of these parallel lives, Katerina became progressively more understanding of the Crones’ concerns.

Good fortune and bad awaited Katerina at the next location she tried to visit. For whatever reason, she was blocked from entering the environment. This meant the spirit of the very person she had come to visit denied her access—so she had been taught. The barrier was good because of the respite it afforded her, even momentarily. It was bad because this failed attempt was an opportunity lost and she had no time to waste. Katerina could feel her subconscious becoming overwhelmed. She would have to abandon the search very soon.

As though she had been slammed into a wall, Katerina rebounded. With no time to prepare, she entered into another parallel life. The quickness of the transfer had a severe impact on her already depleted energies.

Hazy images began to take form before her eyes. As in every other visit today, what Katerina saw and felt was as real to her as the life in the world of her physical form. These people, her lives in parallel realities, always existed right before her eyes. They were as real as any member of her order that she interacted with day in and day out. In this process, Katerina merely opened her awareness to the otherwise unacknowledged doorway between the infinite realities.

Memories that were hidden from her a moment before—memories belonging exclusively to this parallel life—began to introduce themselves into her consciousness. A flood of previously inaccessible senses, personal to this life, began to send their messages to her brain. Emotions without history for the traveling Katerina of a moment before began to structure in her mind the network of associations that gave them consequence. It was becoming almost impossible to fully open herself to yet another mind, another life, and still retain her distinction from them.

“Maintain the focus,” she reminded herself. “Where is the Union?”

Psychically, she searched the structure in which she stood for evidence of his presence. She knew he had been in this room only a moment before. Scanning one room after another with her mind, her senses met him returning up the stairs from a lower floor.

Perceptive of subtle energies, he stopped, and turned his head as if trying to catch the sound or sight that had fleetingly stirred his attention. Though her presence was centered in another room, Katerina held her mental focus on him, just outside of his range of perception. There was something very special about this one, and she took time to enjoy that uniqueness.

But he is not the Union, her mind cried out.

“Suen?” he called.

“What is it, Yeetar?” his partner replied from a room at the back of the top floor.

Yeetar looked around, curious. It was obvious that he had perceived an unfamiliar intrusion into his world. He seemed to be reaching out with something more than his five senses, trying to locate her. So Katerina cautiously began to withdraw her presence.

Significant, she thought. But, still not the Union.

Katerina heard Yeetar reply, uncertainly, “Nothing, Suen,” as the last of Katerina’s foreign essence departed from his world.

Katerina knew she could not attempt another visit. Her need to return to the Motherworld was too great. As soon as she pulled herself back into the mortal form that was her own, every member of The Nine instantaneously received her request for termination of the rite. The gurgling song of streams that surrounded the circle of Crones aided her return.

Though Katerina felt her spirit fully identify with the body of her home reality, her mind was overwhelmed with the competing identities she had integrated into her awareness during the searches. Still in the seated meditation posture, Katerina slumped forward, reaching her hands to the ground for reconnection, pressing her palms to the soft, living moss that covered the ground below her. Her breathing was deep and slow. With each inhalation, the scent of the evergreen forest strengthened her connection to this place, her primary home.

Surges of energy began to run through her muscles, making them twitch. Katerina strove to suppress these involuntary movements. Undoubtedly, out of need for its own survival, Katerina’s conscious mind was feverishly sweeping through the queue of her recent experiences and vanquishing all contending identities to the subdued recesses of her subconscious.

Katerina had no way of telling how long the hand had been on her shoulder. Still unable to withdraw her concentration from the processes of recovery, she wasn’t yet able to perceive whose hand it was. A minute later, unaware of who stood above her, Katerina began to realize that sympathetic energy flowed into her through the supportive hand, assisting Katerina in her efforts to integrate.

She had not wanted anyone to know how much impact the ceremony had had on her. She had been bold in her claims of being able to handle the process.

“You have done well, dear heart, and we are glad you are back with us.”

Katerina knew the voice. Head hanging down, eyes still closed, her sensory perception becoming exclusive to the world of her body, she replied, “I could not find him, Holiness. So many manifestations of him, but none of them were the Union.”

“That is both auspicious and unfortunate. With so many connections, the bond between you and him is exceptionally strong. It does, however, complicate finding the appropriate manifestation when seeking him without some assistance on his part.

“You have been remarkable in your effort, Katerina. No one would have asked so much of you. Care for yourself now, my child. This is a demanding task that you have undertaken.”

“I am certain something is not as we expect this time,” Katerina said.

“We may not understand why things are proceeding as they are, Katerina, but the Collective Consciousness cannot be wrong. We must carry out our practice as it has been handed down to us. The method has always served the need, and will again . . . in its own time.”

“Yes, Mother. But when I received the visions, it seemed he was not within an order. Is it possible?”

“The images you saw must be coincidental, not indicative of his full person, Katerina.”

“How can he refrain from replying?” Katerina asked, finally regaining enough strength to rise to her feet, though slowly. “Perhaps he cannot, or does not understand the Call.”

The old Matriarch wrapped an arm around Katerina’s back and helped the younger woman to steady her wobbly legs. Katerina looked into the concerned, almost teary eyes of her superior and said, “I truly feel that something is unique to this occurrence of the rift.”

“I know you do, and I respect that belief. But you must accept that no matter the situation, it is perfection, as it has always been.”

A tear rolled down the wrinkled cheek before the elder continued.

“I would not have had you suffer this burden, Katerina, if I had such power to decide. And I must accept that this charge is yours to bear, in your own way.”

Despite the Matriarch’s compassionate tone, Katerina took her words as a reprimand.

“I will not fail my duties. Until I find the Union, I will search without cease.”

Rubbing Katerina’s back, the old woman said, “You have always surpassed your duties, dear girl, and are doing so now. You will not fail, cannot fail. It is we who must not fail you.”

Continued next week, Tea Ceremony

copyright 2006 CG Walters

C.G. Walters ( http://www.cgwalters.com )dprimarily writes fiction that focuses on the multidimensionality of our loves and our lives.

In celebration of CG’s upcoming non-fiction book, Strike a Chord of Silence, for a limited time autographed/signed copies of Sacred Vow ( http://sacredvow.dragonsbeard.com )are available for $4.00US plus shipping!– or purchase as ebook ( http://www.mobipocket.com/en/eBooks/eBookDetails.asp?BookID=79405&Origine=3971 ) or the Amazon Kindle version ( http://www.amazon.com/Sacred-Vow/dp/B0017GFK60/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=digital-text&qid=1208007415&sr=1-1 )

This copyrighted article may be freely reprinted as long as the entire article and complete by line is included, without additions.

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Readercon report

2008-07-26T20:30:48Z

I had a blast at Readercon! My report is over at
http://deviationstrilogy.blogspot.com/2008/07/readercon.html

This past week my mail brought contributor's copies of Space and Time #104 (which contains my poem "First Contact in Appalachia"), We'Moon '09 (which contains my poem "Ancient Wisdom Distilled"), The Drabbler #11 (which contains my short-short story "Houston, We Are the Problem"), and galleys for my poem "Derivative Work," forthcoming in Asimov's (issue TBD).

The entry also cites more praise for my story "Hermit Crabs" (Electric Velocipede #14) and a recommendation of Covenant -- and I've learned that Deviations: Appetite, the second volume in my series, is now available for pre-order at Barnes & Noble.

And I'm off to Denvention in less than two weeks.

First priority: Catching up on sleep and striving for coherence... :-)

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 1 reply

. . . And So It Begins

2008-07-17T06:20:21Z

And so it begins . . .
by Christopher J. Jarmick

She opens her body
vulnerable, not so afraid of him
but of herself, willing to give anything
at least this time, to a lover
she is still getting to know.

FEMALE:
(Why am I willing to give
This much to him, what foolish,
little girl princess fallacy, fairy
tale is this? What trickery of
the male ego is manipulating
me, yet again?... oh but I feel so
alive….I am weak for his touch.)

Male:
The feeling is both exhilarating
and scary, exciting, daring
and utterly necessary.

She slides past yellow lights
believing something or someone is
watching over her, protecting her
and if not, . . .
well too late to worry now.

She lowers her eye lids
purses her lips,
a smile,
almost a dare to her lover
to explore her as he desires,
to show her what he has got,
to take her as he pleases.

Her guard is down
he can touch her,
pinch her,
nibble on her
anyway he likes.

And when he does,
she responds with meows,
and purrs and coos and moans
and deep sensual breaths.
Her eyes roll, her tongue slips
out our her mouth.
She is in this moment
a goddess of pleasure.

And he worships at her alter
being more careful then he needs to be,
almost more careful then she wants him to be,
but its a nearly perfect slow sensuous dance,
He can feel her body responding,
and he can imagine what she is needing next.
He takes a chance, moves in a way he never moved before,
touches in a way he never dared touch before,
and she floods him with juices
and squeezes him, like no one
he has ever been with has ever done before.

They look deep into each others eyes, vulnerable
in their heated passions
in wonderful, dangerous ways.
She smiles, ready for more
they both know

he has only just begun....

