I’ve kept my promise and let myself come out of the tomb to speak with the tools at my disposal. There’s still much work to do before this first novel can be considered fully complete; developing that aspect as I work on the next novel in the series, as well as other things I have in the creative hopper that need their turn.

This shipping out of chapters has been a sort of withdrawal for me; all my other usual artistic activities have strangely gone quiet and invisible.  The release of this first effort has taken a long time to arrive at, and letting it go has required the utmost of courage to undertake.  I decided to lower the cloaking shields and let the principled search engines in to catalog my site; it really is out there now for all to find, three years of internalized contemplation.

So much has gone into just this single act of a novel that I’m now in uncharted territories again. I have worked it as much as possible given the huge obstacle of just doing it. I had no idea how long it would take, even given an impeccable commitment. In a sense, this is where the real work begins; because having done it once, now I commit myself to further developments.

While I was releasing the chapters, I had a dream:  The universe recognized my offering and liked it, told me I’d done a good thing.

08-24-10 Update: A PDF of the complete novel has now been moved to the Gimmie Stuff page.

After three years of semi, self-directed nonlinear exploration, the current novel is ready to be shared.  I’m not abrogating any of my rights by posting this material.  I’m exercising them by making a creative statement in this fashion.

This is as good as I can make it given my present resources, circle of contacts, and skill level. I’ve striven to attain a level of readability that allows general standards of understanding, though I recognize and expect there will be gaps sharper and more experienced eyes will notice.

I dispute the position that if you’re not a published writer, not making a living at what you’re doing, and not up to the standards of professional markets then you’re a failure and what you’re doing is a complete waste of time.

Before you read, keep in mind that in my writing I have consciously chosen complexity over accessibility, introspection over immersion, and innovation/subversion over conventionality.

After starting with a PDF of the preface and first chapter, I’ll post a link to a chapter every few days.  After the whole thing is posted, a few days later I’ll post a PDF of the complete novel.  A link to that PDF will go in the Gimmie Stuff page.

This is the text for people who want a story.  For those who want an object, I plan to make a physical book available by way of POD as yet to be determined.  For the interested, there will likely be a limited special edition with a map, black and white illustrations, and a glossary.  I’m still working on those extras.  I’ll look into an ebook version too, what the hek! And if I can get my courage up I’ll make an audio file in addition, whee!  All stuff, all the time.

Diamond of Darkness is a young adult fantasy adventure, teenager coming-of-age story during a time of magical upheaval.  You get to hang out with Rordan the protagonist and know his thoughts while he struggles with his destiny.

As my friend Turtle would say, “Enjoy your meal!”

Confession time.

One of my secret fears has been that I would become famous and forced to live a lie of who I really am. Lots of people struggle to become known; I’ve been trying to hide and not be seen. I just don’t have what it takes to maneuver the reefs and sharks of public attention.

Then I got a little older and found that if I didn’t live my life in the manner that was my creative path, I would be living a lie too. I had to be who I was meant to be or I would be turning my back on the blessings I had been given.

That doesn’t mean I am someone.

All throughout my life, people have been saying I ought to get down with my gifts and live up to them. I’ve been avoiding that like you wouldn’t believe. There have been more than a few moments of psychological jeopardy in which I cried, clenched my fists, and threw up. I didn’t want to have anything to do with that dog doo! Land’s sakes, get out of my life!

Do you know how relieved I would be if the facts of life said I was nobody?  Do you know how special you are to see me dancing like this, unknown by anyone? To confess and finally say to the universe, “Ha! Eat it dummies! I’m nobody, see?!” I can rest on the couch and sigh with relief.

Except I got to do this stuff and that risks the unknown for me.

Every day is a holy ordeal and I think about the people who love me. They touch me in ways I was afraid to acknowledge before. Now, I honor them. I’m of the age where I think now of how I will leave this world. I’ve been hiding. Now I suspect I am being dishonest by not being real to those who know the deal.

That doesn’t mean I have something to say.

I am going to do stuff and if I have nothing to say, it’s okay. It will be a huge pressure off my back. I can finally face the monsters of my life and say, “You don’t know nothing!” I can be a nobody and I will live my life to the fullest as a stupid super-fool.

What if the monsters are right?

I don’t know what I will do. Does anybody? I just want people to like me!

I may have to help people by being someone. I may have to live my life so people have a chance to know their own power.

People must be free.

So I’m puttin’ in The Human League’s “Open Your Heart” and thinking now is the time.

