Category Archives: Writer

Defining a New Genre for my Novel – Abstract Sensualism

My first novel Point of Venus  is now up for sale on (paperback) and  Amazon, Barnes and Noble etc. in both paperback and E-book.   I wrote it because I had the most intense dream of my life on February 22, 2005. I woke up in tears and longing, in that order.  The tears left, but the longing hung around for years until finally in 2009 I figured I better write it out. Three years later, I finished it. I put it aside.  The day before my father died, in the funeral parking lot right after picking out a casket, I get a call from a publisher about putting it in print.  Six months later, it is manifest.

Part of getting it out there is setting it up in Lulu and Amazon and that entails choosing a genre.  For Amazon, I finally settled on contemporary fiction – Coming of Age.  That’s true. But if I could write in a genre, I would call it ‘Abstract Sensualism’. I believe it is an entirely new genre of fiction.  Someone suggested Baudelaire would fit, but he’s been dead for 140 years so I am staking claim and I don’t think he’ll care. I invent words; I misuse already existing  words according to the mechanical editors of my book and the Chicago Manual of Style.  I suppose words taste differently to me than Noah Webster.

In any case, if you’ve read this far then you are probably interested in my book and the dream that inspired it. Well, the link to buy the book on Lulu is below. I’m on Amazon if you search my name (Lee Barton) and Point of Venus.   The dream was with a woman in a jewelry store. The woman is best described from the book:
‘Lona Margolis, early 30’s, half American and half Russian blood, tall and slender, dark blonde hair with a deep featured face like you could pick a strange fruit out her eye sockets when she blinked. She carries the heir of a mystical jungle, a burgeoning sensual modern Eve.’

So, my abstract sensualist novel is possibly a very elaborate personal ad, or the most sensual projection of my anima my higher self could conjure.  I guess we’ll find out. I know which one I prefer.

Please know my writing style is  different noise; it takes a few listens before the rhythm settles in. So be patient with it and I think it will reward you as it has me. I wish everyone a path of ever-deeping self awareness in the most peaceful, non-violent and sexiest way possible.

–your resident Love Jedi



Kraft Instant Powdered Mac’N’ Serendipity

Sometimes my life feels like a ball of yarn with both ends tucked in the inside and I have to pull at loops until the whole thing unravels.  Once and everything.  Sometimes there are more than two ends that attract each other like magnets, and clack through coincidences in life that seem like they were spat out by Screenwriter Plot Generator v2.0.

Last night I spoke to a friend I hadn’t spoken to for at least a half dozen years. We went to graduate school together in Iowa seventeen years ago, lived together with two other people, so I’v known him almost half my life.  Last night, we were chatting and I realized I knew at one point he worked at Highmark, the super conglomerate insurance company.  He lives in Pittsburgh with his wife and two children. I asked him if he knew ‘Mrs. Paul’sFishSticks’. (I am protecting her identity, sorry if there really is a Mrs. Paul’sFishSticks; it’s not you, baby.).
“You mean ole Stickers?”
“Yes. Ole Stickers”
“You know her?”
“Yes, she gave birth to me.”   So my friend, working in a company with thousands of employees, knew my birth mother.   Now, I was born near Pittsburgh.   My family is from there. My parents now live in Greensburg, PA, their house being five minutes from Catholic Charities, the organization through which I was adopted.   One of my close friends happened to move to Mt. Lebanon, right outside of Pittsburgh, near my Uncle, My friend lives there now and worked with my birth mother, who also lives in Pittsburgh.

I don’t believe in coincidence.  But clearly the earth’s energetic grids have a secret transatlantic cable from my life right to Three Rivers Point.  I can’t make anything of it yet.  Who knows, maybe it means that all of these events are pushing me to go there and fulfill my destiny and buy a basketball accidentally printed with the Pirates logo on it and then bounce it down the aisles at Toys’R’Us and get busted and become mayor.  I don’t know, but there’s always some activity in the landmass.   But this gets the Serendipity Award of 2013 thus far.

My dog’s 18.5 years old.  That’s about 130 human years. Take that, world’s oldest Japanese woman.  Try living that long pooping outside and walking around naked with only a collar around your neck.   I was trying to  date the history of nicknames I’ve given my dog over the years. Anyone who’s had a dog knows you go through nickname epochs. One sticks, then it fades, there’s usually an interim spell where a bunch of new nicknames are tried out  until a new one emerges, like conception.  Thinking back I came up with these, from most recent to earliest:

Creamy Biscuits
Pumpkin Pie Head
Auggie Ben Doggie
Squashy Nugget
Beasty Feast
Scrunchy Pies
Moosifer (when she is being naughty)
Lil Pooter (This was the first, in 1995).

