Tag Archives: Novel

Defining a New Genre for my Novel – Abstract Sensualism

My first novel Point of Venus  is now up for sale on Lulu.com (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

 

http://www.lulu.com/shop/lee-barton/point-of-venus/paperback/product-22450296.html

 

 

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 (leebarton@calendrome.com) 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!”

 

Endings on days of numerological and cosmic significance

Today on 11.11.11,  I finished my novel Point of Venus.  Like most pieces of art or pieces of something, flow a few strands of wiring mostly based on personal experience. For me, the title comes from when I saw a palm reader a few years ago who told me I had a point of Venus on my hand. It wasn’t great news in the context of the rest of my hand.  Then I had the longing dream seven years ago with the woman in it.  That is also a thread. Fashion and the awakening of deeply latent selves is a thread.  Parents and fluctuating psychic and emotional distances and between them as well as loss is a thread. There are minor spinoffs, NYC, love and sex and the undertones of Christ-healing in sex.  Other potencies I hope. I have to say, finishing this feels like opening a chasm, opening and beginning and once I spell check it and copyright it, I’m going to find the person I dedicated it to, that tall thin blonde in my dream, cause that’s who I wrote it for and live the dream.

Some fun tidbits:
# pages in double spaced  Courier new font 12: 496
# words: 117,502
# times word ‘fuck’ appears or one of its wonderful offspring:  4
# times word ‘orgasm’ appears: 10
# times word ‘love’ appears: 236
# times word ‘purple’ appears: 24
# times word ‘vampire’ appears: 0!

Some days travel faster and light than others and after finishing something like this the day is walking on foot through tundra. restless and a bit heavy and yet on 11.11.11 which in some circles is a day of some portal opening across space and time and my newer pairs of underwear and  spiritual shifts occur. It was a conscious accident I finished this today but I do not believe in accidents or coincidence, only very crafty deep roots that spring it’s tentacles all over space and time. So you have to dig deeply to find the connection. Tonight, I’ll sleep and tomorrow is new and full of its own clan destined joys and aches.

I also celebrated by getting gas for Sheila, my bike, only having to wait 45 minutes in line.  That is not a lot.

Congratulations to Obama. I voted for third party candidate Rocky Anderson. I’m sick of this two party dig three inches below the surface of America shit.  I hope Obama grows out his afro, gets some 70’s button down quasi psych-Afro-punkadelic shirts and takes charge and does all the stuff he was supposed to do in his first term. Speak for yourself, man.  Please.  I also congratulate all the uteruses and ovaries across our great land for escaping the 1790’s policies towards women under a Romney-Ryan administration.

 

 

 

Hurtling toward Inevitability

Life is always changing.  We’re always changing. That’s one reason why I roll all of my eyes  when politicians say ‘We need a change.’  Wait ten minutes.   Under that premise, a cloud could run for Congress: ‘Stratocumulus 2012! Change you can hope for.”

So life always changes and occasionally there are spikes in the interest rates, so to speak and right now, my personal economy is a great time to invest cause rates are through the roof.  I am looking for a job and actually have been trying to do so whereas in the past I have been half hearted in looking for day work. I am at a crossing point.  I will try to articulate this the best that I can but I feel the dead parts of my life are being destroyed, gobbled up by something that is demanding my attention and it seems to come down to moving beyond survival. There’s what I call a magic roving wave that at some point, I feel I must turn into but must be done whole heartedly, with every fiber of faith, so that’s it’s honest; you can’t fake an ID to get into this joint.  I can viscerally feel a unity as I move from one life to another and it comes paradoxically with great effort but without force and it is cycles, like I imagine a space explorer falling slowly through the atmosphere of Saturn or some other more hospitable planet but the rate of descent is so slow it seems nothing is happening until you get a glimpse of clarity and then another glimpse and then the regular old nine to five fog.  And there comes a point where the hesitation melts away and there’s what I call the great jellybean mouth of awareness and you have to dive in, unfettered. I always believe that we can shit on ourselves better than anyone else can do the job and in any situation, there are always glimpses of clarity where you know what’s right for yourself and wrong. But you have to be looking and then you have be ready.

I imagine I will get a job but it sounds like a passing whirlwind made of moody crickets on its way somewhere else. I’m catching the back end. Something in me pushes and pursues for something better and I suppose death is about the only thing that would slow me down for a bit.

I am hurtling towards the end of Point of Venus, my novel, and estimates two more weeks. I have been writing a great lot over the last couple of weeks.  I wish to honor Lona Margolis and the supernatural mystical fashionable sewn path she is taking. When the novel is done, I most certainly am going to dinner somewhere special.

I want to act.  I have the urge to do Shakespeare and do my own material.  The gods are scratching at the inside of my solar plexus to step it up, lover. OK.

