"Parasite Girls" -- A Small Taste...

Well, here we are...approaching Memorial Day Weekend, and I come face to face with numerous matters.

Regular readers of my blog will note I don't blog very much anymore. Back in the day of Myspace (soooo 2006, right?) I used to do it fairly often. Right now, I don't have the time to speak of. 

I have to admire regular bloggers, like my old college friend Joanne (Tahoma Beadworks & Photography), who can do so fairly often. How Amanda Palmer has time to do voluminous blogs on her site, with her touring, music, this and that. She must not sleep.

Sylvia Plath's journals, especially those of her high school/college years are incredibly descriptive. Her ability to recall subtle details and put them in at the end of the day was remarkable. 

But we're here to talk about "Parasite Girls." My first book is ready to go; we'll be putting it out to the e-Reader market this summer, and I am hopeful that this is a good enough story, touches on enough issues that need to be done, and make for a beginning.

I have a lot more in the can, believe you me. Recently my agent and I parted ways after a four-year relationship. Just didn't work out. Add to it, the six-volume "Sweet Dreams Series," a young adult/anime/time travel series is too big a step for a first-time author. It needs more work, and I need to show the world what I am capable of before bringing it out.

Anyway...here is the beginning...while this may not be word for word, here's the proof of Chapter 1 of "Parasite Girls." It's short, hopefully to the point and gives enough of an idea to make you want to keep going.

Do let me know what you think...

Chapter 1  •  Mima’s World

     “So you need to tell me,” Mima said, “just why you’re here.”

     Aidan lit a Gitanes and leaned against the apartment deck rail. The sounds and smells of Tokyo drifted up to the second floor, but he did not take them in. Instead, he smiled and gazed through the French tobacco smoke at his host.

     Mima regarded Aidan through the bangs of her short hair and rimless glasses. She wore an old sweatshirt, the cuffs frayed from years of wear and washing; the logo was not of a university from Japan, but an American one. Black tights wrapped themselves snugly about her muscular thighs and calves; Mima’s girth was wider than the norm when it came to Japanese women. That mattered not at all to Aidan and even less to Mima, who danced to the beat of her own internal drum machine.

     “Well,” Aidan replied as he carefully flicked the cinders into a smokeless ashtray, “I have a layout in mind for the book as we discussed earlier. I also felt a change of pace was in order.” He hoped that would be enough. 

     “Whatever you have in mind,” Mima replied as she took a step closer to Aidan, a smile on her face, “you’re welcome here for as long you need. I am so grateful to see you again.”

     “I appreciate that.” Mima, he knew was appraising him behind her sun-darkened lenses. They’d not seen one another in years, and his long-lost friend was taking stock: Aidan’s brown hair remained, but there were now streaks of grey, far too soon. His blue eyes were the same, but Mima detected the changes around them. Aidan was not himself, and while Mima picked up on that, she didn’t ask.

     Mima had changed too, but in her these things were subtle. Only months younger than himself, Mima appeared ageless. She was a little heavier, chunkier perhaps than Aidan recalled, but from what he saw pass through the apartment earlier that morning Mima was in shape in more ways than one.

      “Anyway,” she said, “I must get back to work. Got a project to deliver this week.”

      “No worries.” Mima ambled barefoot into the main room of her apartment while Aidan took his time with his guilty pleasure from the first Paris assignment. Skyward, Aidan’s eyes passed over the high rises that surrounded Mima’s apartment building.

      Aidan had experienced many worlds, but Japan was still unfamiliar territory. As in any other foreign land, he would immerse himself in it, become part of it and yet remain Aidan Connor.

      His cigarette finished, Aidan carefully stubbed it out and slid the butt inside the blue pack. He stuffed this in the breast pocket of his shirt, switched off the curious device Mima provided him and brought it through the sliding door.

      “You can leave that out there,” Mima commented from his right. “The rain never comes in; it’s cool.”

      “Okay.” Aidan set the ashtray on the black wire table between the matching chairs, and slid the door closed. He turned and again found himself inside Mima’s world—or was this her universe?

      The apartment was small, even by Tokyo standards. It was one room with a cramped kitchen to the far left, plus a door that led to a tinier bathroom. Against the far wall, just to the right of the door was Mima’s futon, unmade with a nightstand next to it to hold her lamp and clock radio. Before this, a TV rested beside an Xbox with about twenty game discs scattered around the console.             

      There were also other odd gadgets of the kind that could only be dreamed up in this land, including a robotic toy dog. The floor was bare, hardwood and without rugs.