I’ll keep adding to this as I go deep into hypnotherapy to recover memories from being in the womb and nicknames for my dog.

Good night and “BULLOCKS to DON REVIE!”


Clive Owen Time Machine

In my acting class I am being asked to pick a scene that’s reflective of my ‘type’ which is harder than it seems.   I need to know my type so I don’t try for roles that seek ‘a typical Wall Street banker type with an extra macho streak – wants to own his own buffalo wings bar with topless servers while using their breasts for ad space “. This is not me.  Casting is so important. It can make or kill a film.

I was watching Elizabeth: The Golden Age the other night as I have never seen it since I already  know how that story ends anyway but enjoyed the first. About ten-fifteen minutes in, all is proper and Golden Agey and then Sir Walter Raleigh appears to present his gifts from the new world to the Queen.   I would expect Mr. Raleigh to be a little haggard, a little unkempt, maybe a bit of a coconut gut but in walks Clive Owen as Clive Oweny as ever, looking a Queen Elizabeth like a six foot macaroon he was going to stuff in his cheeks.  As some know, I consider Clive Owen the asymptote of masculinity; others may approach, but never reach as they approach infinity.   Here, he looked like he stepped into the Clive Owen Time Machine, which was shaped like him except slightly larger, whisked himself off to 1600 just to seduce Queen Elizabeth. He was dressed like he borrowed one of Russell Crowe’s extra coats from Master and Commander because he was late to the shoot.   And there he was, from the 21st Century, showing the Queen what a potato was “You eat it” as he held it up like a prism.  Clive Owen saying in extra clothes to the Queen “THis is a potato, you eat it” ruined the rest of the film; it made it ridiculous because I know it wasn’t Sir Walter Raleigh; it was Clive Owen, out of his time machine, proving he could seduce any woman in history.  He’s like Waldo.   If he would have ridden in on a Harley I would have been impressed with the film and then he did a Voiceover like Sin City (There was that tension in the court, the kind you find under warrior’s armpit six minutes before going to battle a sloth. I knew the one way to get the Queen was the way I knew on the streets; flashing a potato.”).   Of course, the Queen got to make out with him even as he knocked up on of her court ladies.

I look forward to the next rendition of Joan of Arc.  I have a hunch who will hang glide in wearing a biker jacket.

My scenes are Shakespeare, doc Brown and Father Karras from Shakespeare in Love, Back to the Future, and The Exorcist, a nice little blend.  We’ll see.  I did a liver flush last night and I’m a little fatigued.  Tired on many fronts; uncertainty’s  abound, crops are plentiful.


Born again retroactive postdated internet virginity

Welcome to the first blog of   My new WEB site is operational and everyone who followed my other one should be transferred to this.  This is my hope and dream.

Every night now life gets more uncertain in all areas. I may be unemployed in May, at least from desk job and I think for a temporal forever as I look to skip to a new live wire with rubber tap shoes. We’ll see what happens.  I’m in an acting class that’s timely and practical and forcing me to go to work.  Daddy has some ancient fish to feed, so to speak.

Living area is next.  I should stay in New York but LA prices for a REAL sun drenched 1BR, not a NYC REAL sun drenched 1BR.  Now, on Craigslist I often see ads for Rubenesque women and sun-drenched apartments when I’d more inclined towards sun-drenched women and Rubenesque apartments and LA and the Pacific ocean might just have that dyslexic funk for living and loving.  My fake lease ends July 31st and sometimes I feel NYC and I have unfinished business so I must give NYC the five point exploding heart technique of love, or when I talk to my dog, bursting love poop.    Something special is about to happen here, not sure exactly what but something creamy.  I can feel it because some hours I feel energized and some completely exhausted for no apparent reason but those inner reasons are the ones that really cause the sunspots so I dig. And right now, everything is up in the air.  Except my penis. That’s still floating at sea level. Somewhere is life and somewhere is death and the confusion gargling between the two is where Sex lies on its teeth, whistling for missing harmony. My dad asked me a couple of weeks ago if I had any desire to get married and I said ‘Yes, mein Papa, but I’m not going to do it just to do it. That sounds like one lousy wedding.”  He laughed and I started walking down that path everyone does at some point, looking back at chances and wondering if there were any missed and only in those secret corners of the heart do they loiter for release on a good, doubled baked deathbed.  I’ve had my chances at mating.  Really quite a few when I started taking inventory. ONe of the few Bible passages I do take solace in is that looking back turns you to a salt lick.  And I really can’t say I feel I missed a boat, I mean a lifetime-boat, not an evening one-ff pleasure cruise.

