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Sunday, April 23rd, 2006
6:01 pm	2nd Installment A KIND OF BLUE novella Two hours into the monitor scores from last Friday, someone knocks on my door. It opens to reveal Anna, looking her usual gloomy and pensive self. Face deliberately paled by heavy cake makeup. Eyes haloed blacker-than-black by elliptical mascara rings. Like an illegitimate stepchild of the Addams family. Anna wearing her gloomed out expression is no big surprise. Anna considers herself very Byron-esque. Sad little Goth girl. Oh, life*hand thrown to forehead in a convulsion of anguish*.why must you torment me soand all that shit. Shes so Bela Lugosis Dead that it taste like metal at the back of my throat when shes around. Hello, she says in her best Eore-ish tone. How was your weekend? I set my keyboard aside and turn around in my chair to face her, give her a big smile just to spite her perpetual nightshade gaze. It was okay, I guess. I just kind of hung around the apartment. You know. Doing stuff. Anna shrugs and nods. Im sure if I asked her to repeat anything I said she wouldnt be able to. She rarely listens to me. Anna is one of those people who dont listen; they wait for their turn to speak. She picks up the small purple troll-doll from the top of my monitor, begins to play with it while she talks. Bend the legs and armsstraighten the legs and the armstwists the head one waythen the other. Over and over again, as if shes telling beads. I watch her precise routine while she launches her way into a lopsided conversation; one in which I do a lot of listening and nodding attentively. Me and Sanchez went out to a new club on 4th with some friends, she says. You remember Sanchez, right? I nod, keeping the smile on my face; her gloom will suck the life right out of you. Yeah, of course, I remember Sanchez. Tall, pale, and totally psycho. A walking spider, all dark eyes and sneering contempt. Anna says hes just a friend, but its obvious the two of them have something pretty kinky going on. Its not my business, so I try not to invest too much time in thinking about it, but it does seem to me she might be a whole lot happier with life in general if shed stop hanging around people like Sanchez. The guy is a psychic vampire, an emotional leech. Use you up, dump you by the side of the road when hes finished. But darkness begets darkness begets darknesson and on ad nauseum. Shed be happier with a guy like me. But I quash the thought as quickly as possible. Shes beautiful, but badly damaged, goods. I dont need that in my life. Better to just think of her only as a friend. No complications. Me and Sanchez met this little chick there with a pierced clit and pierced nipples. Man, she was hitting on us hard all night long. She spent more time rubbing her tits all over me when we danced than she did Sanchez. Anna leans close and her voice drops down into conspiratorial tones. A sneering mock-disgusted smile lifts one side of her white face. I think Sanchez wanted to invite her home with usyou know, for a little mnage-a-twat action. But I wasnt hearing that, you know. She could have been diseased for all I know. Now did I need to hear this today? I havent had sex in eight months. The last time was in the elevator during a company party. It had been sloppy and hectic, too much like a short distance sprint to really enjoy. The girl I did it with doesnt even work here anymore. Probably because of me. The following morning she avoided me like the plague, going the other way whenever she saw me coming down the hall, ducking into someones office. It was like I had committed a crime or something. Point being, I really didnt need to hear about Anna almost doing Sanchez and another girl. Because no matter how I dont want to react to the image as it takes shape in my mind, I do. Under the desk, thankfully out of view, my cock grows as hard as an iron stake in my khakis. It happens, even though Im not really attracted to Anna. After all, at a certain point of privation, itll happen if the wind is blowing right. All I can say is something like Oh, yeah?, hoping like hell I dont sound like Im in the least bit desperate for details. Anna is the kind of cruel person who loves to share all the details with you- especially when it comes to her sex life. But shes just twisted enough that if she sees youre getting off on it, shell clam right up. Manipulative bitch. She spends the next ten minutes bragging about her and Sanchez and other stuff that does nothing to help my little engorged friend under the desk. As she does so, she leans closer and closer, her eyes bright and moist behind the black mascara and pale powder. She loves this shit. Beneath the tight dark sweater I can see her nipples growing hard at the scene shes creating in her head. Sometimes I have doubts that any of this shit actually happens to her at all. Sometimes I think shes just a mixed up lonely woman-child who likes to make herself seem more dangerous and provocative than she actually is. That maybe all of this is her attempt to make herself feel alive beneath the doom and gloom. During a smoldering pause in the conversation, I speak up. Have you noticed anything weird around here lately? Other than reps throwing themselves out of windows, you mean? She gives a cruel snicker. I can only blink stupidly at such a callus, off-handed cruelty. I hadnt known the guy. Seen him around a few times in the cafeteria, maybe out back smoking sometimes. But the guy had been one of us. Didnt that deserve some respect? Anna ignores my dour expression, just keeps manipulating the troll doll over and over again; hands, feet, legs, arms, head, back and forth, up an down. Seeing that she isnt going to make my question easy, I decide maybe now isnt the time to bring it up. Besides, what if she thought I was crazy? I mean, seeing a dead guy walking up and down the halls of the place you work isnt exactly something a normal person talks about. Anna places the troll doll back on top of my monitor. We still gonna do lunch today? Im still feeling a little pissed off, so I shrug, act apathetic. But me being pissed was going right over her head. I might as well be glaring at a wall for all the reaction Im get from her. I dont know. I was thinking Chinese. Anna purses her full blood red lips. Thats fine, she agrees, and leaves my office. My cock still aches in my pants. I cough uncomfortably and try to re-arrange myself casuallyin case the cameras are watching. If only she liked nice guys like me. 5:07 p.m. Seven minutes past the official end of the workday and I already feel like Im being robbed of MY TIME. Like most people, I have a mental division of my day. Theres the companys time and theres MY TIME. I will do whatever you need during the hours of my shift, but not on MY TIME. During company time, I will make copies, I will write repetitive useless reports, I will reprimand, admonish, hire, fire, delineate, and calibrate; I will re-time, re-structure, re-invest, and re-tune. But I will not do any of that shit on MY TIME. There is no happiness in slavery. Were all held hostages by the means to our own ends. When I finish