      On the other side of the door was Mima’s workspace. Beneath an overhead light was a large table that doubled as a desk and drafting board. Mima’s Gateway and Toshiba Satellite laptop were linked by a USB hub; also attached was a laser printer, scanner, router and two external hard drives. The power cords for all of these snaked off behind the table into not one, but two surge protection strips, the plugs attached to the only power outlets on this side of the room. Two file cabinets and a wall-mounted rack for discs made up the rest of Mima’s “office.” Mima was hunched over on the high stool, focused on the ad design she’d talked of nonstop since meeting Aidan at the airport the night before.

      To Aidan’s left was the low couch that became his “guest room,” beside which lay his open suitcase. His Sony Walkman, jean jacket and the case that held his ancient Minolta camera rested atop the jumbled pile of clothes.

      Aidan sat here now, looking at the wall above the bed. Mima adorned the pale blue walls with her original artworks, sketches, doujinshi and anime creations.  There also was a pair of wildly colored abstract canvases, not of Mima’s hand.

      “Those are Sora’s,” Mima commented. She did not look up as she guided the cursor across the screen.  “We’ll be seeing her tonight,” Mima added. “Sora is very excited to meet you; I’ve told her so much about you.”

      “Oh, God,” Aidan joked as he unclipped the battered leather case that held his camera, “just what have you told her?”

      “Only the good things.” Mima turned and giggled; this and the screwed-up facial expression that accompanied the sound never failed to make Aidan laugh. “There is nothing bad about you, Aidan,” she went on as she turned back to the screen, “but considering some of the scrapes you’ve been in, I would imagine you’ve acquired a few habits.”

      “Yeah.” Aidan tried not to let his voice change, but he failed.

      Mima turned again. “You okay?” 

      “There’s a lot of stuff to talk about,” Aidan admitted as he drew out the Minolta, “but I still need to piece it together before I can really explain.” 

      “No,” Mima said, “I am sorry. I get the idea what happened in Kabul was pretty rough. You don’t have to talk about it unless you want to.”

      “It’s all right,” Aidan replied, “I will soon enough. The main reason I’m here I think is to get away from that. Not run from it, mind, but to think about from it from a distance. Then maybe I can go back, you know?”

      “I do.” Mima slid off the stool and came over to sit beside Aidan. She watched as he broke down the camera for cleaning, and noted the care with which he handled the instrument. “Like I told you,” she said, “you’re welcome here, Aidan. You were dear to me back then; you still are.”

      Aidan set the pieces down in his clothes. “You were,” he replied, “and are too, Mima. Stuff has to change, and some of it is me; I’m working on it.”

      Mima slid her arms around Aidan’s shoulders. “Take all the time you need, Aidan.”

      He reached up and felt his friend’s thick arm, and the hidden strength within as Mima gave him a squeeze. “Thank you,” Aidan said. “I’ll try not to be too depressed during my stay; you’re good for changing that.”           

      Mima grinned, made an odd but cute, “Nyah” sound before rising and heading back to her table. “I am flattered,” she replied as she resumed her work. “Unfortunately, that does not get this finished. I’d like to see the outline down before we hit the streets.  We’ll go see Sora this evening and find if we can get her out. That cool?”

      “It is.” Aidan drew out the camera’s cleaning kit. “I’m not exactly sure what you mean by getting Sora ‘out,’ though.”

      “That will depend,” Mima explained, “on which one of Sora is available when we get there.” She continued to sketch across the extra-large mouse pad with a slow, deliberate hand, and said no more.

      The statement made Aidan pause. Mima’s comment about Sora was a fleeting one and sounded like she said it fairly often.

      As he carefully wiped the Minolta’s lens, Aidan wondered what was up with Sora. She was a talented artist, easy to see by the depth and originality of those paintings. 

      Aidan then reminded himself that when it came to people, everyone had a story, and there was always much more than what they thought they saw.

###

Well, there you have it...hope you liked it...the rest is coming this summer...

"Parasite Girls," Updates, and "The Drifters" Prologue

Well, it has been a while since I have blogged, and there's much to bring you up date on.  So, the short part first:

My upcoming debut, "Parasite Girls" is finished.  It will soon become an eBook, and available through Amazon.com for eReaders such as Kindle and others.  I will also put it into the KDP Select program, which will let readers borrow the book.

Tomorrow my intrepid friend Alice will introduce me to a fellow in Harrisburg who may become my cover designer.  We need a good one, and I like what I have seen.

Legal matters, such as the "Doing Business As" or dba are being put in place, and I have a few other similar bits to deal with.  But it's coming together, and I hope before summer you will have my first in your hands.

--

Followers of me on Facebook, Google+ and other areas will know that I embarked on yet another manuscript, which I finished yesterday.  "The Drifters" is one of a long line of YA-type stories with my own twists.  There is kind of a theme with my stories of this genre but I think they're interesting and entertaining.  

Bear in mind, the first draft with me always is bad.  Holes in the plot to fix, character stuff to firm up, and it is a long process with me.  No one despite what they may say ever gets it right the first time.  

In the meantime, along with my hours and hours devoted to hammering away on my laptop, I do have other things to do.  I hope to have other news from the more mundane world one day, but in any case, this is how things go, and we have to roll with that.

--

As much as I love what I do, making a living is not a practical consideration, at least not yet.  Some of us are finding themselves at a crossroads at mid-life or a little bit past it.

I'm 47.  I'm not old, and I certainly no longer feel it.  I've made a point of trying to, not so much remain young, but to maintain some kind of youth in myself, even if I by the number would be considered a boring old fart.  Well, I'll never be that.

It's life, and I do my best to remain optimistic, though it can be hard.  Anyone around me knows that.

So, I'm slowly moving forward in the ways I need to, and we'll see what goes next.  That's it.

--

NOW...would you like to read the Prologue to "The Drifters?"  Bear in mind please, this bit might not even be in the book, and it will be some time before this gets out.  

The opening is narrated by the main character, and we will see much of the story through her eyes and her own recollections.  It's a strange one, to be sure...

Enjoy!

--

Prologue—All Hands on Deck

            Zhac popped his head through the hatch of the Southern Cross and shouted, “It is on, mes amies!”

            We looked up from our work on deck.  Zhac’s unshaven face, his blue eyes alight with unaccustomed excitement flew up the steps, past the wheel and onto the stern.

            I’m in the middle of stitching a sail, which lies over the boat like a disemboweled accordion.  Next to me are my sister Kiku and her BFF Mari-chan; they’re folding and straightening the seams.  Our brother Kenta is forward, testing the foresail with Ariel. 

            “What’s on?” I ask, though I already know from the scratchy marine radio that blasts from below decks.

            “The prevailing winds,” Zhac announced to us, and anyone in earshot on the other boats, “are shifting.  By Sunday, we shall have favorable conditions.  We sail that day, and without fail!”

            Today is Thursday.  As I look across the deck of the Southern Cross, there’s no way in hell we’re gonna be ready for that.  “Zhac,” I politely inform him, “we’ve still got a lot to do.  How are we gonna get this sail fixed, and everything stowed before then?”

            The enormous sail covers boxes of provisions and supplies and tools, all of which has to be put away before we can even think of casting off.  My logic is correct, but I’ve known Zhac long enough to know what he views as practical is different from mine.

            “Oh, we can make it work, Nee-chan,” Kiku chirps as she jumps to her feet, her pigtails flopping about.

            “Yes,” Mari-chan chimes in, “I’m excited we finally have a date.”

            I sigh but on the inside.  Don’t get me wrong, I love my little sister and Mari-chan to death, but they are kids.  If you could see them, you’d understand.

            Kiku is your stereotypical Japanese girl, hands down.  She and Mari-chan are in their last year of junior high.  They’ve both got the cute thing going, the long black hair, all that.  They bounce over to Zhac in their summer gear, and want to know more.

            You’d think both girls were sisters, they’re that close in look and build.  The only difference is that Mari-chan is Korean.  Mariko is her given name, but everyone calls her by the familiar; she’s one of us.

            Our big brother Kenta comes aft.  He’s a year older than me.  Kenta doesn’t walk so much as glide; he picks his way across the deck in a practiced manner.  

            He is a good looker; a lot kids remark how much Kenta looks like guys in anime shows.  I can see it; he wears his hair a little long in back, and it floats about his face.  “What’s the plan, O Captain?” He calls.

            Ariel follows in his wake.  Now, I have to explain Ariel to you.  She is tall for a woman and has a body I have never seen on another in my life.  Ariel’s is a muscular frame, with just enough curve in the right places; her breasts are the perfect size…well, all of her is just perfect.

            As usual when on the boat, Ariel is wearing next to nothing, a colorful bikini with some kind of mini-sarong.  It’s not to show off; Ariel is the kind of woman who can make anything look good.  That’s the first thing you notice, and it takes attention from real mystery of her.

            Ariel’s voice is neutral.  It’s not feminine or masculine; her skin always has a tan.  Her features are western, with high cheekbones and a sculpted face.  She never wears makeup, either.

            She is Zhac’s partner on the Southern Cross.  They live on the boat, and have co-existed for several years if the stories Zhac tells are true.

            A face pokes out from the shadows of the cabin, a multi-colored knit cap followed by a thick pair of glasses, bangs of black hair that fall within the frames and without, plus that pale, unassuming face.  It’s Yoko, the last member of our club.  Her t-shirt is knotted at the hip and reveals a pair of ultra-tight cutoffs and skinny legs.  Yoko’s in my class in high school, and my right hand.

            We gather on the stern, and Zhac fills us in on the weather situation.  It’s mostly meteorological stuff I don’t understand, but everyone is excited, except Ariel and me.  Ariel doesn’t get excited about anything.

