Waukegan

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.

http://www.theparisreview.org/interviews/4597/the-art-of-fiction-no-28-henry-miller#

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.

http://www.theparisreview.org/interviews/6012/the-art-of-fiction-no-203-ray-bradbury

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.”

http://www.theparisreview.org/interviews/6012/the-art-of-fiction-no-203-ray-bradbury

Bio for Katherine Walker, Director-Writer-Producer

I am a writer, filmmaker, producer. I tell real people’s stories, and am a master of verite-style, unscripted television.

I manage big crews and work with exceptionally talented people. I deliver the best possible product, on time and on budget. My organizational & communication skills as a Show Runner and Director combined with my creative on-my-feet scriptwriting responses make me unique among the many.

I have over 18 years of experience in film and television, in a myriad of genres and formats.

Other experience: Grantwriter, columnist, editor.

Conflict Resolution Facilitator for the State of Hawaii

Partial Credits

The Apprentice, seasons 1-5 producer: 19 million viewers, Episode 1.

The Amazing Race, Episode 311 wins first Emmy for that series.

Series: The Colony, Model Latina, Bar Rescue, American Hoggers, Ice Cold Gold, Fixing the Body, The Restaurant, The Amazing Race and five seasons of The Apprentice.

On-set assistant for Harrison Ford & Robert DeNiro.

LinkedIn profile link:
http://imuafilm.wordpress.com

GLAND
on location in Greenland

There’s no way to know…

…if this were true, you just have to go with it, I imagine myself surfing again on a perfect morning in the perfect temperature water amongst friends, no tiger sharks in the making or anything wrong with a perfect day, coz you get those once in a while even if Henry Miller turns out to be an anxiety-ridden, rule-maker not rule-breaker, and Jack Kerouac was delightfully all over the place but feels in the end like a Dead Beat Dad, since my generation, the X-girls, the generics, embraced it, not afraid of hiding out on the plains of nowhere. Until it means waking up Rumplestilkskin style, 25 years later after a bad, bad lapse in acceptance of what others refer to and agree upon as reality. And I’m not just talking psychedelic experiments, but the ways of art, or physical training that likes to puff up its spiritual bases (see tai chi, yoga, martial arts that are humanly impossible and make you feel like ben wa balls, the equal and opposite reaction).

Repeated exposure to threatening stimuli also causes sensitization of the nervous system. Sensitization results from a pattern of repetitive neural activation or experience.

In the room the women come and go…

talking of Michelangelo…

It is 11:40 a.m. on Sunday, nothing discernible has changed, Take it in. Bless that.

You may miss it all together, but there is some stretchiness to the cosmos, and believe half of what you see and none of what you hear or is it the other way around. Always get more than one source for your information. Unless that source is something trying too hard to be ‘something’ since the truth is such a rare commodity, it can be hard to recognize from time to time.

12:05 p.m. T.S. Eliot that unravels like pulling blossoms from a string. I begin.
But I do have something important to tell you.
circumvented by this serious discussion, the dark mistress of an ethereal soul, more dissolute prof·li·gate of syb·a·rite bon viveur, more resolved in my dissolution than any recompense therein.

And what could this absolve? You, specifically, from any belief that has not come between us, already, in passing misunderstanding, a specialty around these parts where Twin Peaks destinations tend to ruminate too long in my world.

The women come and go
prattling about Michelangelo

Oh please do not say
what is it
Let us go an make our visit

like a patient etherized upon the table…

I slip off into a mindless slumber where the senses are shattered so the inverse proportion can be gathered by slicing and dicing thru skin, blood and bone to save some aspect of your anatomy they believe something about that makes them want to patch it up, enhance it or downright remove it…if that were they case, I would have them remove any memory of pain from sciatica as I am now holding my neck in such a manner as to cause ultimate pain so I must stop with the inspiration and re-feng-shui the roadhouse blues, deal with the very real anxiety from being contacted by people who want to yell at me for some reason and want me to do all this stuff for them and I can’t possibly do everything they ask not to mention what I need to be doing not to even consider the fact that there are things that have been gutted from my life for this very reason, and the crux of the situation is that I never learned how to set boundaries so what starts with T.S. Eliot ends here, with my
stream of consciousness
on the subject of