Lies the reason
Faith or treason
Playing a part
End concealing
Try revealing
Open your heart

Rebuilding the back end of the site and generally working on new stuff.  Regression, withdrawal, mourning, elation. All shall spring forward in due time.

067_Vinah_7The highway passed through a growing amount of suburban neighborhoods.  Wesa found herself concentrating more intently on the traffic.  She turned down the music volume, casting it further into the background of her inner thoughts.

Stara stirred from her drifting in and out of sleep.  “We there?”

“Almost,” said Wesa.

“We could drop by Julio’s if you want. See his folks.”  Stara’s eyebrows raised as she pursed her lips.

They passed by a large green sign which read:

Vinah    7

Wesa said, “I’ll pass.  I never want to see his creepy stepmother again.”

Stara sat up and stretched in her seat.  “Just testing your resolve.”

“Trust me, I’m resolved.”

The suburban landscape transformed into a series of garish strip malls and towering signs.

Stara said, “What’s Kelly doing for break?”

“I think he’s spending it with some older hippie girl he’s hot for.  I’m not sure.”

Wesa maneuvered the car out of the way of a speeding trucker.  Her hands tensed on the steering wheel.  “Whatever.  I’m done with him too.”

Stara laughed.  “Oh, come on. I thought you liked being groped under the pretense of horsing around.”  She took off Wesa’s shades and blinked at the daylight.  “Damn, I need to eat more carrots.”

“Have a granola bar,” said Wesa.

“I should have had us stop at the store.  I could have bought some apples or strawberries.”

Wesa glanced at her friend and made a face.  “We can stop at a store once we exit.”

“Nah,” said Stara.  “Just testing my resolve.”

They passed down the highway into the center of Vinah.  Wesa took an exit ramp and slowed the car down, merging her vehicle with downtown traffic.  Progress was measured by brief flows of congestion through changing stoplights.

“You know where we need to go?”

Wesa nodded.  “Drew me a map off MapQuest.”

Stara interrupted her. “MapQuest?  They still around?”

Wesa snorted.  “Yeah, they are.  Anyway—once we hit this intersection, we should ditch the traffic.”

A wave of pedestrians crossed the street in front of the stopped car.  Wesa put her right hand to her ear as an ice pick migraine struck her for four seconds.  She had a flush of sensation throughout her body, followed by relief.  Her vision caught the blur of a pedestrian scooting past the rear of her car, then the light turned green.

Stara said, “You alright?”

“Yeah, just another drive-by migraine. I’m fine.”  Wesa shifted up as the car gained speed, the town drifting out of sight behind.

I’ve heard tell that our foolishness is a redemptive quality.  So today I invite the fool in for some snacks.

Dancing beneath the diamond sky with one hand waving free.

066_candleAs you once shined in my darkness with your goodness Molly, I shine in your darkness with my caring. My thoughts are prayers of light winging to you that you will find your way home.

With merry heart I pour libations upon the woken spring ground and down the hatch in your honor.  The inspired happiness of my innermost passion reflects a glow from the heavens no night may dim.

From the peak of my diamond island I flash a thunderous tumult for all to know that Molly Kleinman is my friend.  This humble candle brighter than any lighthouse I hold aloft and sing a song of returning to my lost friend.

Let her know peace!  Let her know home!  Let her know joy!  I ordain this under grace, thank you.

065_messengerOut of time long past a signal, a last transmission waiting for me to acknowledge.  Almost past the point of receiving.  But my ears are like a lynx these days, letting in and picking up the smallest traces of fading time space particles.  The message flickered on my brain screen and was confirmed by a friend.

Molly ain’t comin’ back.

Denial

Spring has come; time to honor those who didn’t make it through the winter—even the harsh winters of the jungle where life is created by death, or so many ancient forms of inner belief conclude.

I’m not close enough for a full sensor sweep, but friends of mine who were there for the maximum allowable knowledge fill me in with as much scoop as they can muster after twelve years.  It is enough; I can respond now that I know as much as I’ll likely ever know.

I never thought I’d have any more time with her than I did.  I always held out hope that I would hear some word of how she ended up doing after college.  How right I was.

Before I found out, I’d just been thinking of her, working out imaginations of friendship in my writing.  Trying to make sense of past interactions.  It appears that now must have been the time to receive this transmission.  To look back and really transform what I have known; to move forward and let go of the ways of thinking and feeling that aren’t necessary any more.

So I start things off by opening my heart up to the hurt.  Everything soon turns to a dull haze as I go through my day with the knowledge that a part of me is gone forever.

