Hell. I found it. There is a house in Appleton where the spiritual forces of evil have converged and the tender bite of a succubus devours your soul one suckle at a time until you are unable to move yet again. The devil uses powerful words to convience you that you must reside in hell for it is your residence, your own personal nightmare. The screams are unheard as demons scratch trails of hatred into your skin so that you turn away from having a smile.

A smile. What are those things? How are they produced without an instance of stress? Does it swirl behind the face of lies? My courage is seeped by a false smile until I'm unable to distinguish a true emotion. The TV flickers another rerun or gesture to wallow in self-pity. Wouldn't it be wonderful to be rich like them and not have the troubles we have? No. Troubles would still dissolve into our water and poison us.

The poison still affects me to this day. Where I'm unable to decide what to do. I'm terrified of the present and the future. The mixture of toxins engulfed my mind until I found myself unable to dream, to write, to imagine, to sleep and finially to love. My blood runs down the back of my throat. I taste the iron when I sniffle. The doctor tells me I have too much stress in my life. I paid him that much for something I already understand and know?

I'm scared of running away. I thought I would be a man, stick things out and try my best, but I can't do it anymore. Now I'm ashamed of the man I'm going to be when I leave town tomorrow. The weight of the world will shift from one shoulder to the next. There is nothing here but strife.

She foretold it. In the beginning she had strange vibrations about MasterGraphics and I couldn't understand. But damn, she knew almost to the exact way they treated me in the end and that was almost three years before the events took place. I'm always left awed. But I doubt if she understands and because of that I'm indecisive on what I should do.

Permit me to explain a little here if you have the time. It might seem like a whiney post, but I haven't had a true friend to speak my inner thoughts too in months if not over a year so this medium will have to suffice. My life was stolen from a year ago from last May. An innocent date led to a quick relationship where the "L" word was used so frequent I couldn't help but fall into saying it myself. Even at my age (see previous post) I didn't see the warning signs. And I fell into a black hole where my life meant nothing anymore and having it that way pleased her. I'm a man I exaggerate, but the truth be told, my dreams died like a crumpled piece of paper in the fireplace. I never remember a time when there was an attempt to restore them. I blamed everyone else, but in the end I blamed myself. I got myself into the mess, I must get out.

Getting out has been a bitch, worse than my marriage. I left my marriage. This might sound strange, but it was easy because I was so unhappy. But don't believe I didn't suffer for many other reasons, but I knew it was the right thing to do for me. Getting out of satan's clasp has been difficult. He/She clutches my throat in and out of my life and I'm paralyzed to do much about it. Until today. Today I have decided Satan cannot hold me any longer.

Thus I depart from this wasteland. When I was in Barnes and Noble the last time I read Terry Brooks book about writing, I spoke about that a few days ago (too lazy to link it right now). I ready his nearly 200 page book in about 2.5 hours (heh its my library! :P). THe last line of his book. Being a writer must be the most important thing in your life.

How can you do that? Do I want that? Can I do that? And more importantly should I take that approach?

Tomorrow afternoon I'm getting in my car and going someplace south. I'm not sure where I'm going or how I'll get there, but I do believe my soul will be the better for it. It must or I will die soon. My soul will be crushed and my body might as well dig a hole six feet deep and wait for the dirt to cover me. But I'm not going to let that happen. Thus, I move on.

Then there is this yellow thing that drives my soul crazy. Maybe I should just get lost and never hurt anyone again. Including myself...

I know I'll drive down the road and I'll come to the fork in the road. I'll pull off to the side of the road. So many choices to decide and I'm so confused I'll wait until my heart tells me which way to go while my head screams about the idiocy of my life. I guess it will give me something to write about in the future huh?

If I get swallowed up in the universe, realize I'll miss you more than you'll ever know. So who knows when I'll be able to post again here. Go for your dreams! Don't let anyone steal them from you!

me

Can you believe it is already October 12th? Sigh. Where do the days go? They dissolve so fast at my age I guess.
I can't believe of the moments I've given up due to my stupidity. I know wishing to turn back the hands of time does no good. Need to learn from my mistakes and move forward and realize I can still attain the things from life I desire.

"I thought love was only true in fairytales..." Hehehe I remember singing that on the phone.

Over the past few months I've come to realize what love is supposed to be. No, not the kind of love that comes natural to a brother, sister, mother or a father, but the kind of love a man learns to develop when he finds the person he is supposed to be with. You first must have the spark. That little thing you can't get with just anyone on the street. Although a whimper of lust is present, it goes beyond the basic want of the opposite sex (or the same for those who are wired different in that department). Its easy (speaking for the male population) to look at a beautiful woman and lust after her, but that isn't the spark. Most men are decieved by this, since the only passion is what a wonderful fuck she would be. Maybe even a trophy to brag with the guys for a few weeks as he parades her around showing the other apes what he has conquered.