Ask me again in a year.

Good night to the B-side dreamers.




Shots Ring out in the Brooklyn Sky

Two weeks ago at about 4am I heard gunshots outside my street level window.  I’ve been toying with the idea of moving  ad this shreds any doubt of it.  Hearing gunshots is traumatic. It’s not like the movies.  Every apartment I’ve had since I’ve been here except my first in Bay Ridge I’ve heard bullets fly at least once. Here, though, outside my window. Plus I have a shower, not a bathtub and I realize how I miss decompressing in a bath with my special bath albums.  I am a diva and have my needs.  I am either going somewhere else in Brooklyn or California.  We’ll see, though I’m enamored with a house, a full house in historic Long Beach, CA for the same price as a ‘sun-drenched charming lovely studio in the heart or at least spleen area of Park Slope with full kitchenette.’  In New York craigslist, they post pics that are twisted and warped to distort dimensions and look like it’s built on the inside of an Apollo space capsule.     We’ll see what the gods done bring to the table.

I am starting an acting class tomorrow and one exercise we had was to describe ourselves in three words and then get five people to describe us in three words.  I’ll share here:
my own:  noble powerful love-gasm

my other five:
-smart charming eloquent
-discerning, ardent, singular
-nerdy, quirky, funny
-Mercurial, alchemical wizard.
-subtle, sans-serif, sardonic

All are true to me and if I pruned myself like fine interstellar shrubbery, would possibly be left with just these descriptions.   I have a new practice of attempting to step outside my own body and look down at myself like another person to see what’s there, to build self compassion and make sure there are no untended pockets, so to speak. I thank my friends for their honesty and creativity.

I think I’m going to start two blogs within each blog, outer dialogue and inner rogue dimensional movements because sometimes I can’t fully articulate what’s going on with me in space time words, and when I can, I have to do it in third person to keep the mirror bent at an angle to keep from freaking out at the straight reflection.

Using Dick Cavett’s Brainwaves as Modern Mental Floss

I’m  a nostalgic; I love to watch old TV shows, old commercials, old movies, old Communist scare public service announcements, etc.  one show I enjoy is Dick Cavett’s old interview show. The guests would be there would be there for at least half hour, possibly to plug a project but mostly just engaging in good thick conversation with Mr. Cavett who had a way, in my view, of making people feel grounded, engaged and free to be themselves.  Compared to today when stars are rolled out for five minute interviews, show clips of whatever they’re doing and then shushed off for the next guest, it’s shag orange carpet magic for me.  Everyone’s grounded.  Mature, adult, developed.   Now we’re a little ADD and caffeinated in twenty directions.   Football was even calmer in the 70’s.   I don’t believe in going back to the way things were but there are times when I feel like we’ve lost a bit of something graceful and can bring that back with all of the extra-higher order DNA activating juicy fruit in the air now.  Sometimes it feels technology is outpacing us by a few lengths.

For me, I’m not a Facebook fab. I update my status about once every two months and have an account to stay in touch with friends who use it. I just have trouble with sharing certain parts of my day to day with people who may or may not be my friends. What also happens is that when i’m in one of my several hundred moods, I notice how happy everyone is.  It’s a marvel and when I feel lower than a blues scale I see someone posting ‘on the moon right now auditioning for MacBeth with aliens and winning the Oscar while giving birth to my beautiful twins’ I get more upset at my own life.  It’s been my experience that life is pretty inconsistent and challenging. Path to greatness is littered with invisible jagged boulders ready to tumble;if you catch one, you can turn into something beautiful. It’s hard.  But in a certain mood Facebook makes me feel like shit because it seems that everyone is happy all the time except me. It’s wild.   Then I begin to think that I must be responsible for all major global conflicts and school shootings and I need to apologize to all the heads of state who are probably checking out Michelle Obama’s Twitter account and don’t time for me.

But then I think if they had Facebook for dogs, who are the happiest creatures on Earth, their status updates would read “Happy poop.” “Food eat love belly rub!” “Make  sleep poop ball!!!!! (Smiley face)”.  But even on Facebook for dogs there would be the occasional “My owner poops and I don’t” general upsettedness.  When I read Facebook happy statuses, I get the sense the human species is a happier one than dogs and yet when I look at world conditions, Plus, I know one or two people via friends who I know are miserable people and when I look at their Facebook accounts,  it seems like Buddha’s calling them for advice on joy jumping.  So I’ve come to a conclusion that most people are full of shit.   It’s not a bad thing.   It’s liberating.  I’d say a good 80% of what I see is bullshit. It’s fantastic.  What’s Real anyway is usually invisible and something you scrape your ass or head on for a few moments the way the world’s constructed at the moment.   I have a rule. When I feel tender in the heart region, a little down, or violently artistically pre-explosive, I don’t view social media.  Too full of French Fry expressives and I feel like I’m another species; I thought I was human, as I feel rage,love, hate, despair, envy, a touch of paradise, ecstatic joy, the need to hold a baby, thoughts of killing myself and then flying to Russia afterwards, performing Hamlet, sitting quietly listening to extinct birds, fighting to stay awake, keep the dreams of a 1977 Pontiac Bonneville hubcap alive. I know I’m a little more extremist than most but you know, not really.

I’ve said this before but I prefer Myspace where I could invent mood words (I feel Floisty, that’s my favorite) and invent personae from moment to moment.   I’m going to invent a new social platform called or something;  be yourself and no baby pictures allowed or quotes by Gandhi.  Rant, squeeze, express.

When you reach the end of your wits, the wits will try anything to save themselves.



Today is my second birthday, the date I was adopted and brought home by my parents from wherever I was being stored in the meantime.   I am grateful, it is like being born again  before you’re old enough to even know what it really means. I was placed in a stable family and given the best chance of functioning in the world without overextending my more extremist tendencies. It takes a few years to start to realize this.  There’s a backside to it in that some of the more latent gifts of my life, some of the colors and sounds and fabrics swimming around infant eyes got stored away in the slight risk of being reopened years later.  That’s what it’s been, my life, a long time coming. And after finding my birth parents a couple of years ago, when that deep sacred wound throbs with the language of a baby, I guess that I might not have lasted to forty. It’s a guess.   I’ll go into more of what happened later but suffice to say it seems my birth mother hasn’t come to deal withe that monster floating around inside of her, base don her tone of the letter I got from her.  Same with my birth father.  My guess is she didn’t really love him so she turned down his marriage proposal after finding out I was the Cinnabon in the oven.  Maybe she did love him and it frightened her. What I do know is that there’s a lifetime channel open in me for them and while I may never speak to them, I have to keep it pried open because without them and their willingness on some level to endure that pain and mess and slop of losing a child to the world I wouldn’t be here.  See what a mess this is? But life is slop.  And now I have a chance to make it glorious slop, currents and countercurrents whirling together with pieces of the past and future making a soup of the day.  But finding them, I had to walk through that. So I could love more deeply, unify myself, take trapped sediment, drill down into it, set it free and not walk around with one eye squinting inward while this beast of rage and pain swirled around my guts. Cause that’s what is, rage and pain swirling around the guts. Anyone who’s lost anyone especially near birth knows the slick dark road I’m mentioning here.  And after what happened two years ago, it was two years I gave to the process, two years where I walked through it and now, after reaching the end of that road and seeing a casket with my old body and soul in it, I can be born yet again, and live my new life.   There are heartaches and moving little calliopes of drama and trapped love to ride, convert, set free, but now I can feel a little more balanced and grateful to both sets of ‘parents’ who through their actions, have made me what I am.  For me it’s easy to slip into what’s wrong so today I have to say it’s all right.  We bring in selves before we’re even born. That’s no one’s fault, not society’s or parents or George W Bush’s.  It’s a delicate balance between facing that Sacred Darkness without letting it swallow you. And it’s more fun when you have someone with you, especially someone that looks great in lingerie.

Happy Valentine’s Day, Internet and CIA monitoring Internet.

The deepest rung where you are wrapped

In 2001: A Space Odyssey, when Commander Bowman returns to Discovery in one of the space pods after retrieving the dead body of Commander Poole, HAL refuses to open the pod bay doors, plum drowned in madness and conflict.  Commander Bowman takes a risk and goes through the emergency airlock, which is not pressurized and without a helmet, has few precious seconds to last the few feet to the entrance of Discovery. He manages to do it in a taut few seconds.

When I have spells in my life where it feels like I’m between lives, or pressed up against the  new life by the old and have reached a stalemate, I think of that part of the film.   Or when I have to walk through a patch of hurt I think of it because it’s dive in, hold your breath and get through it and the air will return no matter what chaos that’s supposed to be order won’t let you back in the conventional way.

I’ve only loved two women in my life deeply enough to say I really know what love is. For that I am fortunate; for the circumstances around each I am extremely unfortunate.  The first love, a dark and disastrous affair, I was discussing with a friend and she said it seems that I have a large capacity to love given what happened.  It was a good thing to hear because it reminds me of what I call the Inner Sanctum Heart, that secret roaming ground that words can’t hold and usually lays sleeping.  The second woman, in a seemingly difficult marital and health situation, I realized this week still sits in that Inner Sanctum heart.    Sometimes when too much time happens by with dark side of the moon silence, I worry something may have happened health wise. Today I poked around on the Internet and through one of her relatives, found her husband’s Facebook account and a picture of he and she in a Christmas Card photo.  That’s when the Inner Sanctum heart opened house and dropped a mile wide of heartache all over the place. I feel a bit the sucker but it’s no one’s fault.  In fact, it set off a whole buffet of looking back and wading through all of the opportunities I’ve had over the years with women; one’s I’ve passed up and usually I do this when I feel lonely. But I don’t feel lonely, I just feel like I need to hold my breath and walk through the vacuum hole without my head exploding.  I must be clearing the catacombs for something new.  Or at least clearing the catacombs.  The rest I can’t put into words, except that Love explodes from the inside where you sit, hang, linger, powder, and flip a coin of pain and joy a thousand times until I lose your face on either side.



I thank those who came to my show in sub arctic armpit cold weather last week and those who flitted by in spirit, including Abraham Lincoln and Mrs. Edith Grovella, who died in a 1 BR on the lower east side in the late 1950’s.  Sorry I didn’t get to your bit Abe.  Will do next time.  Good show with a small but might crowd.

Video is up on my Youtube channel.   Now what?   Rinse and repeat, rinse and repeat, gentle cycle, tumble dry low,  that’s the order of things this month with my material. It’s good to crack the egg salad open on stage; now I give all I can to it for the next 3 months and nothing else. At least this month, February, the moth of frolic and fury. A lot can change in a month.

When I was a teenager in Indiana I had a run of subpar Februaries; I became convinced February was a cursed month for me.   It was nothing extravagant but for me small things were painful, like depth perception shifts and other intangible psychic elements that dotted  my landscape. Part of it was probably the weather, living off Lake Michigan it got cold.  I can’t recall any event per se that got me into that belief but I held to it.  Parts of me were not happy and parts of me were fine, I guess the usual combustible mixture for a pubescent kid.  But with a real rushing undertow of rapids of latent living left untouched. I had some trouble with authority and yet ended up Class President in 7th and 8th grade, a bizarre mix that made me realize if I want something in life it seems I’d be best to answer to my own boss to do it.

However, this February I want to be the greatest month in my life.  If I were a jet, I would have crashed by now after running out of fuel for being in a holding pattern so long.  After the show, I had trouble sleeping because I hit some power grid in my soul and I know I can’t go back.   It’s a healthy fever, and one I want to break only after I run amok for a while. I’m due for a crazy stunt.  We’ll see what Rev66 Peachnuts (the name for my higher self) dials down over the next few days.  Could involve nudity. We’ll see.

My prediction for Puppy Bowl:  Golden Retriever puppy 7 kissies, Shitzu puppy 1 chew toy gnarled. I hope they have the Hamster Cam. I have big money on this game.





Nights of Harlem Granite

Sometimes characters I create feel more like me than I do.  Pure distilled parts of myself that don’t get ovations in the day to day world filled with the dents of my mind.   One of my favorites is Charley Who Horse, the trumpet player from Harlem in my play Whorapy, sort of the bartender of the speakeasy and when I need advice on something, sometimes I go back and read what he says. It sounds a bit vain, but sometimes when I get muddled by the maelstroms of the boiling blood in my veins, I go back to something I wrote to put my feet back on Earth or at least under my knees.  Sometime at the beginning of Act II he tells Madeline, the madame
“Don’t know. Colors and music’s all I see!
Don’t know much ‘bout no strategies!
I’m here but I ain’t, here but I ain’t,
that’s how I gotta be in this world.”

One thing is for certain no matter what happens in life from this point on and I have no idea what the hell that will be, but that’s a quote I live by. I trust my writing as more of a topography of my soul and the world and others in my life than what my brain tells me sometimes.  It’s honoring the Real. And on night like this, where every emotional condition seems to have a megaphone strapped to its lips, the night asks that I show up alone.  Last week I had a screaming session with the Universe, to express some what I feel are glaring deficiencies in the cosmic pruning of my life. It’s been a hard three years. Starting on an air mattress in Fall 2009 and ending a few days ago.  I feel slowly drilled into and I guess it’s necessary to enhance and unify my life and soul. Some nights you’re tied to the bumper and some you’re behind the wheel/Some nights the Guardians of the Mist tell you how to feel/The wicked servants burning from the shadows of the train/passing through the station to light that crooked path again…life’s a spinning circle.

My show is next Thursday. And that’s the beginning. After that, I eat and sleep and shave performance and acting.