Let us go then
you and I
where the evening
is
set out
against the sky

and then I bash myself for not being a better poetry memorizer, I only know snippets like
“And naked,
climbed the weather”

But it’s my own words that
fill my head
as in
rona you called and i answered
full belly moon
and more to the point
those were narnia-blossom-love odes
I could never achieve
again

now having been
siddhartha-sized upon the table
I am
striving for
emotional honesty
some sort of contribution of
innate attributes that are valuable

level of zombie apocalypse preparation
producer skill set (always useful,
like a leatherman),
willingness
saturation level very high
blood type unknown
could easily die
if you
inject me
with IVP dye

but there’s no reason to
do that
unless
you need
a barium swallow
which sounds
like a
dangerous
type of
bird
not the regular
suburban swallow
but the barium
kind.
Not as bad as the Boku Harem of birds, the sparrow
massacring blue birds maniacally
and just for fun
then making their nest on
the dead bluebird eggs
which they eat
Nature is cruel
not pretty
in fact
dolphins are known to violently
violate porpoises
(that’s just strange)
and
everyone knows
that chimpanzees
can rip
off body parts
like nobody’s
business.

This is a re-write at the end of a day and I merged the two and I’m hoping no one’s listening, except my publisher-to-be and agent-nanny.

Namaste, let’s call this the ONGOING ICARUS of February’s Life Story.

I’m trying to get a few different stories going now so they evolve into books or scripts or vials of story you snort before going out to the Blade Runner Star Wars (i can see it in my head but it’s not been made yet actually) -well-lit stairwell leading to 5th Element type environment–but at night. IT’s not dangerous. Yet.

So by the time it’s ten years on, I can teach story telling thru multi-media platforms/interface/just not in da butt stuff filmic reality, community college Boulder or Bozeman or anywhere mellow where I can have a cabin, a dog or two and definitely 2-4 horses and live out my days not too shabby, working on these fucking books which I sell at the internet fair (we have spaceships, 4WD trucks and sports cars for different modes of travel in this future world of Keanu K. Dick) and contribute to that non-profit work I know how to do. So full circle fuckstick I will be. That’s the goal which means at some point I have to get over my email anxiety.

I could survive a little while on all the excess chub I have gained despite being fairly active (not just laying around watching entire seasons of tv shows) from chowing down on retirement fatso fare (they are killing those old folks with Quaker midwest cuisine which means “is it really food at all? we can’t be sure, love, snide new yorkers and pass agg southerners)…but I know it’s related to anxiety and not being left alone–because I could never afford the real estate and the gate.

And on to what might have been is over because it never was and there are things that could be better than what just happened to make me so sad in the first place. That is not something anyone is likely to get to and if I may ask, if you read this whole post, could you comment with the words: THANK GOD THAT IS OVER> so I know you read the whole thing!!!

Much love to all my readership.

I cannot thank you enough.

Like Bukowski, Poe or Baudelaire

So out of my mind that I can’t think straight.

And so it goes.

Someone said that all the time every night. Do you think he ever got tired of his tagline? Do you think it caused that extra-maddening hard-hitting slam of the glass on the mahogany bar wedged into the corner of John Cassavetes mind meld. I can actually see it in my mind.

Why do things end up this way? What am I doing and have I done, so wrong?

And here it goes, again.

Unanswerable questions. And everything I do is wrong.
I am a Johnny Cash song.
My life is nothing more than tragedy
At the hands of fallacy
And here I go
Nowhere
Fast again.
100 more words to go to get thru this and who will even care when all is said and done? I wish I had is overwrought and, like Bukowski, Poe or Baudelaire, all I want to do is get drunk.

Double-edged swords

In any creative discipline, commercial success is a double-edged sword: On the one hand, it activates “the winner effect,” the well-documented psychological phenomenon wherein success breeds more success, or, as Michael Lewis put it, “commercial success makes [things easier], and it also creates pressure to be more of a commercial success”; on the other hand, it tips the scales of productivity and presence in an unfavorable direction, catalyzing the compulsion to produce yet more work in order to maintain the already-attained success and gain more, in the process withering the capacity to actually enjoy it.
http://bit.ly/WWKD_71