 

Bouts of everlasting forgiveness

Chipping away at my novel Point of Venus , my first attempt at this genre I feel like I’m making it up as I go along but things seem to be working out so I must be on the road to the vine covered golden archway of an Ending/Beginning.   Over the months people have asked me what it’s about and when I start rambling I usually know I don’t know what the hell it’s about yet because it’s like a reverse pyramid of ‘abouts’; there’s surface things skidding around and as your drill deeper and deeper it becomes more and more pointed and becomes the driving force that stains or coats or galvanizes or cauterizes everything above it; to this point, Lona Margolis has done things and interesting things with fashion, poetry, pursuing the Faceless Man, self delusion and handling her dynamic trans dimensional SexEssence beauty but I haven’t been able to answer the question of what it’s about until a few nights ago when I hit what intro to fiction writers classes refer to as a ‘plot point’ though if I hit one of those it better crack open and some pretty relevant tendrils better spill out.

Sometimes it spills out like creamy black beans running from spatula police and sometimes you have to grapple and shape and wrestle until you have smelted something that shimmers in the reality of this world, through words.

The answer to the question, “What is your novel about?” is forgiveness. or release, or however you coat it in whatever culture you inhabit.   I like to say holding onto a sin is hard but holding onto a forgiveness will age you like a raisin in two suns.  Lona is about other things too but if I can grind and release through as much forgiveness as possible I’ve really lost a lot of lead in the soul belly.

The next four weeks of life will be juicy and dicey.   More will be described August 29th.

Also, once I read about how much sex Olympiads had it makes me wish I stuck with ping pong and tennis when I was in high school. Or better yet, one of those sports like shooting  where you can play into your forties so having sex every four years in a different country or being around people who are having sex would be guaranteed. More power to them.  If it relaxes you before hitting the high horse, go for it USA.

Spiropractic adjustments and the toastmouths

Most of the time things happen in the world and then things happen inside the inner world and they seem like they pop along independently each other, only to drop by and flirt for a few minutes or have a quickie at the least famous motel in town and then you feel in snyc with what you’re saying and doing with the inner world that tumbles around  inside, curling and flaring and crayola-ing like the surface of Jupiter being stirred with the knife of your own conscious whips;  and that’s most of the time, at least for me;

Then some days things happen and then things happen inside and they feel linked together strongly by leftover cable wire used to build the Golden Gate Bridge with a splash of Canadian Orange paint.  Some days things are strong and curious and unquestionable and you feel right and pure and adjusted, something knocked back into place like having an inflatable anvil fall on your head and suddenly remembering where you dropped your keys twenty years ago or what you whispered to your dying wife three lifetimes ago; tonight, after dealing with a weekend of professionally frustrating situations, I met two men at Whole Foods who were fascinating, a little intimidating, and some sort of energy level that jarred something back into place.

One of the gentlemen, a musician, stared at me and uttered a rhyme about creating art and living art and rolling in the largeness of life like heaven and earth were mixed together in a mad confusing beautiful compass of expression and change pockets of grandeur; OK, I’ve souped up what he said but the crux of it reminded me of something, I guess to let it rip; Nothing is by coincidence; I was deeply livid, deep in the pond pissed, over my screen partner casually canceling and his words dropped a match;  as Mickey says,
“Kid, you’re gonna eat lightning, and you’re gonna crap thunder! You’re a greasy, 145 pound Italian tank!”

I’ve never crapped thunder but it sounds like I would never need toilet paper so I’m ok with it; one thing is for certain, a good dose of rage relief coupled with a random stranger epiphany adjustment can really hit the spot and open that large jellybean mouth of life.

Another snippet from my patiently waiting novel Point of Venus; I think I’m going to have to hire someone to sketch Lona, the main character, designs in the book. I want to include the sketches as part of this novel, which is written partly inspired by fashion, healing myself, joy of writing, interplanetary fashion, and romantic prophecy as based on a dream I had several years ago and I am since affected and caught with flashes of the future; we’ll see how it pans out, out of a lion’s mouth or in it’s stomach; Happy Dimanche:

She heard heartaches, she heard young lovers who had known each other since grade school fight through years of growth to become what they always wanted – one. One story after another and when she had reached the last whisper, the man’s voice, her strange mirror angel, and she could hear sadness in his voice, like an echo inside a page, and she allowed the scroll of that diamond to melt into her skin, to swim into her bones and settle, thinking that what might be left is an imprint, a map to guide her, to cut her dreams in pieces and glue them together to form a broken bell, a broken bell to ring to create that aching opening that makes one awake like a predator for a moment, to hold that broken bell in the hand of the heart and let it ring for something, feeling the human heart as a pile of broken bells that mesh together to create a song that burned inside Lona. His bells rang inside her bones and made her feel like a skeleton of soil and embers that made her realize what a diamond really was: a fossilized Promise to be Thawed. Her bones felt covered in pieces of lips that history stole and replaced with filler; one whisper led to thousands and Lona slipped out of her trance and her body shook.