the last of the scheduling, I throw away any trash- empty coffee cups, candy wrappers from last break, broken paper clips- and shut down my computer for the night. I walk the exit hallway, ears sensitive to the dead quiet. Seven minutes past, the center is like a ghost town. Empty. Desolate. The only people left at this hour are some of the higher-ups making procrastinated business calls. But most of the offices that I pass are dark; doors locked for a few hours, a ghostly mute sound of voices behind one or two. In the hall, someone has dimmed the lights so that the passage looks like a tunnel. The shadows lie thick along its narrow walls. After my experience this morning, I feel a slight sense of impending menacing within those shadows. The light at the other end is a long way off, and the symbolism does not escape me. The whole scene sets my nerves to jangling. How many times had that poor bastard passed down this same black tunnel, just wanting to get to the light again? Or had he cared? Had there been anyone waiting for his return home? Who missed the dead guy now? Was someone crying over coffee every morning since his death? Perhaps unable to listen to the radio because every song reminded them of him somehow? And why was I spending so much time wondering about some guy that I barely knew throwing himself out a window? All day long, I had found myself staring off into space, paperwork forgotten, thinking about him and how he had died. Wondering how it had felt. Why hed done it. Useless meandering looping back again and again. It does no good. There are no easy answers to help you get out of the loop. At that moment, if you had a solid answer to your doubts, you know you could let it go and accept it. But there are no easy answers. Theyre all complicated, fraught with the variables that no single mind can fully impart to another. We can tell ourselves that we know exactly why a person does this or that, but do we ever really know? Sometimes there are secret demons gnawing at the backside of our carefully protected sanity, until we finally lose control of the machine, and go caterwauling over the edge into darkness. Sometimes we are our own worst enemies. Sometimes life finds a chink in the armor, slips us the acid tongue, into a wound in the soul. Happens everyday, right? What makes some crazy bastard crawl up a tower with a high-powered rifle and start picking off innocent bystanders? Hes just crazy, right? But following that logic, how different is a punk ass gang-banger from an obvious psycho like that? Does having a financial objective or a territorial prerogative make it any less insane to set such a low value on life? If thats true, then some of the most insane fucks we have in this world today hide behind contracts and corporate logos. After making my escape from the dim hall, I hurry from the center, and into an orange colored sunset world. Long, gray shadows stretch across the city, seeping into deep crevices of the edged constructs that line the dirty sidewalks. Across town, the smell of the wharves is pungent: saltwater, slightly rotten, like dead fish. I throw myself into the stink of the city, as if I have shed a burdensome weight from my back. All the data that crosses the inter-streams like spawning fish can thicken the very air around you at times, and when you get out of it, you feel the strictures of space loosen and unfold like dead tentacles from the deep. Block by block, I move away from the call center, leaving behind my fears, but not my questions about the dead man. I walk almost everyday to and from work, enjoying the air and the feel of the pulse of the city alive, stretching out on all sides around me. She is like some great old whore, tired of life, and yet unable to give up the action that keeps her wet. She doesnt enjoy it any longer, but she would definitely miss it. My apartments on the top floor of an ancient, crumbling six-story building that might have been new when Methuselah was watching cartoons. I heard once that it had been a brothel in the 1920s. It looks like an Art-Deco palace in Hell. All those decades ago, it probably had been quite beautiful. But time and neglect had burned out bulbs, chipped the ancient tiles, cracked the grimy light fixtures, and torn and yellowed the slime green wallpaper. The place is a washed-up whore, standing on the sidewalk, hustling in small, tired customers like myself, trying to keep herself alive for one more year. My neighbors come and go from her dirty womb so often that I dont bother to try and put the names with the faces any longer. Where do they come from? Where do they go from here, up or down? Its the same story every month. Up the stairs, I see them hefting stained cardboard boxes that look as if they might not make another move. The next month their mail is slowly, but inexorably, piling up before their doors. Locked, with eviction-notices plastered across their dirty expanse. After slogging my way up the jaundiced lighted worn wooden stairway, I let myself in, go to the stereo, and turn on the CD thats been in it for a month or more. After a few quiet moments, the opening phrase of John Coltranes A Love Supreme floats through the mote stuffy, sunset dazzled air. It dances with the dust motes, swirls with the sunbeams, a gentle spill of cymbals and the introduction question from Coltranes horn. The music is a breath of clean air sweeping away my muggy day. Those first few seconds do more for my soul than any Bible or drug can ever hope to do. While the bass carries the tinkle of Mccoy Tyners piano riff, I set to making myself a frugal dinner of canned tomato soup and a couple of cheese sandwiches, lots of mayo. When the soup hits a nice roiling boil, I pour it in a bowl and add a few saltines to it for flavor, and make my way to the couch to eat before Coltranes second movement starts. I turn on the television, watch the news with the sound turned all the way down, while some talking head on CNN yammers on about a war in Somalia or Iraq or some such place. After a while the reports all sound and look the same. Every anguished dark skinned face sheds the same irrelevant tears for the indifferent camera eye; every foreign tongue sounds the same when its screaming for justice. Its hard to connect with the violence and misery of the passing faces on the screen. Its a horrible irony of human nature that only our own misery has any relevance. After my spare meal, I stand before the large window, watch the lights of the city blossom like deep-water luminescent fish floating adrift in deep ocean currents. Ive got to get out tonight. If I stay in, I might lose my mind. I need people, music, and drinks, something to remind me that I am alive. Not dead. Like that poor bastard that threw himself from the window. I need to get into the jazz clubs on 5th. No other solution will do this evening. I dress in a casual black suit, no tie, and lock down my apartment, head out into the night. With the setting of the sun, the air has turned crisp and chilly, comfortable enough for a long walk. I live several blocks away from the jazz clubs and it will take me about an hour to get to them. I could take a taxi, but the walk will do me good. Clear my head a little. Besides, Ill save my money for the cab ride home. I think Ill drink too much tonight. I dont want to; but I know I will. My unquiet thoughts demand it. I cant possibly stay sober and reasoned with this rush of panic and fear churning in my head right now. Seeing dead people does not make me feel safe and rational. It puts a distinct twist to my perception of reality. Two blocks away I begin to pick up on the heart-thump-blood-pulse sound of jazz music filtering through the night air. A tonic. One block away, the sounds from the different clubs mingle, becomes a mlange for the ear. There, a copycat Bird flits through a decent take on Scrapple in the Apple. Over there, a little way down the street, a big band is taking the A-train. Someone else is muting his way through a version of Blue In Green. The smell of cooking food swirls along the sidewalk, reminds me how insubstantial my evening meal had been. I pick up on the smell of someone frying shrimp and head for the place that I think its coming from. Its a place Ive never been before, Ginger Lynns. I duck past the faded red and blue unraveling overhang. The place is like a cave, dark and cool, smelling of secrets. A collection of tables are scattered along the floor, each with a red glass bowl and candle set, which provides most of the nebulous ghostly illumination. The flame flickers dance across spectral looking faces as I wind my way past to the long wooden bar at the back of the club. No one pays me much attention. Most are watching the small center bandstand in front, where a three-man combo is strumming their way through Mood Indigo, played slightly slower than Ellington had intended. At the bar, I get a disinterested nod as greeting from the old man tending. Hes white, late fifties at least, and his balding head reflects the thin streak of overhead light like a waxed melon. Two watery blue eyes appraise me as if I was a thug just sloughing in from the alley out back. Hes not friendly, but hes fast. When I ask for a gin and tonic, its sitting in front of me before I can even reach for my wallet. He watches with a detachment that borders on a hypnotic state as I pull a few bills out to pay him. He doesnt offer me any change, and keeps staring through me like Im not even there. The tables are red glowing satellites in the sleepy darkness, and I follow their gravity to the back and sit down. The table is sticky, made of wood that has been scarred and stained to something that looks almost medieval, just dragged from the ruins of ransacked castle somewhere. The band wraps up the number, as I sip my drink. The sound fades, dies on the last pure note of a piano B, and the room gives a polite applause to the trio for their bland effort. They leave the stage, to be replaced by the old bartender. He slumps in the yellow spotlight like a broken wagon wheel leaning against a barn, his best years behind him, kept around for sentimental reasons. He grimaces at the waiting audience. That was great work fellas. Really. A few insincere hands clap from the dark. Next up, Ginger Lynns is especially proud to bring to you good people the woman herself, Ginger Lynn, to sing a tune or two. The old man steps back, waves his arm with a flourish at the side stage darkness, and slinks away from the sickly icatric spotlight. Then SHE walks on the stage. Ginger Lynn. A statue of beauty. A reason for really bad poetry, and shitty Air Supply songs. Mocha cream, topped with a pulled back line of shining black hair that trails down her straight back. Her full lips part; she licks her white teeth, a tigress about to jump from the bush, eager for the flow of blood and life. She sits at the ragged piano, letting the length of her black evening gown split up and up, until her dark legs peek out at beguiling angles for the appreciative audience. I am enraptured, entranced, like the rest of the people in the dark, waiting for her to complete the moment, or fade away like an erotic dream. Ginger Lynn begins to play, softly pressing the piano keys as if she were massaging the instrument, tickling the sound from its deep belly. She smiles a little as the sounds grow in strength, and take on hidden sexual meanings. She lets the phrasing go on for a few more bars, and then launches into a soulful and disturbing rendition of Strange Fruit. The song was written in the forties by a white teacher, protesting the horrors of Southern racism. Disturbingly, the strange fruit refers to black men hanging from trees in the morning light. This woman somehow makes this terrible nightmare image sound sensual. And as much as the idea disgusts me, I find myself physically aroused by her low, whispering voice as she tells me about it all- the hangings, the forlorn stench of the smoking houses, fired by silent men in white hoods, the terrified screams. Its horrible to feel my cock engorged, ripening to aching stiffness, and being given these images. There is no horror greater than self-loathing. Its a horror you cant out-race. Man is a beast of flesh. All the advances in science by those who see through narrow eyes only the good of man, all the pious who devote themselves to alleviating suffering through the ages, for every one of them, there are millions who live only to satisfy the needs of the flesh. We are twisted monkeys who never really left the trees. We only traded them in for SUVs and timeshare beach resorts. I am an unfeeling ape as I stare at her long black silken legs. She sings of men dying and I sit with an iron hard-on, watching the tender parting of her lips, imagining the feel of those lips brushing against my trembling flesh. I barely recognize the presence of a waitress. I nod for another drink without a glance, still captivated by the vision of the woman on the stage. I drink more as she launches into the second song, I Only Have Eyes For You, a jazzy version for solo piano. She does a great job of sending it up the pole, and finished, she acknowledges the polite applause of the crowd. This is not the kind of place where people get up and whistle their appreciation. Controlled and reserved clapping only, perhaps a standing ovation if someone has been particularly grand during their performance. Ginger Lynn leaves the stage, exits behind the melting black curtain beyond the yellow light. An overhead sound system begins playing Miles Davis Flamenco Sketches. She is beautiful. A dream. Already in the back of my mind, I am contemplating how I can meet her. I finish the second drink and head out. She is done for the night, and so am I. Somehow I feel as if I would betray the moment if I hit another club, so I signal a taxi. As I give the thin man behind the wheel my address, he mutters something about how the main road might be backed up, and that he might need to go around the regular route. Fine, I tell him, but Im not paying you to go out of your way, man. The taxi driver says something in a foreign language, which Im sure equates to calling me an asshole in some ancient, but I ignore him, sit back in the stinking plastic coated seat for the ride home. He takes the regular route, unhurried, but unhindered by any blockages. Back in my apartment, I sit naked on my couch listening to Coltrane again. I read for a while, a beat up copy of Angry Candy, and force myself to finally turn it all off- the stereo, the lights, my head, and go to bed. During the night, I dream of her. Those lips and legs, those flashing eyes gleaming darkly like beetle carapace in the yellow light. She is saying something to me while she sings. Im naked, sitting at the dim red glow of the club; the candlelight flickers eerily before my face. I lean forward, eager to catch her words, but all I can make out is some whispering sound that makes no sense. Someone sits down next to me. I turn to see the dead man. His face is broken and rotting, teeth twisted and bloody in their warped settings. One eye has popped out, and dangles from the socket against his cadaver cheek. The other watches me with amusement. I pull away in horror as his cracked bloody lips unhinge. A tooth drops from its mooring, rolls past his swollen bottom lip. He is about to say something. I know whatever it is will kill me. The mouth wrenches further apart. His black tongue unfolds in his maw, shaping the words of my undoing. I shake and cry, but cannot turn away. I am a fixed and frozen point within this deadly constellation, a star about to go supernova. The dead man smiles a wretched bloody grin. And I wake screaming. (4 Comments |Comment on this)
Monday, April 17th, 2006
8:23 pm	Update from MYSpace Blog (all current to April 15th 06) Saturday, April 15, 2006 A KIND OF BLUE 1st Installment A KIND OF BLUE By Nickolas Cook So when we consider the three sentiments, admiration, fear, and reverence, which divinity inspires among mankind, we find that men appear to admire the gods and think them blessed because they are immortal and unchangeable; to stand in fear and awe of them because of their power and authority; and to love, honour, and reverence them because of their justice. At the same time men long for immortality, to which no flesh can attain, and for power, which remains for the most part in the hands of fortune, while they give virtue, the only divine excellence of which we are capable, the last place in the scheme of values. But here they show themselves fools, since a life that is spent in the midst of power and great fortune and authority still needs justice to make it divine, for injustice renders it merely brutish. PLUTARCH- The Rise and Fall of Athens: Nine Greek Lives Jazz brushes away the dust of everyday life Art Blakey Like a tunnel with no golden light at its end, these places go on forever. This is the new America. Welcome to the new slave labor. Youre in a box. Chained to the end of a phone line, instead of an impossibly dense iron ball to keep you in one place. An electronic buzz sounds next to your elbow, and you answer it with a prompted script. Words dribble from your mouth as if you were one of Pavlovs dogs. Do your trick, Fido. Fetch some profit. Youre on the production floor and your yield is based on some mathemathical formula designed to keep you dribbling until you hear the fucking words in your sleep. Its production hours, folks. Keep on dribbling, until the clock strikes the end hour. A goddam nuclear bomb could go off over your desk and youd automatically ask the person on the other end to hold, please, while your system updates. Thank you for calling, INSERT NAME OF YOUR COMPANY HERE. My name is mary, harry, jerry, terry, sam, dave, joquin, frank, manny, alberto, george, sue, nick, vivian, neal, rick, john, tom, and on and on. Doesnt really matter. No one on the other end of the line cares or even listens to you. Youre name could be Jack-the-Ripper and no one would remember it. You are a representative. Which, in essence, means that you have ceased to be a human with feelings, thoughts, or emotions. You are just a voice on a phone, a machine that breathes and farts, and no one hears you anymore. Sometimes, you think youd like to call God and yell at him the way people yell at you everyday from the other end of the line. Can you imagine the prompt menu for that call? And all the different departments youd be transferred to? Thank you for calling Heaven. This is INSERT NAME OF ASSHOLE ANGEL HERE. How may I help you today? Yeah, youd say. May I speak with God? No, the first line of defense for God says. How may I be of service today, sir? I was wondering if there was any way to get a new contract. A new contract, sir? You knowlike to start over again. Im really not happy with this contract. And all this time, the Asshole Angel is clicking his way through a contact handling script on How To Tell Someone No. Who knows? Maybe God doesnt even exist. Some companies do that. They make up a person, give them a name and an identity. In their company records this pretend person is real and everything, but its just someones name to put on letters that they send out to their customers. No, sir, the Asshole Angel says in a bored, weary Ive-heard-this-a-million-times tone. Our contracts run for the duration. Once the terms have been fulfilled, the contract is null and void. Oh, you say. So theres no way, huh? Sorry. Have a nice day, sir. And thank you for calling Heaven today. We appreciate your business. One guess who gets nulled and voided at the end of the contract. Its the one that used to be a monkey. In the office where I work the overhead lights give off a greenish kind of sickly color. Florescent. They never stop humming. Ive never seen anyone change them. I dont think Ive ever even heard of one burning out. They are always on, ten feet over my head, extending in long parallel lines. Even when Im not here those humming bastards go on and on and on, humming away into the night. All day long, you hear those lights humming above you. When I first started working here the sound used to drive me crazy. MmmmmmmBzzzzzzzzzzMmmmmmmBzzzzzzzzzz. Just below hearing, on the threshold of sending you over the edge, hour after hour. Like a flea crawling around in your ear. After a time, I didnt notice it as much. But it was there. Anytime I stopped long enough to really listen it was there. Always there. MmmmmmmBzzzzzzzzz.MmmmmmmBzzzzzzzzzz. Squirming around the soft tender flesh of your subconscious, mmmm-ing and bzzz-ing into every thought and action. You know youre in trouble when you start feeling as if something is missing when youre not at work with that fucking sound in your ear. Then you know its really got you. In the mornings, the eye-watering stink of cleaning fluids and overcooked coffee permeates the stale humming air. At that early hour, as I walk down the long dimly lighted hallway to get to the offices and the production floor, the near empty place is like some slowly awakening beast, yawning and smacking its great jaws together, getting set for another long day of gobbling up consumers credit cards limits. The hours are filled with the huge greedy gulps of its heavy production hours, and the slower hours of its delicate nibbling away at the consumer cultures need to spend money they dont have. Got to feed the beast, man. Feed it lots. But its always hungry. People think they know how much the beast eats; but they dont know the half of it. This beast is out of control and its gonna gobble us all up. A straight line of identical cubicles surrounds my walled office each side. These small boxes run down across the floor parallel to the walls. Its all so goddam symmetrical, so perfectly aligned. The colors- white walls, pastel blue carpeting, navy blue cubicles, the white desk and blue chairs- it so goddam matched its like living inside some fucked up piece of German art for five days out of the week. All very, very Zen looking. A tiny Buddhist temple where the monks answer calls, while the Great Unseen Spirits on the floor above you monitor your every word and action on closed circuit television and computers to assure customer satisfaction and service performance. Mostly, what theyre doing is making sure you arent going to say something that might cost them money. Rats in a cage. Squeak, squeak. And you have to click to contact handling scripts on How To Squeak. Its Monday. 8:00 am. Outside, its cloudy and dismal looking, like a gothic-style Corman horror movie set just exploded all over the city streets. The buildings cling to the sky like sharp talons trying to rip their way through the gloom. The whole scene fits my mood perfectly. Yeah, its a clich; but theres a reason why some things become clichs. Lots of people hate Mondays, right? After all, its the day that reminds you that you are someones slave for another week. Time to strap on the harness and haul the load, toe the line, study some action plans to assure your highest quality of customer satisfaction. The only people who might enjoy a Monday would be porn stars. I dont know. Maybe not. I guess even humping youre brains out can get old if your doing for a living. Its a few more minutes before I need to get to my desk and start the day, time enough for one more quick cup of coffee. And thats when I see him again. The dead guy. Out of the corner of my eye, I sense, rather than see, a movement, and when I turn, hes there again, walking down the hall, disappearing around the corner of the distant hallway. Hes covered in blood, just like the last time. Huge black splotches all over his beige dress shirt, dripping from his yellow power-tie. Like the other times, I try to tell myself that its only my imagination. Or maybe its a cleaning person. Someone pulling a gag. But I know better. I am the first in on Mondays. The cleaning people have been gone for three hours or so, and Halloween is six months away. The one thing that makes me really believe is the unnatural chill that scurries up my spine like an icy legged spider that tells me that something isnt right about what I see. This makes the third time in as many weeks that Ive seen the dead guy. The first time, I chased him down the hall, in an effort to test the reality of what I thought I had seen, but he was gone around the corner before I could catch up. By the time I reached the corner, he was gone, seemingly vanished into the solid wall where the corridor ended. I dont chase him now. Instead, I finish brewing a new pot of coffee, try to not think about seeing him again. I dont have time for this shit. Mondays are always busy days for me. There are all kinds of paperwork to take care of before the day is over. Performance evals, time management evals, call flow evals, etc., etc. You know, you might just have a problem dealing with people when you actually look forward to such inane busy work to keep you from having to talk to anyone around you. Thats one of the biggest ironies of working in a call center. Here you are, surrounded by people, and you dont really know any of them at all. Sure, you know their names, you see their faces everyday, you even go so far as to nod a hello when you meet up with them at the vending machine, or if they happen to be coming or going from the rest room when you are, but you dont know any of them. When you leave work each day, you dont sit around wondering how they are, or who they are. Most likely they dont wonder anything about you either. So youre in this forced community of other humans. You eat next to them, you share bathroom space with them, you see one another almost everyday of the week, and, yet, you dont know a goddam thing about them other than maybe she wears a blue shirt with those jeans every week, or he changed after-shave brands because the other one made his cheeks break out. None of which is information that they share with you. Its just stuff you pick up in an osmotic fashion because you see them day in and day out. Its the bare minimum of human contact in the most congested of contact job situations. Of course, on the other hand, youre surrounded by a lot of people with whom you probably wouldnt want to associate to begin with. Junkies, pimps, whores, scam-artists, strippers, geeks, nerds, white-trash trailer mamas, yuppies, armchair Internet business types, pyramid-schemers, 700 Club junkiesThe list goes on and on. Name a type-personality disorder and chances are youll be sitting within a few cubicles of it. Quite frankly these nutcases scare the shit out of you sometimes with the things they say aloud in mixed company. It doesnt do much for your self-confidence knowing that you wound up working with them. Where do you fit in? What special abnormality do you have that your bosses saw fit to hire you? I promise, after two hours of hearing about someones pet parrot throw up- the color, the fine details of the consistency of the vomitas, even an imitation or two of a vomiting parrot- youll be fucking glad to see the paperwork. Back at my desk, I sit down and get right into the stack of reports and weekly evaluations that our clients have to see every week so that we can keep the contracts. I bury my soul and mind into scheduling issues, the pluses and minuses of call after call. Its all effluvia, this data we send out every week. We spend hours putting it in order so some asshole in an office 1,400 miles away can take a quick ten second look at it between calls to his golf club and his mistress. All of it might as well be so much shit going down a toilet bowl for all it really matters to the course of human events in a day. It only matters if you dont do it. As if the tide of darkness is being held back by these useless sheets of data. Sometimes when you think about it, the idea that all the energy you waste on such a useless pursuit, when you could be out doing something to better humanity, it makes you want to scream. Where does it all go? Why is it important? Data as security. Rows of numbers, columns of names, calibration adjustments, improvement expectation ratios Call centers have week-long classes that are supposed to teach you to talk to another person. As we steep ourselves ever further in the techno-age of emotionless machines and scores for call quality, we are slowly divorcing ourselves from the process of communicating effectively with one another. We are de-humanizing the process. Ask anyone whos fifty or older and theyll usually tell you straight out that they cant make heads or tails of the world around them now. Is it because they just got too old to keep up? No. It's because we dont want them to. Weve insulated ourselves with jargon and techno-lingo to purposely alienate them from this brave new world. We want control- so we dont make it simple to exist. Like the elder who is no longer fast enough the hunt, he who does not understand our new age falls behind the pack. We sneer and cut him loose and say he just couldnt keep up with the fast pace of technology. Its a complete fucking lie that we tell each other, knowing full and goddam well that we are going to all eventually be that old guy who needs help understanding his world. The problem with the classes that are supposed to teach you how to deal with your fellow humans is that theyve all been designed by some socially inept techno-geek somewhere who has never felt comfortable talking to another person anyway. He is only comfortable with his machines, so this asshole peppers the course with all this absurd elitist terminology that sounds really smart and new-age, but turns every single interaction with another person into yet another machine-to-machine interfacing process. CalibrationalignmentThese are the terms used to describe ways to talk to someone over a phone. We are not men. We are DEVO. End 1st installement copyright 2006 Nickolas Cook 7:50 AM - 2 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment - Edit - Remove 5:38 and Serial Novella As you can see from the last couple of entries, my short story 5:38 caused a bit of a ripple amongst my peers and friends. I sent it off to DARK RECESSES Magazine, in the hopes that there it will find a home. I think Bailey and crew are making some exciting things happen with DR and I'd love to be part of it. I got back a thrilling email from one of the managing editors at said magazine, who said "Holy crap thats a good story! Im putting this on the short list for issue #4. I hope the others take to it as strongly as I did. Good work Nickolas." For a person who sits alone most of the time, trying desperately to convey a certain set of emotions through words, this is like manna. Even if it doesn't make the cut for D.R., I know now that my work was worth it. Editors can be a hardened lot, as they see every angle and twist in the writing world at some point. Most things that friends and peers might love can leave a veteran editor cold and unimpressed. This was a validation, of sorts. Now, on to my next project (and these days they are varied and demanding)...I'm starting a serial novella. It's a bit of an experiment in several ways. There are no true chapter divisions, as it was written as one long story, which kind of got out of hand. Some will find it self-indulgent, but what story isn't? The book is called A KIND OF BLUE, and it's steep in my love of jazz and I think it's a rather different take on the ghost story. I'll put up a new installment each week, maybe more than one, depending on how much editing on it I get done. Oh, by the way, if anyone finds a glaring editing issue, leave me a message and I'll update it. No one's perfect, right? The installments will be placed on totally seperate entires, so if I have something else to write, I'll make a different entry for it. Hence, on to the next entry...the start of A KIND OF BLUE 7:27 AM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment - Edit - Remove Tuesday, April 04, 2006 5:38 actually offends readers That's right. I just got two emails from different people who've read my short story, 5:38. One respectfully refuses to review the story for SWG, the other wrote a rant about how wrong I am about my views on the state of the nation. Apparently, I have hit a nerve with some of the more conservative/Rep readers. I won't claim ignorance. I knew this was going to happen when I wrote it. The story is vile, but truthful. The violence is gut wrenching (I cried while I wrote this, as the old Steely Dan song, Deacon Blues, goes) and gets under your skin. My wife refuses to read it again. I sent it to a trusted friend and fellow writer, whom I have a great deal of respect. I want to make sure that I haven't stepped over a line of which I was unaware. Crap...how the hell am I going to sell this story? I don't think anyone is going to touch this with a ten foot pole. 8:29 PM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment - Edit - Remove Friday, March 31, 2006 5:38 redux I finished it. I feel better. Having to relive the emotions I felt at the time of seeing that poor man butchered like an animal did what I hoped it would: purge me. Kim is reading the final draft right now. It'll be my submission for April's SWG round, so I'm looking forward to the feedback. As of yesterday, issue #2 of Wretched and Violent Magazine hit the web. Check it out if you get a chance. I have two book reviews and heck of a good article on GOBLIN http://www.geocities.com/wretched_and_violent/issue2.html I also found out that I have a review posted at Alternative Reality Web-Zine http://www.arwz.com/zinereviews.html Kim just finished reading 5:38 and said it was disturbing. It takes a lot to disturb her. Jesus, she can sit and look through book of Joel Peter Witkin without flinching. So I think I did in some part what I set out to do with 5:38. But this violence with an agenda, folks. I'll start looking for a home for it tomorrow morning. More later. 8:25 PM - 2 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment - Edit - Remove Thursday, March 30, 2006 5:38 That's not the time. It's the name of my newest short story. I've been trying to finish this one since I started it three months ago. What could possibly be keeping me from finishing it? It's a difficult tale for me to work on. It's about a video I saw online that completely fucked me mentally for about six months last year. It was the beheading of Armstrong. I don't think I've been the same since. I've seen some pretty nasty stuff in my life. But that was...well...it was very bad. There are some things once seen cannot be unseen. Hopefully this will be the one that gets the story done. I truly believe I need to purge myself of the whole thing. It's worked before with other emotions and personal issues. Maybe this will fix it. Maybe not. It's hard to convey how that terrible video effected me. Maybe the story will tell how I felt (feel) about the current terror culture we live in. And now with this shitty immigration mess we're about to get into...man, it's just getting worse and worse. Historically speaking, America always tries to close its doors whenever we're in a war. And make no mistake, ladies and gentlemen, we are in a war. And it's going to leech us for years to come. We will not just walk away from this one. There are so many ways this could all go very, very wrong. I'll post my progress with 5:38 (a reference to the Bible verse...look it up, and it'll make a lot of sense). 8:51 PM - 1 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment - Edit - Remove Wednesday, March 29, 2006 More on the plate It's official: I am now the Writers' Forum Moderator for Alternative Reality Web-Zine, so I'm setting up shop even now. These are all the official websites for which I work: Chat Host: Message Board of the Damned http://p072.ezboard.com/bmessageboardofthedamned Moderator for Shocklines Writing Group http://p082.ezboard.com/bshocklinesforum Writers' Forum Moderator: Alternative Reality Web-Zine http://arwz.com/arwz/index The Horror and Jazz-Blues Review: The Official Web Site of Author Nickolas Cook http://www.angelfire.com/jazz/nickolascook/ That last is obviously my own website- the one that suffers the most for my other work...hehehe. Turned in an article about GOBLIN last night to Wretched and Violent Ezine( http://www.geocities.com/wretched_and_violent/) and was amazed at how long these guys have been making music together. They're an incredible talent, a heady blend of jazz, classical, funk, and prog-rock influences. If you've never checked them out, go to http://www.goblinhome.com/home.php Even I didn't realize how many non-horror projects they'd worked on over the years. May is coming quickly, and it's off to San Fran for the 2006 World Horror Convention (http://www.whc2006.org/). It was just announced that Bill Moseley will be in attendance. God, I love that guy's film work. And he seems from what I've heard to be a nice guy- approachable, friendly, and funny. Can't wait to meet him. This convention will afford me a chance to meet quite a few more of my literary heroes, and it's got me excited as all hell. Ray Garton, Kim Newman, and, of course, Peter Straub- who is so far outside what everyone else is doing that he's almost like a force of fucking nature instead of a writer. His prose is pure and sublime. I can only envy him. Well, back to work now. Have two short stories to finish tonight, and have to finish the SWG work as well. 5:50 PM - 2 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment - Edit - Remove Sunday, March 26, 2006 Chats and remakes Tomorrow night's chat is with Ed Gorman, one of the living legends of fiction. The guy can write in any genre and do it well. I hope I don't make a moron out of it like I did with the Mark Morris chat a few weeks ago. My fault, that one. I did a calculation for UK time and came up three ours over their time, and completely screwed it up. So here's this poor guy in the UK staying up an extra three hours (3 AM his time) to do a silly chat with some salivating American horror lit fans. I felt terrible. I owe him big for that one. Last week's chat with Brian Hodge (another master of any form in which he chooses to write) was a wonderful success. He was a great guest. Lively, funny, erudite, and really knew what he was about. Sometimes I book guests for chats and when they show they don't know how to respond to the questions. Or worse, one guy came in with a fuck ou attitude and tried his best to alienate all of the attendees with silly ass remarks and no information-- what my wife and I called 'lawyer speak', an answer without actually saying anything. In the coming weeks, I will have one of my personal writing heroes in a chat: John Skipp. Here's a guy that writes like a demon and keeps it real. He's emotive, dangerous, ascerbic, and just plain fun to be around. Hopefully, we'll get a chance to do dinner with him again at the next WHC in San Fran. Hey, by the way, if anyone has any suggestions for who they'd like to see in these chats, I am more than happy to try. And I'm not afraid to try anyone. I even wore doen Ken Foree for one, after the next con. I have an email and physical letter out to McCammon (fat chance!) and King (fatter chance!!). Drop me a line, and I'll see what I can do. This is a short review for the remake of THE HILLS HAVE EYES, which I saw yesterday. Kim seems to be more taken with it than I was, but it was fun: I liked it. It was better than I expected from a remake (which I generally detest). But, like the original, it was far from perfect, story-wise. If these guys were so far out in the desert that no one ever found out about them, and the stranded were so isolated that no one would ever find them, where the hell did all those fresh body parts come from? I mean, those cars in the blast hole had been there easily for years. No fresh bodies came from those cars. And the color of the bag kept changing...bad continuity. But the biggest, glaring, terrible things were all the, what I like to call, 'convenience scenes'. Gonna throw that shotgun down...well, for convenience, let's toss it right next to the guy who's supposed to be dead...but he's not. And if you're going to lock someone in a meat locker, let's make sure we leave all of his weapons laying right on top of said meat locker, right? There were about six more such 'convenience scenes' that had me rolling my eyes and wishing like hell someone had done a better job writing the scenes. But, again, I liked it. I'll buy it when it comes out on DVD. And, yes, I just know there'll be a director's cut. Maybe some of those convenience scenes will be explained. I just feel sorry for the pig. You know he's gonna be dinner. The above was posted on Shocklines.com for a thread about the movie, so some of you might remember it. I am in the midst of reading something I've never read before, a sub-sub-genre of horror, gay vampire fiction. I'll have a review of it on Alternative Reality Web-Zine in the very near future. Also in the midst of reading an author that everyone loves to hate these days (the boards aren't full of anything if not haters): Dan Brown. I'm starting with ANGELS AND DEMONS. I'll post a review here probably, if I can finish it. More later... 4:55 PM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment - Edit - Remove Saturday, March 25, 2006 Hello, my name is.... So I'm stealing the late, great Johnny Cash's opening line for my first entry to MySpace. And, boy, am I busy! I'm writing full time for six magazines a month, (slowly working on) a screenplay for Ken Foree, short stories for the Shocklines Writing Group (which I also moderate) and publication, managing and hosting the weekly chats for The Message Board of the Damned, editing one of my older novels for the upcoming World Horror Convention in San Francisco in less than two months, and a few projects that I'm not at liberty to list for legal and professional reasons. Book reviews. Film reviews. Interviews. Horror related non-fiction articles. My calendar is peppered with deadlines. That being said...I wouldn't change it for the world. I need to keep my fingers a'typin' and my mind a'thinkin'. It's like weight lifting: building my muscles for the big lift day. When it comes, I want to be ready to give everything I've got. I've got to be better than the other guy; smarter, leaner, and meaner. Hell, yeah, I'm exhausted. But I figure this is the only way to get where I need to be by next year. It doesn't leave a lot of time for leisure activity. Most everything I do, even when I'm not working on one of the projects, is aimed at getting more projects. I guess sooner or later this will catch up with me, but by then, hopefully, I'll be in a position to be able to take it easier. Saw THE HILLS HAVE EYES today. Good. Better than I expected. Bought Marcel Proust's second volume to his sprawling seven volume masterpiece REMEMBRANCES OF THINGS PAST, and a DVD boxed set of all MARX BROTHERS movies that I was missing from my collection. I've got them all now. What a treasure the Marx Brothers were to the human race. Like Charles Dickens, Charlie Chaplin, and William Shakespeare. More later... (Comment on this)
Monday, March 13th, 2006
6:41 pm	Good GOD! Okay, so I jump into a discussion with Nick Mamatas to try and explain myself from a post at Shocklines about how I find it increasingly harder and harder to converse with people who don't write (paint, play music, etc., etc.). Sorry, but that's the truth. But, of course, this dickless wonder turns it into his own personal soapbox about how me, and people like me, who feel alienated among people who don't create, are somehow defective. There is no arguing with someone who is bound and determined to make you look like an idiot. He's a master at picking out one line and going to town with it, trying is best to turn it into some sub-intelligent statement, aimed at everyone but him, and so everyone should rejoice in the fact that he is putting this ner'-do-well in his/her place. I jumped in with both feet yesterday, swore I'd had enough and wasn't going to come back. But after reading his comments this morning....I did. Stupid. Nothing grates on my nerves more than an insinuation that I'm stupid; my intelligence and reason are my chief prides, admittedly, and this pride is my weakest point. When they fail me, I turn ugly--very, very ugly. I'm not proud of it, by any means. But it is a part of my personality that has gotten me out of some damned tight jams in the past. Controlled, it's a good thing to have. Lose it and...it ain't pretty. Luckily, it never got that far. I got some very nice emails from several friends and peers, advising me to walk away and let it go, that Mamatas is all hot air and useless bragging. True enough. So here I am, pissed at myself for even getting involved in such a small, small argument with a man who knew exactly what he was doing, and my weak points. In other news: I blew out my elbow lifting this evening, screwed up the timezones for the chat with Mark Morris at MBOTD, and am having a generally shitty night. To top it all off, an asshole from the boards sent me four death threats yesterday. I had to email a copy of the federal statutes against interstate threats and the jail time involved if prosecuted. That put them to rest. Not the first I've gotten, and I doubt the last. I've received several emails from the office of KEN FOREE (yes, THE Ken Foree of Dawn of the Dead fame) and he wants to see my script for BACK ROADS right away. So I'm trying like hell to get it written as quickly as possible, between the magazine assignments I've taken on (five magazines, now, maybe more soon) and the chats and the interviews, and the SWG. Got a lot going on, and I probably mentioned this before. I'm losing track of everything from the journal lately. I should really try to make more entries, but I figure if I've got two hours to write each night, I should really put that time towards something that someone is expecting me to turn in. Okay, so this is manifesting into more of a diatribe than anything else, so it's probably best to just get back to work. Do you ever have so much going your head spins at all of it? (and between all of this, I have to keep writing short stories and a new novel this month...) (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Sunday, February 12th, 2006
6:34 pm	Sick again... Every year in February, since moving to Tucson, I get sick. I know that sounds ridiculous, but it's the truth. I've gone back through my journals- online and paper- and see that, indeed, every February, for the past few years I've gotten sick in this month. What a pain in the ass. It comes at a most inopportune moment, too. I've got way too much going on for this to happen right now. On top of the SWG and MBOTD duties as described in past entries, I've also been hired on to write DVD film reviews for a new magazine called DARK DISCS, headed by Tom Moran and Brian Yount, of WICKED KARNIVAL fame. And I've also been invited to write non-fiction and conduct interviews for ALTERNATIVE REALITY WEB-ZINE. I'm already well on my way to filling about a year's worth of monthly columns for them. I like to make sure all of interviews are solid dates and no surprises. I also like to make sure that I have at least a rough outline of columns available for quick write-up, in case something comes up for use. I bought an iPod a couple of weeks ago. 30 gigs worth. It's been a daily duty to fill the empty gigs with my favorite music. The weird thing is that I'm not even all that interested in the other functions the iPod has; I only care about the music aspects of it. APPLE sells some pretty nifty items for it, including a mixer board for DJs, so you don't have to carry around boxes and boxes of your music from club to club. I mean I can see some things I might want to do later on- such as podcasts and such for live interviews at upcoming conventions, but for the most part the job of getting the collection in the iPod is taking up a lot of my time and mental energy right now. I can't think beyond it, until it's all done. Being sick sucks... (3 Comments |Comment on this)
Thursday, January 19th, 2006
7:53 pm	Progress I finished and edited a short story called SKINS, which has been sent to two different markets. I also finished and edited another short story called CICADAS for a possible anthology called VERMIN from Carnifax Press. Working on various projects for Shocklines Writing Group and Message Board of the Damned. Starting on a new short story (unnamed) for Chimera World #4. Hopefully I can get it finished in time to beat their deadline. And working on various shorts that have no target as of yet. Sticking to my goal of six months for only short stories, writing and reading, and feel that I've learned a great deal already. Weston's advise was good advise and I can see now what he meant by tearing the stories apart to see what makes them tick and using that knowledge to create your own. I think the last two tales have shown a definite improvement in my craft and thematic approach. The themes are still running a bit heavy handed, but at least I'm able to identify how to get them in now. I seriously need to get my web site updated to look a bit more professional than it currently does. Got my second contract for my recent short story sells and it's been signed, sealed and out the door. This one taught me a lesson in making sure to read the fine print, as it had a small stipulation about NOT using the story elsewhere for a six month period. But none of this was in the original guidelines under which I submitted. I did include a note with the contract that states the story was sold to another online magazine at almost the same time. Since this wasn't stated up front (and if it had been I never would have subbed it at all) then I don't feel I can be expected to be held accountable for it. I guess they'll have to make their decision at that point. My lesson is that things aren't always as cut and dried as the guidelines would have you believe. