Tag Archives: Point Of Venus

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.

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.

 

 

 

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.

Sinatra’s swinging for Jihad

One thing that’ll always stay caught in my memory nets is years ago my ex in California had this theory that Frank Sinatra’s soul was meant to come back as the AntiChrist because he had anger issues;  I guess she had some insider knowledge she got from listening to Lady is a Tramp backwards; I never tried it;  she had a mystical link or two going so at the time it seemed a reasonable theory; another reason I steer clear of those gorgeous young ladies of Scientology handing out cards in Times Square; I’m impressionable; I’m like hot tupperware; I’ll bend but eventually I’ll snap back into place; it just may take years;

I just finished another solo piece, based on my finding my birth parents;  it’s Yellow Alert around this household so push push push and then give birth to these quintuplets; the thought of working tomorrow is heinous to me and I’m sloshing about wildly in a quiet fervor of moving forward in life; it’s all good but the amount of grays on my little beard are keeping score;  it’s not whether I quit; it’s what I wear when I do and what parts of my body will be showing when I dump off my laptop;  will they be something basic cable would pixellate?  I don’t know;  what next? what next. what next$#^,=.

A couple of lines from and for Lona; haven’t had a chance to work onPoint of Venus. Sorry my dear.

The lines of the world can be found running down the sides of your body;

somewhere behind your legs where they bend at the shins are mournful liquids where eels of harmony and discord swim alongside each other and when you walk you both calm and ionize the air around you;

I can hear the ocean breathing inside you; it is more sacred than the Talmud; it is the forgotten clay of the Bible molded together to speak through your breath. 

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.