More Denial

Come home, the damn pipe is leaking again.  I step into a freshly laid puddle of cat puke and don’t notice until I’ve tracked it all around the first floor.  The neighbors are watching television at a high level of volume again.  K needs to get outside for some fresh air.

But at least I can still have problems.

K cleans the puke while I figure the leak out.  Then we grab our walking sticks to go rouse the folks for a walk around the loch.

The rain that was supposed to have come this afternoon never showed.  Total rip off.  The folks, K and I talk clan business—the usual.  But I’m still swimming in a haze and distracted.

Then the rain comes suddenly, hard.  Thunder and lightning rousing the earth with the fury of the elements.  The trees haven’t grown any leaves yet, so there’s no cover.  We get soaked, talking about headhunters in Southeast Asia and how they wouldn’t last a minute against the loonies in the local grocery store.

A makeshift shelter presents itself and we stand under it, watching the empty streets splash with torrents of rainfall.  Then the storm passes and we complete our walk, wet and refreshed with new life.  The garden was planted just in time, so our seeds have gotten their first spring shower.

Still More Denial

Have to shop for groceries. K has jobs to do, so it’s time to do a solo mission for supplies.  I feel like a ghost—the crowds are unusually scant and hardly any of them appear to notice me.  It’s as if I’m in a dimension of nothingness in which the droids and zombies can’t touch me.  I gather up my groceries with ease.

The checkout girl shares stories with me about her favorite places to eat.  Yeah, be nice to have a Checkers, a White Castle, or a Sonic instead of like nine banks in the same mini-mall.  I hear it.

Back at the honeycomb hideout, I put away the groceries on auto-pilot.  The pipe isn’t leaking anymore—the handyman job I did actually worked.  The mermaid must have been reminding me I have work to do.  I do.

I point the ghetto blaster at my neighbor’s wall and put in License To Ill.  I play it loud so they know what time it is.  I’m not in the mood to put up with their high noise levels today.  While K continues her jobs I cook up the meat sauce and noodles for tonight’s dinner.  The cats are anxious, but I reassure them as best I can.  Daddy’s having a bad day.

But at least I can still have bad days.

Dang It

The neighbors suitably served notice, I ready the noise ordinance phone number for next time and magnet it to the fridge.  The ghetto blaster is turned around and a headphone is jacked in.  I go through my old college tapes looking for an appearance of Molly in any of them.

But while I hear many marvelous friends speak and remember numerous old nuances long past, she remains out of reach.  Dead end.  I’m just hoping for one last thing to remind me of her, to push the horrors of death away and keep them at bay one more minute.  No luck.

I already went over every memory I have of her twice since last night when I got only an hour of sleep, ghost lights hovering outside my window on their way to the next realm or phantom vehicles rushing past with loud roars.  I discovered many things I had forgotten, but in the end I have all I’m going to get of her.

It’s time to face facts.

Maybe I Can Do Something

I turn inwards and draw upon personal resources, long honed.  The Box tells me where one of the secret doors is and I open it, the smell of crayons rising out of a dark space.  Oh yeah, that Cup.  Midnight blue and black as pitch, completely formed, of two worlds waiting for me to use it this night.

Tonight the Cup is serving me up a dose of grief.  Before I can change my mind, I willingly sip that sour heartache tearing me asunder.  The Cup tells me where to find the next secret door.  I have to use a golden torch to find it, buried in the forgotten flotsam of a shipwrecked cargo I picked up a while back.

Oh yeah, the stationary box holding countless delights.  It’s so good to see it again.  The revelation that emerges strikes me gently and sharp: Remember yourself as you go through this.  You have a promise to keep.

There’s a key to imagination I haven’t used in seventeen years, a thought I haven’t had in almost as long, and a voice from the depths I am hearing now.

Out of nowhere, a forgotten memory comes forth of a date Molly and I had.  A Jazz concert at the Portland Zoo we attended. I’ve forgotten so much, but now this comes back to me clear as crystal.

Now I recognize what she was trying to do.  I was in a very bad place and she was trying to help me.  She was trying to get me to dance and forget my troubles.  But I hated Jazz!  And I was so very very dark in my own personal nightmare at the time.

The many other times we hung out now start to make sense.  She was trying to reach me and get me to laugh; which she finally succeeded in doing.  That’s the part I didn’t get before.  So many things, so many meetings where she would just be there and I didn’t know why.

I had no money, no car, and no future.  But she would drive me places, buy me dinner, and just talk to me.  What the Hek was this gorgeous, smart, easygoing, and kindhearted woman doing talking to a loser like me?

But now I know.  The things she gave me, trying to coax me out of my tomb.  From our first meeting to our last, she was planting seeds in me.  I never understood until now.