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 0 replies

Dark Scribe/Riffing on Strings/Electric Velocipede

2008-07-16T01:04:37Z

Dark Scribe Magazine/Dark Scribe Press has been unveiling -- slooooooowly and torrrrrturously, one day at a time -- the bios of contributors to its Unspeakable Horror: From the Shadows of the Closet anthology, which will include my story "Memento Mori." My bio went up yesterday. You can see it and the others unveiled so far at
http://www.darkscribemagazine.com/unspeakable-horror-from-the-sh/

And I've gotten the new flyer for Riffing on Strings: Creative Writing Inspired by String Theory, which contains my story "Arachne." Contributor's copies are en route and the anthology is available for order. Release is June 1. More info from Scriblerus Press is at
http://www.banyancollege.org/scriblerus/index.php?option=com_content&task=section&id=6&Itemid=38

Speaking of book promotions, I got this URL for Dennis Cass's hilarious gem
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yxschLOAr-s

courtesy of Lisa Mantchev's blog ( http://lisamantchev.livejournal.com/ ). Lisa and I both have stories in Electric Velocipede #14, which debuts at WisCon next week. Sneak preview over at
http://blog.electricvelocipede.com/2008/04/sneak-preview.html

(Thanks to Pumpkin Queen ( http://people.tribe.net/kikopyeandi?_click_path=Application%5Btribe%5D.Person%5Bb71f2d04-aabc-4f83-87a4-849889aedbee%5D )for giving me the sneak preview URL!)

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 2 replies

still life with edgar

2008-07-15T22:55:18Z

Here's a complicated keening
a wounded widow melody that marches
short of meaning
through the stealthily receding
sounds of solitary breathing
leaving naught-at-alls retreating
from the never-really-there

Deep below the bitten rivers
a calm and callous mockery of gifts that
doom the givers
break the broken into slivers
while the raven day delivers
gives her gasping while she shivers
in the cold October air

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 3 replies

2. Miss-Information around ENLIGHTENED AWARENESS

2008-07-13T07:24:09Z

> IN SERVICE TO Clarity of Mind

> It's feels like time to cut thru the MISS-
> INFORMATION surrounding ENLIGHTENMENT. .
>
> It's time to explore this issue FULLY for the
> benefit of our Earths Survival.
> It can alter some individual journeys, due to
> NOT falling down the traps;1) Society has set
> for us, 2) We have set for us, 3) Lack of clear
> information has set for us.

> Clearly, we have ALL been born to LIVE, real
> CLARITY in the World around us,
> . . . But due to MISS-INFORMATION, . . . we
> knowingly-unknowingly absorbed thru our Lives,
> to known-unknown forces in the World, Clarity
> DOES NOT HAPPEN for all of us. [This too will change].
>
> MUSIC TV is singing right NOW in the background
> “”WAKE UP,
> WAKE UP,
> WAKE UP,
> WAKE UP,
> wake up to the manipulation””
>
> Pink Floyd sang it clearly, as did many others
> in music, film, writing, paintings, drawing,
> photography, etc.
>
> It’s IN the category of “THE EARTH IS FLAT”
> All the evidence showed that the Earth was round,
> BUT
> . . . It didn't stop, the consensus of the day,
> saying the Earth was flat, (and that was only a
> few seconds ago, in Earth history)---ONLY a few
> Hundred Years Ago, our time . . .
>
> Similarly, as a group of people on this Earth,
> many have been hoodwinked into thinking that;
> . . . Enlightenment is DIFFICULT to comprehend
> . . . We cannot talk about IT [to a certain
> degree true]
> . . . We must follow a GURU, a recognised
> Teacher, or Lineage of Teachers, or a pathway
> designated BY someone else
> . . . THE PROCESS of CLARITY into ENLIGHTENED
> AWARENESS, is DIFFICULT to conceptualise-
> experience-and KNOW, . . . .
>
> IS THIS ALL a blatant UN-TRUTH ???
>
> [Something I read years ago was a paper on an
> obscure subject, that around c.1900 was in ONE
> book published, followed by another book several
> years later. This, over a period of 50 or so
> years, was followed by 70+ books until one guy
> at the end of the process did a study that
> established that all 70+ books came from most of
> the information from the first and second book .
> . . Nothing else was of any REAL relevance.]
>
> How THIS Writer established Clarity, [in this
> Life], DID NOT COME from any religion, or book,
> or person
> . . . the Writers’ Awareness came from a
> personal event
> . . . that created the decision to live TRUTH,
> . . . in every moment of every day,
> . . . It came from breaking away (from all
> current ways found in Society) and going
> directly IN to TRUTH.
>
> The process of living TRUTH in every aspect of
> Life
> . . . CREATED THE INNER ENVIRONMENT for the
> experience to HAPPEN by itself (to unfold
> effortlessly), and to become so amazing that
> research to unearth others who have this same
> experience, was a very juicy recent experience,
> and the writer realized that this experience is
> transferable to the Minds and experience of
> others.
>
> WE can NOT grow a lettuce when the environment
> does not support that growth
> . . . Our Culture of Mis-information we ALL have
> been exposed to, has not supported the growth of
> our OWNERSHIP of OUR OWN Enlightenment Awareness
> in its Clarity.
>
> It does not feel to me to be an isolated
> experience that has happened to the writer . . .
> This feels to be a planetary unfolding of
> Awareness happening here, between us
> . . . that we are ALL PART OF...