            Zhac details what needs to be done if we’re to make sailing time Sunday.  We only have a few weeks in the summer break, and if we’re going to do this we’ve got to get moving.  I appear to be the only one thinking of that. 

            “Let’s get to it,” I say.  When I speak, people listen, but I wonder if it’s grudgingly.  I am the type that gets things done, and properly.  What’s the point if not?

            Zhac now sits with us and pulls on the sailmaker’s gloves I was using before.  They’re like heavy gauntlets, and you need them to protect your hands.  Running big needles through canvas is not like stitching a dress; it’s hard work.  I will say this about Zhac; he doesn’t just give orders.  He’s a pro, and never asks us to do anything he would not do himself.

            I sit again with Kiku and Mari-chan, and we listen to Zhac as he goes on about the stitching and the lines we’ll need.  Kenta and Ariel lower the foresail and secure it, then go about to ensure the lines that hold us to the dock are taut.  Yoko disappears into the cabin, tasked with creating space and getting supplies stored.  She has the mind for it.

            The Southern Cross is Zhac’s sailboat, but it’s an odd one.  Technically a ketch, she boasts twin junk sails, like the Chinese vessels.  The boat is not impressive at first glance, but it’s easy to sail and handle.  That’s important, Zhac says, because conditions on the ocean can change in a snap.

            Zhac and Ariel have lived here in Tosa Harbor for some time.  They don’t work, apart from giving sailing lessons to the occasional tourist.  Kenta was in the Sailing Club last year, and Zhac offered our school the use of his boat (for a fee, of course).  Zhac has become quite the character in our village, even among the native fishermen and sailors of this part of Kochi. 

            Zhac is Canadian, but he and Ariel are both fluent in Japanese.  I don’t know how old Zhac is, but I guess in his thirties.  His brown hair is curly and scraggly, his face bears a perpetual two-day growth of beard, and his clothes are all worn and secondhand.  He always wears an old sailor’s coat even in warm weather, and a cap with some nautical symbol on it.  You’ll also find him in the company of his guitar.  Zhac’s a decent singer and does mostly Canadian songs, nearly all of which we’ve never heard of.

            His father and grandfather were sailors like him.  The stories (or “yarns”) he regales people with are entertaining, but you wonder how much of those are true.  Doesn’t matter; Zhac is a good guy, and someone we trust.

            That’s a hard thing for me; oh, and who am I?  My name is Kahori Aizawa; I’m 16 and in my second year at Manjiro High School.  Those I have described are my family and friends.  We are those who make up the club, which I am president of.  This is how it all started, as far as any of us can remember.

            We are the Drifters.  This is our story.

--

Well, there you have it...let me know what you think!

Boston...Breathe...

I feel very unable to do much of anything right now.  

I was driving home from a workout when WITF/NPR reported what was going on.  I will not say I could not believe it; because I could.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-22160978

The link is BBC America's live coverage and it is working.  Local service in Boston is pretty much shut down, and sites are jammed.  Sites here in America have their issues with it as well.

So far, the Beeb is doing a very calm, measured job at covering the matter.  We are hearing from reporters and others at the site, and what strikes me about it is how calm people are.  They are not putting distraught people on the air for maximum whatever.

I won't give you figures, because they are going to change.  I do hope there are no more than the two deaths reported.

I felt a strange feeling of dread all day; things were just strange.  I had no idea why.

I am a native of New England, and I lived in Boston for nearly ten years.  I know Boylston Street, the site of the explosions very well.  I walked and/or drove down that street many times, though I never was there for the marathon events.

Today, for those who don't know is Patriots Day.  It is a Massachusetts state holiday; the Marathon runs, the Red Sox play an game at Fenway Park with an 11 am first pitch.  It is supposed to be a day of celebration.

From my own experience of being in newsrooms when things like this happen, believe me when I say that the media (at least...the media I WAS TRAINED FOR) does NOT want to report these things.  

I cannot speak for the new generation of alleged media, and those who have replaced many of my colleagues and me in newsrooms and out there in cyberspace.

I have seen the footage, and honestly?  The marathon has been considered a target for a long time; the one in NY and in Boston as well.

From what I have heard and seen, it appears security was in force and reacted quickly and professionally.  For them, we can be grateful.

I feel I can do nothing but take to the blog and write how I feel, and hopefully I can put this in the right words.

We will find out soon enough who is/was involved.  I cannot say for domestic networks, because I am not monitoring them.  The BBC has made a good point of not racing down a darkened corridor screaming bloody murder about Al Qaeda, terrorists, etc.

The discussion is on about how well coordinated the explosions are or were.  Hard to say at this point, but that two went off very close to one another.  I have no idea.