What then, oh Dr. Bob is the spark you speak about? The spark leads to questions in the mind and of the heart. Makes you wonder what kind of sound does she make when she sneezes. What? When you first meet that someone you really fall in love with you ask in your heart you wonder about all the unimportant things at the moment. Not what color panties she has on. But that question is there, but he will also wonder what her favorite joke is or how he can make her smile without saying a word. Because if you can make someone smile without trying, that my friends is the road to true love.

It takes maturity and wisdom to understand when this happens in your life. When you are in your twenties, everything you do makes you feel like this so you are misguided into thinking that this is the spark, the flame to a life long relationship, but most guys (even women) don't understand what they are feeling. They found someone who is willing to take a chance to listen and go along with a few simple thoughts. When they are too far commited to each other, Sex, Money and even the task of doing chores around the house is a disruptive force.

It is like sipping wine. Although I'm not a big wine drinker, I do know you use ALL of your senses. The bouquet
of her presence simmers in your mind, the taste of her thoughts echo in your heart, the touch of her words makes you do things you never thought possible, when you catch a glimpse of her smile you know everything is alright and the sound of pleasure in her laugh is an unescapable chain that captures your heart for eternity.

These feeling are wonderful and yet the most scary in the world. Sometimes you want to run, both to and from because you can't believe it is possible. The rollarcoaster of love. Up and down, from side to side all the emotions roll around in your stomach and makes your head disbelieve your heart. And then you do the most stupid things....

*sigh*
me

I really shouldn't type so late at night without rewriting (editing) it. I guess it is my aMUSEment. Hehehe.

I added another link. *grin*
I wish I could put off-site pictures on here. My link idea was wonderbar! Guess I'll have to pay for it if I want it that bad. But I'm a cheap bastard. LOL.

I'll write more laytur.
me

Jen - Lackey is a good writer. A series I really enjoyed is the L. Hamitton Anita Blake vampire hunter series. I read them all, there are some things I would have done differently, but they are a good sexy series. I'm sure she has given you more suggestions and might have a better pulse on your reading appetite then I do.

One thing I wish to mention about yesterday's post before I continue is about the Barnes and Noble here in Appleton. This might seem strange, but it has the best public restroom I've ever been in. There werre no attendants or anything snazzy like that, but it smelled great. A strong scent of rosemary and bathroom was in perfect order almost too clean. I appriciated it very much. Strange I know, but most men's bathrooms stink like urine, rusty door metal doors on the stalls and a small water leak dripping from one or more urinals. It felt like going to the bathroom at home.


In Your Eyes by Peter Gabriel

Love I get so lost , sometimes
days pass and this emptiness fills my heart
when I want to run away
I drive off in my car
but whichever way I go
I come back to the place you are
All my instincts , they return
and the grand facade , so soon will burn
without a noise , without my pride
I reach out from the inside
In your eyes
the light the heat
in your eyes
I am complete
in your eyes
I see the doorway to a thousand churches
in your eyes
the resolution of all the fruitless searches
in your eyes
I see the light and the heat
in your eyes
oh, I want to be that complete
I want to touch the light
the heat I see in your eyes
Love , I don't like to see so much pain
so much wasted and this moment keeps slipping away
I get so tired of working so hard for out survival
I look to the time with you to keep me awake and alive
And all my instincts , they return
and the grand facade , so soon will burn
without a noise , without my pride
I reach out from the inside
In your eyes
the light the heat
in your eyes
I am complete
in your eyes
I see the doorway to a thousand churches
in your eyes
the resolution of all the fruitless searches
in your eyes
I see the light and the heat
in your eyes
oh, I want to be that complete
I want to touch the light ,
the heat I see in your eyes
in your eyes

I love that song.

I tried to write a poem for her, but it disolved because I don't know what to say. I'm not at a loss for words, but rather so many words barrage my mind I can't keep up with all the images to sort them out. I remember when I worked at Trek and I'd drive to a park overlooking the river. Early spring was the best, the scents of new flowers, the sounds of the animals and birds scrounging for food and the warm sunshine blended together for the perfect scene to write. After I munched down my lunch I'd daze out over the water until a vision became clear to me. I tried to write some funky poems, a bit eccentric, but if you pried into it for a while you could understand the images. However I think they were a bit personal and not many people related on the boards.

