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



Shadows of Mars III

Horatio woke up in tears and with an open-heart ache that felt like hippie aliens had opened him up during the night to research longing in the chakras and forgot to sew him back up again, leaving an interstellar cigarette inside to slow burn for years. He scrambled to write everything down he could remember and in the dark with his chicken scribble handwriting he may be lucky to understand half of it. Once he wrote a dream on his sheets. But he could read that entry fully which tempted him to start using his sheets as the dream dictionary and sleeping on his words might give him enough prowess to be able to walk through the dream world with strut and mastery, knowing the true symbolism of talking toast. But this morning he needed to get all of it down on paper clearly and fully. He reached for his light and started printing it with first grade cursive exercise precision. When he was done, he turned the light back off and fell dead to rights asleep again, something rare.

Shadows of Mars II

Today (February 11th)  is what I call my second birthday, the date I was officially brought home by my folks after being adopted.  So I celebrated today by getting into SAG-AFTRA.  I think it’s the best birthday gift I’ve given myself in quite a while.  Today is also Burt Reynolds and Joseph L. Mankiewicz’s birthday, a snazzy showbiz combo.   One day someone will write this about me, especially if end up appearing in Son of Smokey and the Bandit, which I am certain is being dreamed up as a reboot right now in a back office in Hollywood.

As I said last week, I’m starting to feel my way into a new novel; it takes a while to break in and bits and pieces are stumbling out. I’m sharing the process just for something different, a public record of the creative madness.

Somewhere along the line Horatio Wilson got married and didn’t know to whom.

He dreamt of a wedding but Horatio Wilson was not sentimental. It backed up the soul plumbing.

Broken pieces of each other rolled up into an edible sponge, to soak itself to joyful return to the invisible godhead’s front lawn shrubbery.


Inside his Inner Sanctum Heart, which he imagined as a Supercollider made of extinct, exotic flowers, plants and trees was a thorn bugle with lipstick around the tip and somewhere inside him he wondered whose lip prints they were.

            The thorn bugle was filled with primordial or maybe post-mordial caramel laced with sounds that he did not recognize and when his heart beat off the path, which happened several hundred times a day, it would jar that thorn and send a pranhic surge with bits of the sounds that caused Horatio to jerk quickly and drop a lot of forks for no apparent reason. But the sounds began to unravel and smooth out and he began to hear a music and then it would stop when the missing lips were discovered, as if the thorn bugle were built around the lipstick and so the missing lips were the only soil that could fully unravel what it held for what could be lonesome centuries.   This horrified Horatio, that he didn’t really belong to himself. Or even God or the twelfth intergalactic council of whoever really runs the show on Earth. He belonged to her. And he didn’t recognize the lips and so, without fully knowing why, Horatio, on this latest Valentine’s Day, a day when he usually felt like abducting the CEO of Hallmark Channel and forcing him or her to watch their own movies until a five gallon whiskey loneliness broke them down until they became a character in a Tom Waits song, instead made an inventory of all the women he loved, could have loved, wanted to love, anyone that left even a fake phone number on his bathroom stall, he wrote them all down starting while taking a bath. If he had a hunch about past lives, he did that too. It took several hoursand was an exercise in forensics, housecleaning, maneuvering through a hundred wombs to get to a broken paradise where they first met.

I have a job for you fashion-knowledgeable person most likely of female persuasion

I wrote a novel.  I’ve mentioned it at times, why hell I’ve even done the thing every writer loves to do and quoted myself, which I also do to dramatically have the last word in an increasingly inane conversation and then walk away. I digress, it’s the weather, stirring up my invisible female parts.

That’s a great transition as in my novel the main character is female and while most of it is a bit of a introspective serendipitous journey, she does have moments where she picks out her clothes, her shoes and she also gets interstellar signals from her higher self on dress sketches from each of the planets.

A friend of mine who is a literary agent  noted that my lack of knowledge of the technical aspects of women’s clothing is obvious.  So, here is what I need:

Someone who is familiar with women’s shoes, women’s clothing and at least a basic understanding of designing dresses and explaining such to read my novel and help me correct mistakes/oversights in those parts where clothing/shoes are described. Also, to possibly glance over the dress descriptions (There are 10, of a page or less each) so they make sense.

This is not proofreading!  It’s just reading the book as you natural lovely feminine self and when I say ‘flat heels’ or something masculine and ignorant, make a note.

You’ll get a nice flat $100 and acknowledgement in the book when it gets published.  If more work needs done, we’ll chat at that point.