The Cup is empty.

Sadness

Like a flash, I take up the key and place it in the stationary box.  I send my messenger of the imagination through a billowing, windswept creamy series of clothes hanging on laundry lines in a vast meadow of sunlight I see only with my mind.  I’ve sent a message to Molly, telling her hey I get it now.  A part of my life is made whole and complete.

No expectations.  She tended my fire when I was lost.  I didn’t know her fate because the seeds she planted kept me safe—from the harm of knowing her death until they could flower and bear fruit now.  I’m much stronger now than I was then.

How many of us can say we’ve unselfishly helped a soul in their darkest trial through the night safely to the other side?

All of a sudden I’m ready to say goodbye and move on.

I feel myself falling into unconsciousness as the tremendous stresses of my grief flow again unhindered.  K tucks me into bed.  On the shelf beside me are my moleskinne notebook and a pencil taken from my compass, placed the night before in case I had a dream of Molly.

This time I know I’m going to hear from her.

Assent

My dreams are deeply unconscious—all I remember is a board game involving movement along tree branches and a dice roll.  Michael the cat wakes me up for feeding and I shamble in a trance downstairs to take care of what is an automated chore I half-sleepwalk through.

I stand at the base of stairs and realize Michael has disappeared, which is odd because he’s a greedy bum.  I’m alone, it’s dark, and I’m not asleep.  There’s nobody present, yet I imagine in my mind that Molly is sitting on the Marshmellow Couch in shadow, without mass—an apparition.

I have a conversation with her in my mind, trying to keep this unconscious fantasy within conscious direction without harming its contents.  It’s not real, but in order for me to work it through I must treat it as if it were.  Open, but cautious and careful.

I start the conversation by saying I miss her.  She says she misses herself too.  Tells me my efforts are a neat way to remember her.  She misses everyone.

I know there are questions I should ask, but I somehow know I can’t.  There are taboos I have to follow here—only things having to do with my need to grieve and work things out.

I resist the temptation to ask what happened, but she gives me subjective clues anyway.  She rolled the dice and lost.  Into the sea, lost her body, drowned.  Which could mean anything, it’s not concrete enough to test.

For a moment, I catch a glimpse of her in my mind’s eye as if a sliver of light reveals a tiny detail.  I think I see blood and get the impression of a head trauma.  A voice inside me says she wasn’t murdered.  But I keep that intuition at bay with a realistic viewpoint—my impressions and predictions have been wrong many times before.

I watch her put her face in her hands, sorrowful.  The emotional reaction I have makes it hard to stay focused and imagine her clearly.  She says she was sad and upset, she can’t find her way, light a candle with thoughts.

My instincts tell me it’s time to move on; I feel myself growing unable to hold this active dialogue stable much more. Whatever it is I needed to do, I’ve done and now I must acknowledge the inevitable.

I feel guilty at saying goodbye like this, both growing fully awake and losing the strength to keep going.  I tell her again that I miss her and that I always loved her.  I stop myself, realizing I meant to say like.  I consciously draw a line and the taboos require I flush the toilet—running water will make things right again.

I ascend the stairs and go back to bed.  As I let go, I imagine Molly sending me messages.  I drift, receive a message, write it down in the moleskinne in the dark, repeat.

She says to tell my friend Solikandi she’s sorry she missed her.  It was a bit of a shock and downer for her too.  She likes the musics she’s doing now.  She’ll find her way home.

She tells me to do a good job on my writing.

She thanks me for sending my messenger and for thinking of her.  She says that’s all there is.

I awake with a start.  I look outside the window and see a single star low in the sky flare once and disappear.  A breeze blows through the window.

She says she’s traveling.

She says something kind about me and says I can quote her.

She says my writing is a cool way to imagine her—not what she would have imagined.  It’s sweet.

The next time I wake up, Frankie the cat has opened the stationary box of delights and pulled out the key.  I understand it to mean my messenger has returned and my imaginary conversation with Molly is done.  I put the key and stationary box away, then feed Frankie.  I give thanks for my chance to say goodbye and rest my head on my pillow.

Then darkness.

I wake to the alarm clock playing Steppenwolf’s Magic Carpet Ride.  Time to go to work.

064_an_old_friendGetting on Facebook last year has been a real life-changer for me.  Getting back in touch with the people who matter has been a major part of that.

The other day a friend asked about a mutual friend’s birthday and all I could remember was she was Pisces. That’s when he let me know she’s been missing since 1998 during a trip in Malaysia.

Holy smoke, wind out of my sails. I had to do some Google Fu to find out the details. Crumbs, what was I doing on June 28 of that year?  Developments three years later don’t do much to inspire hope.

Molly Kleinman.

We met my freshman year of college.  She let me borrow her audio cassette copy of U2’s Wide Awake In America, which was the first time I’d gotten to hear the whole thing—that was a meaningful day for me I still can see clearly in my mind.  She borrowed my copy of the Beastie Boys’ Licensed To Ill.  We both loved the song “Paul Revere”; one time we sang it together.  We really dug that damn song.  That was when we became friends.

The two of us had different interests, but our social circles overlapped so I ran into her every now and then.

Then my senior year we dated on and off; kind of one of those inexplicable things that just happens. We never became a couple; both of us were too busy searching for our identities to bridge the differences in interests we had.

But, damn, those strange dates we went on still linger in my mind. I think she tried to show me things about herself that maybe no one ever knew. Like an idiot, I didn’t pay enough attention to reckon with that.

The last time I saw her in person was an all-day date-but-not-date.  I had lunch with Molly and her house mates, then the two of us hung out in her room and talked, while proceeding to get bombed.  She was interested in this other guy and asked me what I thought of him.  I recited awful poetry to her.

We talked about life plans and then for some reason we laughed together—laughed a good damn long time.  We walked down the street to a Thai food place, then spent a while on her porch talking about things which sadly I’ve forgotten.

Next I heard of her she was hanging out with that guy.  Then she was in Florida for what might have been related to her field (she was a biology major, I think).  She dropped off my radar after that (Hek, a lot of folks dropped off my radar during that time).

But I always called up her memories from time to time.  Who can explain the strange currents of our lives, the reasons people make strong impressions on us?  I thought she was cool.  She was always nice to me.

It’s weird, her having been gone for so long, that I only now hear of it.  I’ve been working on listening a lot to the things I haven’t heard this last year and a half.  Time to break out “Paul Revere” and sing like a stupid fool.

Hey Molly, thanks for hanging out with me in these space time coordinates.

063_roadtrip_wesaStara pulled an MP3 player out of her pocket. She opened the center armrest and took out a tape cassette.  The cassette had a long wire attached to it, ending in a jack.

Wesa said, “What’d you load?”

Stara inserted the casette into the car tape deck and attached the jack to her player. “Some Sinead, bit of Storm In Heaven, and BT.”

“Of course,” said Wesa.

“You know it. BT is life, can’t go anywhere without my BT.  Hey, did you burn anything for the trip?”

Wesa took a moment to savor the sun shining through the clear, early morning sky as they drove south.  “No.  Ran out of time.  I figured you’d bring something though.  Could you get my shades out of the glove compartment?”

Stara opened the compartment and found them.  She held the narrow, close-fitting sunglasses in both hands and said, “I thought Julio took ’em.”

“I gave him back his crappy hat and stole them out of his closet. His room mate always leaves the door open.”

A grin spread on Stara’s face. “It’s about time. You always let him take your stuff.”  She put on the sunglasses and smiled. “No wonder he took them; these things rule. You need to stop being so generous to people.”

Wesa concentrated on passing a slow-moving station wagon.  She returned to the easy groove of driving along the highway and said, “If I ever did that, I’d have to cut you off girl.”

Stara turned on her player and fiddled with the volume.  She sang along with naked enjoyment as Sinead belted out her biggest hit.

A beaming smile appeared on Wesa’s face.  She drove with a distant stare to her eyes while her friend continued to sing along to the track.  The forested landscape turned into rolling fields and long stretches of farmland.

When Stara had finished singing and the music began to fade out, Wesa said, “Again.”

Her friend obliged and hit the back button.  They hurtled down the road at over seventy, passing only an occasional vehicle.

Stara laid back and closed her eyes.  A lenghty BT song followed the Sinead repeat.  She said, “Where we staying for the night?”

Wesa said, “Whatever hotel has a vacancy on the coast.”

“Did you make any reservations?”

“No,” said Wesa.

“I hope you got some money then, ’cause I haven’t got any.”  Stara snorted, a curled smirk on her face.

Wesa said, “I just saw you take some money out.”

“That was all I had. Sixty bucks.”  Stara made a series of stuttering laughs.

Wesa shook her head.  “You damn deadbeat. I’m only carrying two hundred dollars. That won’t last us more than two days.  We’re going to have to sleep in the car and eat McDick’s after that.”

Stara said, “We could be just like that dude who ate nothing but McDick’s and threw up in the parking lot.”

Wesa laughed.

« Previous PageNext Page »