One thing, too:  they are giving equal weight to domestic terrorists, as well as foreign ones.  

Facebook friends, many of them are reporting they are okay, even though friends of mine were close to the blast site.

In the wake of this, I know what's going to happen...there is going to be a gigantic screamfest.

I have a pretty good idea of which media in Boston will do what.  Suit to be followed around the country, if not the globe.

This is a time when I have nothing to do, except this:  let's hope for the best for those up there, and if we can do something to help, then we must do it.

Please think before you post on Facebook, Twitter or social media.  Please do not spew emotional hatred when you don't have the facts.

I don't have any.  You don't have any.

We'll find out soon enough.

This time, it's really hit home for me.  Great sadness for those involved; let us let the authorities do their jobs.  Say what you will about the Boston police, I have friends on the force.  They do their best under difficult circumstances.  

Stay cool.  Breathe.

We can never be 100% safe, but we must not waste our lives looking over our shoulders, afraid the whole world is out to get us.  Too many people do that.  We need not be that way.

We also find a need to point fingers, and attack.  Do not be a part of it.

A friend of mine made an interesting point:  what "friends" post and write on Facebook may not make them friends of hers anymore.  

Harsh?  Don't know.  I've nullifed the newsfeeds of so many people who are friends, because I will not let social/political views ruin what positives we do share.

Still...makes you think.

I'm lighting incense and candles tonight for my friends, fellow Bostonians and the visitors to a great city.  

Peace, Out.

My Lars Ulrich FUCK!!! Moment Has Arrived

Let's begin shall we, with a little Metallica interlude:

I have had a big, giant moment like this. I am in the position of feeling that I am being jerked around by people who think they know my business.

Just so they know, they do NOT.

If you do something for the right reasons, you know it.  You feel it, and you are doing it because you want to and know there is something behind the project.

In just about everything I've done in my life, and I am sure this has happened to you:  you do whatever you do, and there will always be people to comment on it.

Oftentimes you get positive feedback; even if not positive, it's given in a positive manner.  You must be open to that, and I try to be.  It gets better as you get older.

Then, you have those who (even if they do mean well) love to tell you what you should be doing, and how you should do it.  It's like they are enlightened beings and know-it-all's who have decided they are going to dictate to you what you do and how you do it.

Everything that went before, from your own hands, is shit.

That's how I process some of it.  Not all of it, but some of it.

You are wrong...you are wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, and wrong.

Your work is not good enough; your writing is not strong enough, your music is not good enough like this.  Nothing is ever good enough.

It has been difficult enough in my life to gain a positive attitude about my work, without people coming along and spouting off about how great they are, in relation to you, and how YOU need to get with their program.

I don't fucking think so.

My band the Dharma Fools seemed to be going along pretty decently.  Then we lost one of the original members, and one of my best friends.

We became what we were not meant to be; we turned into a creature that feeds on its own people.

This is NOT why we made music.  This is NOT why we do it.  We lost the plot; or rather, I lost the plot, by allowing our focus to not be on the music the way we were meant to do it.

Instead, we have become the thing we warned ourselves about.

Music for me has been my diversion from the other things I do and write about.  Oh, of course I still have to hear about that, too!  Nothing's ever quite right enough, is it? Nothing's ever COMMERCIAL ENOUGH, is it?

I once joked that the reason my writing has not yet been published:  there are no vampires or zombies in there.

But I digress.

The essence of Ahltyrra, and later the Dharma Fools has been lost.  It probably was lost when the former split up.  We forgot why we came together, we forgot why we play music, and we forgot why we create it.

Too many people, and I'm not saying it is wrong, but...their drives are not about engaging an audience, getting them involved and drawn in.  It's about all the other things that we are not about.

I enjoy playing music, but I have not been comfortable performing the way things are.  I'm just not.  I do not feel right.  I don't sound right, and there's too much swirling around me which makes this whole thing untenable.

An old friend said you may need to clear the board.  That's why I am standing back.

No one is getting fired.  No one is getting thrown under the bus.  But I feel the band, if it is to exist, will need to be cut back to those who are the focal point.  The rest are welcome and will be; but this thing got out of control, and that is my doing.

I own it.

I've spent a long time trying to figure out what was wrong, what was missing, and what didn't work.  It's nagged me for weeks, and I realize the way things are just does not work.

I have to be comfortable onstage, and in my skin before I can really do that job.  We've been pushed, prodded, and nudged in too many directions, sometimes all at once.  Why do I also feel we're not supposed to think a little about us, but someone else's timetable? 

When you jerk a dog's chain too many times, he's gonna snap.

I've snapped.  I don't want to bite anyone's head off, though.

My song, "Black Ambition" has become the point...

"Are you doing this for money
Are you doing it for fun
Do you have another motive
Or are your races already run?"