> Every person on this planet EARTH is related to
> you.
> The TRANSFORMATION IN AWARENESS,. . . of every
> person seems to BE a part of the Planetary
> Awareness in progress.
>
> IN SERVICE TO THIS "I AM"
>
> What are your thoughts???
> ESTABLISHING the process that Transforms into
> simple understandings
> . . . Is a process of Education-not an altered
> state of High Awareness
> . . . Blind Freddie can do it
> . . . It is NOT a Religion
>
> Call it whatever you like
> . . . FREEDOM,
> . . . Clarity
> . . . Enlightenment
> . . . OR, just a time in your Life when you say to
> yourself, . . ."Oh! ! , So that’s what IT IS . . . '
> . . . ‘THE WAKE UP CALL’ HAPPENS
> . . . Enlightened Awareness
> It does NOT MATTER WHAT IT IS CALLED
> . . . .It is An Experience we can all avail
> ourselves INTO . . .[if you so Allow IT to BE . . .] .

> Do you think it is Earth time for its people to
> live in Clarity of Awareness ???

> Where IS the information that cuts thru the Miss-
> Information found by many of us???

> It sounds like a tribe for this needs to be
> established, and later this may be so.
>
> Regards and Blessings
> Sam
>

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 0 replies

Undone

2008-07-12T15:48:12Z

I am undone
by his poetry
his shoulders
his arm and his cock

his words unlock me
unwind me
beguile me
undone

undo me
I'm undone
it's thru its' over
and I'm undone

my heart beats
my breath quickens
his words thrill me cause they're for me
I'm undone

I want him to want me
I'm undone
reach for him
into the depths of me

want him to have of me
I'm undone
all of me
done

mefr 07/05/2008

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 3 replies

New Lover Drunk

2008-07-11T22:14:39Z

New Lover Drunk

By Christopher J. Jarmick

Yes, be drunk like brand new lovers

gulping too quickly on fiery passions

until exhausted.

Lie satiated with great big goofy grins

enjoying the sun, the clouds

laughing at the rain

and how time keeps moving.

Never forget this ecstacy but be a conoisseur,

so you will never settle

for any less kind of drunkness

then this one, borne of love and passion.

Bask in your good feelings

but get up and take a long walk

Pass on this satisfaction

the smile, your elation

to everyone you meet.

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 2 replies

Poetry Video

2008-07-06T14:47:31Z

Open Door Poetry

http://bordersmedia.com/odp/

pretty neat stuff..

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 0 replies

Dodge Poetry Festival

2008-07-04T14:53:38Z

Most of us in Jersey know about this festival, but not sure how many folks outside the area know about it.

The Dodge Poetry Festival is really amazing and very worthwhile.

Four days. Prices are very low...like maybe $40 for an entire day!

Performances and workshops by Poet Laureates, nationally recognized poets.

Absolutely wonderful stuff!

It is in West Jersey, about 1 1/2 hours from NYC.

Run only once every two years. This is where Bill Moyers filmed his TV specials on poetry.

http://www.dodgepoetry.org/

(I have no connection with the organization)

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 0 replies

Invitation to visit my author's website

2008-07-04T13:47:00Z

Hi fellow writers! I just wanted to let you all know that I now have an active author's blog. The home of my novel, The Gate of Galithonel, is now an up and running blog on which you will find poetry, essays, articles and exercises for creative writing. Come be entertained, contribute a poem, get unstuck from writers block, be inspired, or whatever else you can think up! I'll be doing my best to post two to four times a month so why not bookmark my site and stop by on a regular basis? You'll find me at http://www.gateofgalithonel.com. Peace!

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 0 replies

YAY!

2008-06-23T20:24:39Z

a place for my stories ...

!!!!!!!

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 2 replies

Comedy Writing Prompt

2008-06-18T16:08:07Z

http://gmy.news.yahoo.com/v/8369018

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 0 replies

writing contest - short stories

2008-06-09T17:18:14Z

For those of you who may be interested, I saw that www.dublit.com is sponsoring a short story contest.
Prices $$ are pretty good and come together with media exposure.
There is not a huge number of submissions so far so chances are quite high!

dublit.com/contest

cheers,

Stephan

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 0 replies

Rhyming Tips

2008-05-16T12:52:03Z

Site with rhyme tips for poets, songwriters:

http://www.rhymezone.com/

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 1 reply