Although it wasn't her favorite she put up with them and remarked how they made her feel. I would have paved a road to the moon, but that she only had to ask. My other writing skills appealed to her, but my poetry spoke volumes to her and it was something quick I could produce so she had something on a routine basis. That my friends is heaven on earth to this man. The true art of love. To be noticed for something so subtle you can create that it stirs something in her soul, her eyes and maybe even between her legs. To find me, yes lowly ol' me sexy while the rest of the world scoffs and looks away is the greatest gift a woman can give.

But love is a many layered thing. When you get to the heart of the process I believe it is finding the inner soul of someone and being able to produce the deepest emotions you start unveiling the rest of yourself to them and see if they will accept or reject it. Writing something for someone might seem like a trival thing for most people on this planet, but I pour my blood into it.

When it works something comes alive in the words and I hope for that moment she imagines me kissing her. What kind of kiss? One of those kisses that start with the eyes locked upon each other where you find yourself looking past the color into the breath of her soul. Naked, even with her clothes on, but she allows someplace reserved only for you. The touch of their skin unwraps a new mystery no matter how many times you think you've help that embrace they find something unique for you. The kiss only then becomes irresistable. It takes the time to build up to that point where the only thing you can do with that person is kiss them. Real passion not just lust lies in the inability to kiss them enough. Kissing lets you knock on the door, the tongue welcomes you in, but you want something besides the welcome sign. You want to crawl into the person, feel every emotion you can with them. To make love to them. Your blood isn't boiling, but rather your skin wishes to peel back and expose the want in the pit of your stomach for that person. Because that's the "G-Spot" they have searched for. The kiss dangles the flavors of the body in front of you. Her perfume is the last thing you remember when she backs away and smiles at you. And it is then you pray she felt the same.

me

I ended up at Barnes and Noble today. I didn't mean too, but I gues the writing gods had something in store for me. I purchased a soda, found a comfortable chair and then searched through the archives of books . When I returned to my oversized stuffed chair I held Sometimes the magic works by Terry Brooks in my grubby little hands. I had another book about writing from Joyce Oats and the "Official" Photoshop teaching manual. I flipped open the Brooks book and found it easy to read. I read the words off the page like butter dripping from hot corn. They were sweet and delicious and the only thing he said that made sense I hadn't heard from many other writers was to outline before you begin to write.

Years ago when I wrote my first and only sorry assed book, I tried to outline it, but I made so many changes o the outline that I became frustrated. I ended rewriting the book many times over as well and I threw away the notion that outlines would save me anytime. Now I'm much older and *cough* wiser my writing has developed to a different stage. Yes I will always have to rewrite (99.99% of writers do so), but his logic that the rewriting will be minimized if you use such an outline and expect the outline to change as you discover more of your story as you delve deeper into it. One remark he mentioned rang true to me. The writers who don't use outlines (Steven King to name one) feel that they are writing the story twice.

Something that has plagued me over the years is letting the fireflies go too soon. What the hell do you mean? Passion for a particular story is like catching a multitude of fireflies in your hands. When you have a few dozen buzzing between your clasped palms you can't contain the glow of their natural light even though you have them captured. With each telling, even a short synopsis a few flies are let go and he glow you once held begins to fade until you've opened your hands too many times and there is nothing left to illuminate your ideas with. So now I'm in a quandry. I see both sides of the story, but I need to know which will work for me. I'm going to try to do an outline of the one I began, because I see the possiblities to enhance the story not dimish it.

In the meantime...
me

Have you ever got so involved surfing the web you forgot what time it was? Heh. Last night was one of those times. I found some really strange and yet funny things.
I tried to post some links here, but something went Fubar big time. So I'm going to try again!

Like Lord of the Rings? Like Jack Black? Two great tastes that go together!
Ring!

And here we have Gollum, rapping...
Gollum

Please also note I added another link MilkandCookies.com to my link section. I haven't explored it all, but it is where I got the two links above. I also found a soundboard link from there. Check out the site if you have LOTS of time.

Then I was looking around and found this joke.
Hell

Have fun with them...

I had this neat idea for a links picture, but I can't post pictures from other addresses here because I'm not a paying member so my idea went down in flames.

Funny Jen! :P (See previous comments)

It was so funny I had to add your link to my page. That way when people get bored with my drivel they can go check out those special things you have to say. *grin*

I started really writing last night. Did you hear the moon crack or the feel the cool air of hell? I'm scared to reread it, but I'm in a frame of mind that if I build it, they will come. (See obscure movie reference #4)

I'm thinking I'll get in my car and live as a drifter on the Mexican border. That would make some interesting story fodder huh?