I ask that question of others.

I'm sure people are gonna take this wrong, but if they don't want to think about it, and ask questions, then it does not matter.  Nothing in that context matters, when people have agendas and their own stuff to push.

Go ahead; push it all you want, I'm not stopping you.  JUST DON'T PUSH IT ON ME.

One member of my band got shit from people who had the temerity (or stupidity, depending on how you look at it) to criticize things that don't fucking matter.  Not my place to explain the details, and I won't.  Just a snapshot of the bigger picture.

What the fuck happened to people playing music the way they wanted to do it, and have others judge it on its own merits, without dissecting it to death?  I see the former at Open Mics; but why on Earth when it comes to us, that this somehow is just not good enough?

I honestly appreciate it when someone tells me they like something we did; I can tell when people mean it.  I can also tell when they're lying.  I'd rather you told me you didn't like something, and why, rather than blow smoke.

When you hear us, this is what you get.  It's not perfect, but nothing ever is.  You get people who love music, who work on it, and who play it because they enjoy doing it.  

I am not a great musician.  I call myself passable for what I do, and it works for me.  I don't go out there and perform anymore for reasons that to me are juvenile.

It's not for ego.  It's not to get laid.  It's not to make our dicks bigger or whatever.  

We enjoy it.  If you like it, great.  If not, that's okay too.  No problem.

Just remember, if you are a musician or a fan or a hanger-on:  what you see and hear is what you get.  Embrace it, and enjoy it for what it is.

I love sitting at these events and just watching and listening to others do their stuff.  Sometimes I admit what I hear is not for me, but that is just my view.  I'm not going to go tell them how wrong they are, because they are NOT wrong.  

Then there are people I can watch and hear all night, because they got my attention on the merits of what they offered.  Nothing more.

My feeling on the Dharma Fools is this:  if I am to continue (and bear in mind, that Real Life may take me out of the band anyway), it needs to be stripped down again.  The hot rod needs an overhaul, a tweaking here and there and some changes.  Then maybe it'll race again.

That is all.

Killing Our Gods, Loudly

I’m sure you’re wondering where this is headed, right from the start.  I was thinking about this today, and I knew a blog was coming.  Suddenly I realized I had a series of what seem to be disparate themes, which were about to come together to make this one up.

First, a recent update on things:  I am the kind of person that when I like something, I tend to dive into it in an effort to discover more.  When it comes to music I do this especially, but I also do it when it comes to reading material.

About three or four years ago, while writing “The Other Roads Club” trilogy, I decided that a certain character, Minoru had a very dark, eccentric way about him.  I made him an Edgar Allan Poe devotee, right down to the way he dressed.  He quoted Poe, read the writings and sometimes couched things in the way that Poe might well have done.

Later on, I felt Minoru needed to branch out.  He was an acting type, so I had him go out for plays.  But what would work for him?  The answer?  Oscar Wilde; I had him try out for some of that.

It seemed to fit, so I bought a collection of Wilde’s plays; I never acted in any of them, but I would love such an opportunity one day.  His lampooning of British upper class twit society remains among the most clever.

P.G. Wodehouse, yet another; my sister loved his stuff, and it’s funny…I love Stephen Fry and Hugh Laurie together, but reading the “Jeeves and Wooster” books is somehow more entertaining.  Don’t know why, but that is how that is.

So my point?  I immerse myself in the material I need to write my own stuff, and develop characters, storylines and all the other things I need.  It also broadens my own, sorry to say narrow bloody horizons.

Next case in point to get us where we need to go:  Sylvia Plath.

Recently the 50^th anniversary of her suicide passed our way.  I had known who Sylvia was, but I am not much of a reader or writer of poetry.  Irony:  not long ago, I stumbled across “The Bell Jar” in a used shop, and having not bought it, dispatched my friend Alice back to the shop to get it for me.

If you have not read this book, beware:  it is dark, scary, hard to read, but enlightening.  You go inside the tortured and yet brilliant mind of this woman.  She was only 30 when she offed herself; her son would also in time do the same.

I’d read this book, and saw horrific parallels to my own mental issues.  Plath even tried to kill herself in a way I envisioned, 20 years ago.  How shocking is that?

Not long ago, I joined Google+, and made friends with a young lady named Trina, who has put up a page there called “Sylvia Plath Lives.”  Only like four members, and Trina is surely into the lady’s writing more so than I.

I needed to research this more; I found something that really stunned me.  The cult of personality that surrounded Plath, her writing, and her death. 

Today I picked up “Ariel,” a restored version of which has been put out by Sylvia’s daughter, Frieda.  Plath bore two children by the British poet Ted Hughes, who we would know as the creator of the brilliant “Iron Man.” 

