The Graph: The Math of Story, pt. 2

“No bones. Not even a knee cap.”

As if knee caps are a different currency altogether, and, if that were the case, I should have a buried treasure full of gold somewhere, risk-free, in the desert.

I’ve been watching Breaking Bad in consecutive order, an anomoly for me other than “Lost,” “Deadwood” and I’m sure some other series, I watch what I get to watch when I have had access to cable which meant, I watched “Mad Men” out of order and then was able to gorge on one season a while back; I saw a middle episode of Breaking Bad (the one in season 3 where the twins are buying body armor from a semi-fucktard redneck in the back of a semi-trailer, but I knew everything (pretty much) that I needed to know. I think I watched that in a motel in the midwest or was is South somewhere on location and half asleep, and I can’t remember when that was exactly, but now I have made it to the gun pulled on protege and sensei, student and teacher, grasshopper and master, season 4 episode 12 or 11 or something, but either way, it’s been a bad season for Walt.

I don’t feel as obsessed as I did when I dreamt I was in Deadwood (because I woke up bleeding and a bar fight was the only way to explain that one with any amount of respect, when in fact, I had fallen out of a vodka bar—there are too many injuries following vodka, that has been duly noted and stopped for a while now so the idea is to keep it at bay, I suppose and not be a hypocrite.

Then, there’s Mad Men, which I watched on Netflix from the beginning and that show holds up but can be watched as a one-off, and you get the story of the man, in a Greek tragedy kind of way. Breaking Bad kind of unfolds. More disturbingly, Breaking Bad kind of unfolds in a strange parallel universe I like to call the entertainment industry which is in fact owned by the German Multinational that, on paper, owns the Laundry/Meth Lab and Chicken/Chile HQ, based on conference calls privy to, dimensions of difficulty it takes to function in the ‘real’ world, whatever that is, I still am not sure and all the signs are telling me I should be.

Yet, this I know, I know how to tell a story. The math of story is a graph that must move downward spiral to be ripped usunder to go where no man has thought to plunder to be redeemed and taken to the place unimagined, beyond and beholden, all the nipping at the heels of and chasing with shadows has stopped, but the signs point nowhere, are quite deceptively evoking payment of some kind and this should be no bones, not even knee caps, but something else entirely.

Reading the Water: Portait of a Young Artist Grown Old

The book to come probably end of this year 2015 has been writing itself through me since’ve easily  been recovering and redrafting after Chimera. All scattered. I’ve dreamed of having the time and the space to do these art forms properly and the way I see fit which is all I’ve ever asked of my aesthetic heroes- a basic mindset, not too Braggart but definitely strong of purpose and limber of ego to waste my precious time left learning anything new this experiential dog ain’t learning new tricks unless they make money or Lead to the making of money a changed repurposed focus in the springtime of my Loving The installation. Piece – multimedia remembrance quilts

The donations favorite causes for lost loved ones

The book reading the Water 

Collection reprint mutation of love in the time of cholera 

Meets my Brain spur Chimera  

This book reading the Water covers roughly 1994-2014 span that is all over the place, quite literally, and I am thinking of shaping the collage like poems as visual art offerings and figuring out my multimedia vision as part of my current sports of Clear, unadulterated vision®mission©align™ and Managing my dissociation disorders bodily manifestations of pain and changes i know I want to make and life I see living out my years as not a complete waste of human potential but a contributing factor to other than gorilla mentality might makes right bartleby scrivner existence from here til my own private eternity