I'll check back later...

me

Edited for content

Sunday and I had to go visit the temple again. I cozied up to a diet coke and a Reese's peanut butter cookie (yummy) and found a book, The Writing Life by Annie Dillard. She won a Pulitzer Prize for a book and now I stumble across her little book of essay's on writing. I gobbled most of the book down in an hour and a half as well as the cookie. its strange to have such a connect to a group of people you've never met, but when they describe the process that churns in your own gut it is hard not to listen to the things they have to say. Nothing inside the book was all that revolutionary, but it only served to illustrate to my puny little brain that my thoughts are not alone.

"Baby got back..."

So now I'm ready...

me

I should have taken the blue pill! I could have woken up to a serene world that I could keep made up in my mind and been happy as punch without knowing all the dirty little lies life has in store for us. I don't suppose God in heaven gives us prewarning before our conception moment or the moment just before we arrive at some sort of consciousness. I talk to my 16 year old son *composes himself after yet again realizing he has a 16 yr old* and try to tell him about all the mistakes I can see him making in the next few years. I really want him to avoid them. But much like his father, he is quite stubborn and wants to fall on his face, get trampled by the masses and do it all on his own. *sigh* I guess I probably didn't listen much to my parents. Wait. I really didn't have parents that knew what was in store for me at all. No I didn't grow up with alien parents, although that would have been wild. No my mother and step-dad were Jerry Springer panel members before the show was a twinkle in the man's eyes.

None of this really matters twenty years later. I can beach and moan about it, but it changes nothing about how I will sleep tonight, what my deepest dreams and desires are and how I can obtain them. What matters is how I'm going to make it work. A little bit of luck and persistance and I'll be fine. Inspiration isn't the key. Working my ass off so I can do it is. All my life I've watched others tumble from their dreams when I thought they had so much going for them and yet I hear the whispers from others about the same of me. Only I can do anything about it.

Ever wonder why I whine so much on here? It gets old huh? The thing is I really don't have anyone close to me that understands any of it. I suppose anyone who creates art understands the pain involved, but I think with writing it is something beyond any other form. With poetry and/or music the artist looks for the flash of emotion in the few moments they have to express it. Painters and other artists have the ability to have a concrete showing of what was in their mind's eye. Even if it is abstract, there is little to judge about what the expression is meant to be. While novelists have to sustain emotion and describe every sensual event they wish their readers to partake in. This in no means belittles the other artists because their blood bleeds into their craft as does a writers. In my understanding, it is difference between a few drops and a whole pint.

It makes being a writer no less nor important to society. Rather it is a haunting scene getting played over and over in ones head as they stare at the blank paper ready to explore the arranged words that will concot a new magic no one else has ever tasted, felt, seen, heard or even had a hint of smelling. So many themes are regurgatated in the mainstream while those best left to experiment with new ideas are shunned unless their name gets them in the door. Editors and publishers want originality as long as you do it like everyone else. Reminds me of the old Far Side cartoon of a bunch of penquins standing on the ice while one stands up and shouts, "I gotta be me!"

I once tried to express this to Sandy. I felt as if I was talking quantum physics to her. Granted I never tried to impress her with my writing. I don't know why, but I did my best to show her some of the general things I had written and it amused her to a point. I felt like she was my ex-wife all over and she was wondering when I was going to put away my play things and get on with life. The problem I have is that I see writing as a huge part of my life. Everytime I give it up, I feel dead inside. I can't imagine what it would be like to lose a child, but sometimes I think that is how I feel after I go a few months without writing. I don't expect many to understand. Hell I don't even understand me at times, but I do know that my happiness is predicated on what I am doing and what I want to do. So either hop aboard or get the hell out of the way! She got out of the way. heh

Another donut missing from the box...
me

I took today off. I was bad. Ran some errands, got my haircut and found my way to Barnes and Noble. Ah the sweet scent of books, coffee (well hot chocolate) and the melodic sounds of easy listening music piped overhead that tries to make you think your IQ raised a point just by entering the store. Its not a bad feeling. Sometimes I think it is the Temple for writers and I'm herre to offer my sacrifice. The gods inside have many treasures to explore, but they also expect certain pleasures to entertain them. I came empty handed today, but I vowed it won't be long before I can approach the altar with something worthwhile.

Anyways whilst I was there I found a writing book (yes I love reading about writing it is very inspirational to me) by Norman Mailer. Not that I have read much of his over the years, maybe one novel many years ago, but it wasn't that memorable. Not like Ender's Game or 1984 *grin*. He defines a novelist's muse as something other than a simple whim. He says poets and short-story writers have muse, while novelists have, "The Bitch".