If you are that person or know that person please let me know. It should be a joyful read as I’m pleased with the book itself.

Email me ( or respond in the reply box below on my WEB page.  Either way, I’ll get it.


In other news you can’t really use I’m moving from my Radio Shack by the end of July, maybe earlier.   Living in an illegal space surrounded by cops and a Super-Fascist-Orwell Cop camera I can see from my window That Does Not Prevent A Guy From Getting a Cap in His Ass Around the Corner has worn me to the nub. Plus I think my landowners are more vegetable oil than human, unctuous and not worth dipping Ore-Ida’s in for warming.

The battle now is LA or NY.  I never thought I’d consider LA but the prices here for glorified shit-holes look like they’re in pesos, and to stay here means living way out towards the warning track in the left center field wall, to be basebally about it. So I’m tussling, also tussling because I have ground my teeth into an unmagical absinthe powder form extreme stress over the last three years and am working on healing them,. I also have an acting career’s that careening toward me and then it seems to get within a hundred yards and stops off for a martini at a bar on Venus before making it’s way into my physical world.  Everything is up in the air and that’s when I say, I bow down to thee Pluto. Pluto destroys.  Then transforms the rubble into something beautiful, or someone if you’re in my imagery.  I like destruction that gets rid of garbage you don’t want in your life anymore, and I don’t like the smell of garbage.  Grappling down to the nubs.  Home, work, love all are blurry, smudges on the radar screen right now so as things come together or fall apart or both hopefully I’ll get clarity on at least what state I’ll live in.

I promised myself I wouldn’t leave NYC if I felt I still had business here.  I know about moving to distract oneself from bigger challenges that’ll follow you around no matter where you shower. Then again,  the Pacific Ocean is not here.

Life is a beehive.

And remember, “Bullocks to Don Revie!”


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.


Ode to Gladys

I love Gladys.  She is a Scorpio.  I met her in San Francisco.  Off and on we’ve made noise together that skims what I believe is more than possible.  I have not always been the most reliable partner.  I promise I will assert myself to become a willing and open partner.  Gladys is my acoustic guitar.  She waits and waits for me. Like any great love affair, there is fear and doubt and sometimes a good case of the the shakes just to touch each other.

I signed up for piano lessons too.  We’ll find out if the sounds in my head are worth sharing but I have to give them a chance.

Tonight I checked out another open mike, looking for an energetic home where I can free-flow.  This was by far one of the worst open mikes on the planet Earth or if they swing open mikes on Mars, include that planet too. At least there you get a hell of a view. If anyone’s been to comedy open mikes they can be quite brutal on the anima, a polite way of saying a good deal of penis jokes.  This particular one was in a bar, I was tenth, it was mostly empty in the performance area and the bar next to the stage was brimming with chatter noise.  I should have walked out when the MC said he would give two free hot dogs to the person who ‘showed their junk.’ (that’s the name of the mike).   I think he meant it.  Not for me. It’s also self loathing that was quietly rampant in some spots and more obvious in others.  Pain can so easily slip into bitterness and cynical swirls and it’s an easy virus to catch.  I’ve spent years trying to grow into a deeper self acceptance. Most of my material is about that merging of all of these …selves…with a planet that’s also merging selves and making decent sense of it in this world.  My penis is a big part of that but so is my penis’s little internal vagina.  She needs to breathe, she must have her roaming ground on stage; subtleties are like the magic that makes material renovate a room. And It’s tough to get up on stage so I try to give every performer my utmost attention.  All I know is I came home and apologized to my material and the paper it was written on. It’s a certain type of energy and I don’t want my material bent into a certain shape to fit a paradigm.   I need a bathtub to wash energy away.  What’s disappointing is that the space itself is new and very nice.  Not for me, clearly.  The MC called me Lee Bartón so I pretended I was a French comedian for three minutes, made it up as I went along.  Saved about two minutes of material from self doubt swirls. If I ever went back I’m going to do a new character based entirely on my schlong and only talk to other people’s schlongs in the audience, even women’s schlongs.  We’ll see.  This was a venting, a classier version of what spat out an hour ago.

Love.  Something positive last said tonight. Love. And irreverence. Especially in film.  So many writing classes I’ve taken over the years tend to cut and slice away those ‘unnecessary’ scenes but The Big Lebowski would be less of itself without Jesus (John Turturro) dancing and licking his bowling ball.  Brilliant. Irreverence and tangents, we need more in American film and stage. Much much more.  Feed a script after midnight and dump it in some water and watch them multiply.