Midlife crisis is third book can’t wait to get to that

Hank Moody is my Harry’all$ in Bar character 

Need to write that story while it’s happening

Taking care of business make a commitment to write 

Each day

Gathering at bay

Moving to Montana soon

In plain sight

She hidesIn pinkish faded light

Losing hours

Like a blight

She cannot face

What she cannot



She miscarried 

The burden

For so long

And now

The answer 


Upon her face

With childless chisels 

Causing hate

Lasting indentations 

Of blind faith

I’ve harmed myself

I know that now

But now to begin the

Ending of such reactions actions inertia fear and hideout 


No one wants to Deal 

With That s hit

You made 

Sure of that

And now I feel. Like I just want 

To check myself in to a place that lobotomizes 

All hope emotional thought and

Logic asserted as survival tactic

Just stare blankly out the window

It seems I get so close

Then backslide



Against all possible intent

It’s as if my own worst enemy

Is this thing that Cant be stopped

And it’s the past undealt with parts

Colliding with futiure Miles and draws 

Of hopes and dreams 

To present where you can’t move

You’ve hurt yourself again

And feel closed in




And all you see is the crooked mouth

And the Self-flagellation instilled thru generations of

Coding comes right back up and in

And no good can come of that but it is horribly familiar

Like sickness and lack

Deserving nothing better

Resignation to a martyrdom fate to block any 

Others from needing more emotional 

Care than 

Your mother

My grandmother

Somebody’s frustrated wife

Someone’s alcoholLo spouse

Someone’s mistress 

Someone’s suicidal daughter

This leads me here

Where  what I do

Is nothing close

To storybook or fairy tale 

Or proverbial moral to

This story is

Don’t end up like me

But why

And how and

Way too often 

When will this all be over

The questions 

Are never

The same as the answers

Except in this one


It’s keeping the demons at bay

It’s hard to say

which is harder

to be constantly



just won’t pass


they lay

in wait

an ambush

waiting to


i wish



tell your

one safe


before hand

and be done

with that part

move on to

other things

fall apart

Trauma: Childhood Sexual Abuse | Psychology Today

ACME Girl in an ACME World


We talk too much, Miranda, her feverish sister Sasha said, in her low voice, no secrets come out without silence.

I do. Somehow I’ve come to believe that the last thing a writer or any artist thinks about is to make himself comfortable while he’s working. Perhaps the discomfort is a bit of an aid or stimulus. Men who can afford to work under better conditions often choose to work under miserable conditions.

He had cited his favorite writer, well at least for now, Sampson was irresistible and he knew it and felt guilty and ashamed of his unabashed pheremones and good breeding (his mother was an angel with a pixie wit and his father was some sort of apostle hero who was actually his uncle because his father turns out was some sort of wandering bipolar didn’t know it cad…and hence, this is how I revisit Perseus, Medusa (the new Molly) and the myths of a new generation based on the hidden meanings in the ancient revolving door myths:

In 1939 he went to Greece to visit Lawrence Durrell; his sojourn there provides the narrative basis of The Colossus of Maroussi. Cut off by the war and forced to return to America, he made the yearlong odyssey recorded in The Air-Conditioned Nightmare. Then in 1944 he settled on a magnificent empty stretch of California coast, leading the life described in Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch.Now that his name has made Big Sur a center for pilgrimage, he has been driven out and is once again on the move.

I think these questions are meaningless. What does it matter how long it takes to write a book?

-Henry Miller

From the meaningless questions to the imagination of the future:

Imagine if sixty years ago, at the start of my writing career, I had thought to write a story about a woman who swallowed a pill and destroyed the Catholic Church, causing the advent of women’s liberation. That story probably would have been laughed at, but it was within the realm of the possible and would have made great science fiction. If I’d lived in the late eighteen hundreds I might have written a story predicting that strange vehicles would soon move across the landscape of the United States and would kill two million people in a period of seventy years. Science fiction is not just the art of the possible, but of the obvious. Once the automobile appeared you could have predicted that it would destroy as many people as it did.

I read everything by Robert Heinlein and Arthur Clarke, and the early writings of Theodore Sturgeon and Van Vogt—all the people who appeared inAstounding Science Fiction—but my big science-fiction influences are H. G. Wells and Jules Verne. I’ve found that I’m a lot like Verne—a writer of moral fables, an instructor in the humanities. He believes the human being is in a strange situation in a very strange world, and he believes that we can triumph by behaving morally. His hero Nemo—who in a way is the flip side of Melville’s madman, Ahab—goes about the world taking weapons away from people to instruct them toward peace.

I often use the metaphor of Perseus and the head of Medusa when I speak of science fiction. Instead of looking into the face of truth, you look over your shoulder into the bronze surface of a reflecting shield. Then you reach back with your sword and cut off the head of Medusa. Science fiction pretends to look into the future but it’s really looking at a reflection of what is already in front of us. So you have a ricochet vision, a ricochet that enables you to have fun with it, instead of being self-conscious and superintellectual.

The experience of great loss appears frequently in his work.

He recently told me he still lives by his lifelong credo, “Jump off the cliff and build your wings on the way down.”