I found this on a website tonight about the book:

"He likens novel writing to an obsession with a whore, “the Bitch”, he calls her. Young, ignorant writers think they have beaten the Bitch. “’I made her moan,’ they say. But the Bitch laughs afterward in her empty bed. ‘He was so sweet in the beginning, but by the end he just went ‘Peep, peep, peep.’” He says he nearly titled this book “I Made Her Moan,” but lost his nerve."

I've read so many books from authors and about writing that it all begins to sound the same. "Writer's write. And to write is to open your vein and pour your blood upon the page." Oh it is easy to write a scene or short description, but it takes real writing stanima to write a full length novel. I did a horrible job once, so I know a little of what that means. But like a marathon runner, I want to run it again. This blog amongst other things is starting to prepare me for the journey.

If anyone has a link or two they want me to post, please feel free to email me (Trist_on@hotmail.com) with it. And if it is somewhat worthy I'll be glad to add it to my links section.

I suppose....
Laters
me

Last night after I posted here I got this idea to create a secondary blog. It would be a reviewers guide to things that I pass-by (I wonder, should it be pass by, pass-by or passby) in my life. I started writing like crazy and I realized two things. I'm a very opininated man about things I care about, which means I rambled on too long about one subject. And then I began to wonder if what I said really would impact anyone other than myself. So I deleted it after today. I had a dream of writing a column like that in a small local newspaper. You know where you would get joe-blows opinion about Music, Movies and restraunts with a few this pisses me off things. You know like paying six bucks for a movie and seeing two or three commercials before the damn thing even starts. That is a huge pet peeve of mine! Espicially if want popcorn and a soda to go with the flick. You can spend twenty dollars easy if you're not careful. So much for a cheap night out!

On the other side of the writing front. (Would that be the Eastern Front? I used to watch a lot of Hogan's Heroes as I grew up.) Anywho I have come up with two different novel ideas. I was thinking as I wrote each chapter I'd post them on a private blog for those who would be interested. They could give me feedback or just read it for the sake of reading it I suppose. What are the ideas? I can't tell. I've realized that once I start mouthing/writing the snyopsis of a story the breath of it expires before I even have the chance to read it. So it will have to be a surprise for now.

Last night the magic reappeared in my subconscious, I began to dream about the stories. My mind started to work out the possibilities of what could or should happen. It has been ages since this has transpired. Once I realized no one in my life at this time really cares if I write or not (I'm sure some of you hope I do, but sorry I don't see/hear from you on a daily basis to be of much inspiration.). But the desire must come from within me. Much like when I dropped all the weight. I had no one to blame or encourage me but myself and I did it. Goddamn it. Its time once again to take charge of my life and the hell to anyone that stands in my way. But I plotted in those times when the stories begin to enrich themselves and to be honest, it was almost as good as sex. Oooo sex. What is that again?

Heh.

Tis the twirl of the earth and another day has come and gone!
me

I write decent smut. My mind seems to turn to something perverted. No matter what, I can do something romantic/sexual pretty much any time I sit down to write. This bothers me, because I don't think anyone takes it too serious. Writing good smut takes as much discipline and soul searching as anything else. I know Anne Rice has written the Sleeping Beauty and other sexual novels, but in all fairness no one really takes that stuff as serious as something else. I wonder if this stops me from writing. I'm sure everything does since I haven't been active in a long time. I wonder if I try so hard not to write something sexual when I feel I should be writing something 'important' that I cut myself off to the stories I really wish to write. Not that everything I do has to be sexual, but like I said, it comes very easy to me. Something like the post a few days ago I can churn out in fifteen minutes. I also want to write about a more vivid experience than I have been getting (boy isn't that the truth). I imagine what I want things to be rather than the way things are. This also scares me because then I wonder if I'm searching for something made up in my mind instead of trying to settle for something average.

*sigh*

Should people settle for something average? I've tried that in a couple of relationships and it leaves me wanting so much more. I've had the taste of nirvana with someone and that seems to spur me onto something I can't even imagine even if she thought she had nothing to do with it. I don't think it is a question of someone being more than they are, but rather when you connect with that someone it is magical. You just know that person will be there beyond words. Their soul is there and is willing to die for your beliefs as well as their own. That my friends is not average.

My life, for the most part, has been made up of averages. I've been told what I could do, what things should be and the what not, but when the brass tax is filed down to it all, I'm average at everything I do. I want more from myself than average, but I'm not able to obtain anything greater than just okay.

Just another average day...

me