The relationship was good for both, and bad for Sylvia.  It’s no secret Hughes cheated on her; Sylvia was jealous and suspicious, but in this case had a right to be pissed off.  In the forward, 
Frieda writes of the hopes her father had to make it up to her.

His handling of Plath’s writings after her death, and the US and UK versions of “Ariel” attracted great attention, and great ire.

“Look in my eyes/What do you see/The Cult of Personality…”  -- Living Colour

Now the song is more about dictators and politicians, etc., but Plath attracted a rabid following.  Plath may well have been one of the first truly feminist authors, but Frieda rightly is unhappy with the way her mother has been used.

Used, abused, whatever you like for adjectives and superlatives.  Hughes was harshly criticized for changing “Ariel,” swapping out some poems for others, but it is a clear fact he had to be careful.  The poem “Lesbos” was about two acquaintances who lived in England.  The poem was not about lesbians, but it is a cutting and vicious three pages.  Hughes I think was right to drop that one.

But Plath has been taken up, she was then, and still now by a fan base that believes she is some kind of perfect “Goddess” and that all she ever did was wonderful.

When in fact, she was like you and I, a flawed human being.

I do not criticize her, and I cannot judge her.  I do not judge Hughes.  And here is where I get to my argument:

We kill our Gods…and we do it at the threshold of pain.

I’m reminded of the t-shirt Axl Rose used to wear onstage in the early days of Guns ‘N Roses, the one of Jesus, and I think it said something about killing your idols.  Very telling.

Think about it:  Plath’s followers, many of them are so fanatical.  Frieda writes she was accosted on a street by a man who was furious about a plaque being put up at the home in London where Frieda was born, where Plath lived happily with the family, and did some of her greatest work.

He was frothing about how it should be at the place where she killed herself.  Never mind that 
Plath was only there a few weeks; everyone thought she should die there.

Frieda’s response…she already has a headstone, we don’t need another.

Oh, and the defacement of Plath’s headstone by these rampaging assholes?  Talk about respect for the dead!  Talk about respect for the resting place of the one you supposedly revere!

All because they think Ted fucked things up with “Ariel,” and drove Sylvia to suicide.  That’s simplistic I know…but these people are even more simplistic than that!

So what else am I talking about here?

Next disparate thread:  because I live in Pennsylvania, I’ll shift gears for something a bit closer 
to home.  Yes, I’m going there.

JOE PATERNO AND PENN STATE.

I really hoped I could avoid talking about this again.  I tried to keep my mouth shut about the ongoing drama, one year after his death, and the fact that the Universe According to Joe still acts like he’s alive, walking around, and an omnipotent “God-Head” to the Blue and White.

I am really no longer upset with Paterno himself.  He is gone, a legendary coaching career tarnished by one big mistake.  I’m sure he committed a few others, too, but the one decision he made to shut up about Jerry Sandusky and what he was doing in order to protect the almighty football Program at Penn State.

The bleating continues to this day:  let’s work backwards.  The university itself continues to grudgingly shoulder its self-created cross of martyrdom over those terrible sanctions, that $60 million, piss drop in the bucket fine, and oh, so sad, no bowl games and no bowl game money.

The Nittany Lions did pretty damned well this past season; no one expected them to win eight games.  I covered two of those games at Beaver Stadium.  The fans showed up, smeared in blue and white, the nubile young (and not so young), both male and female bared their bodies and everything else in their passion for the university, the Program, and you know who.

But you know what?  Not many sellouts…sure, 97,000 for example?  That’s one hell of a crowd; but Beaver Stadium after its latest refit can hold 108,000 easily.

What’s that tell you?  Cracks.  They’re there.

Now…we can go a long ways down and fire off any number of people who still believe that Joe-Pa was wronged.  He was a scapegoat, they whine and howl!  It’s a conspiracy, they scream to the heavens!  The NCAA is out to get us, they shrilly proclaim.

The late Oakland Raiders owner Al Davis, he who saw conspiracies against his team by the NFL every place he looked would shake his head in disbelief.

So…let’s go right to the family, because they can’t let it go.

I do not have an issue with Joe’s widow.  Sue Paterno strikes me as a lady of dignity, and she’s only doing what any partner/wife/etc. would do; she’s defending her late husband.  I think she was right out of the loop; it’s clear to me Joe was not gonna tell her anything about Sandusky or what was going down.

Joe’s sons on the other hand, really bug me.  It would seem they spearhead the drive to trash the Freeh Report in an effort to try and prove that Louis Freeh overstepped his bounds, and that the NCAA went all out to destroy their daddy and ruin the program, blah blah blah.

Well…let’s take a look at certain aspects of why they might really be doing this.

When you’ve got a guy like Paterno who is essentially the most powerful man on the state university’s campus, you know what you get?  Perks.  Lots and lots of nice little bonuses, not just for the man, but for the family.

Hell, when Sandusky retired in ’99, he was given loads of them, even though everyone already suspected of just why he suddenly was leaving.  A hall pass to go anywhere he wanted, an office, use of facilities, discounts on tuition for him an all the family.

Transpose to the Paterno family:  now one son, Jay was an assistant coach so he too was an employee.  He was dumped along with the rest of the staff.

The Paternos began to make demands of the university in the wake of Joe’s passing.  They wanted goodies, all the goodies that Joe saw they got, and now…get ready for it…without in so many words…DECIDED THEY WERE ENTITLED TO THEM.

Stuff like…use of a private jet!

WHO THE FUCK NEEDS A PRIVATE JET IF YOU DO NOT WORK FOR THE BIG U. ANYMORE?

And of course they still wanted a luxury box, this that and the other.

I’m sorry…but you know, that really was unseemly.  What made these spoiled brat kids in adult bodies think they were entitled to any fucking thing?

This is an example of how you Kill Your Gods.  Yet another; fun, isn’t it?

I think Joe himself would be appalled that his grown-up family would try and hold up the university for stuff that really does not matter.

What exactly do they have to gain?  Joe made great money for a lot of years; they don’t need it. 

Two adult sons, free of the scandal in terms of having involvement should be able (you’d think) to get on with their lives.  Jay should be able to coach again; it would be unfair to hold the mistake of the father against the son.

Scott…I don’t really know what he does.  He ran for Congress back in like ’02, and I interviewed him a couple of times.  Nice guy, really; but he was a political novice running on the “Who’s My Daddy?” ticket.  Tim Holden ate him for lunch that Election Day.

I think the family doth protest too much.  Their “independent” review of the Freeh Report was a paid-for whitewash that would have made the creative writing team of World Wrestling Entertainment cringe.  ESPN must have been holding its collective nose when they aired a full report of that.

Again my point:  we make “Gods” of people, and we really must not do that.  Look at what happens; we make people, human beings out to be something spectacular.  When they fail, either we feel duped, or we cling to the cult aspects of what we thought they were, and convince ourselves they still are.

An old and dear friend has more than once said:  “I don’t go back.”  Her statement is about returning to the past; past relationships, and other matters that no longer apply to her life.

We live in the past.  We revel in it, and pretend it’s still happening.  I suppose that is why I do not suffer fools for the past well.  I do not have the patience for people who continue to re-live things that happened years and years ago like they were yesterday.

It’s been very difficult for me to get rid of my past, and I acknowledge this.  I have spent a long time trying to rid myself of shame, of guilt, of self-hatred for things I did and did not do.  I write of this in a number of my stories, and I find characters that seek a way out of that past.

We do indeed cling to that past, don’t we?  Look at the ongoing examination of Sylvia Plath.  Her work is indeed timeless, brilliant, cutting, and edgy for her time.  She was a woman out of her time, that’s my feeling.

But was she a “Goddess?”  No.

Joe Paterno…what was he?  A very successful football coach?  A leader of young men, a teacher, a guy who tried to do his best?  Largely, yes.  I do think that.

I also have said that a man’s life such as his should not be remembered for one mistake.  That I believe; yet at the same time, why was there such an act as he put on?  Why did he have to do it?

Why could he not at the end ‘fess up and say, “I screwed up.  I’m sorry.” 

I can’t answer that.

Last part of this:  look at the madness of organized religion.  I’ve blogged about it here before, and I’d refer you back to the “Samhain, and the Death of Anything Meaningful” blog for more on this subject.

I do not disrespect those who believe.  If it works, then good.  But look at how mad we have gone.  Most religions to me are the same thing, only we feel the need to destroy any interpretation but that which is the one we believe.

Everything else must be destroyed.  Isn’t that it?

Today, radical Islamists rape the ancient sites of Mali the same way radical Christians blazed bloody paths through Europe and the Americas.  The entire native population of Cuba, one example, no longer exists.

Is this what Jesus called for?  Did the prophet Mohammed really call for this?  What “God” demands this kind of tribute?

To me it is more human demands to serve a human purpose, not a spiritual one.

The two names are examples…and they were HUMAN.  Look at others, such as Buddha and Lao Tzu; they were HUMAN.  They did not require such things nor demand them.

Just another method of how we Kill Our Gods.

###

I have only read the foreword of “Ariel,” and skimmed “Lesbos” to get an idea of it.  I will read that once I’m finished here.  I think for me, I need to read more of her work, to expand my own horizon, and maybe get a bit more truth about myself.

I don’t know if any of this makes sense; this is all one draft, one stream of thought and consciousness.  I wonder what you will find, as I wonder what I’ll find in “Ariel.”

Peace, Out.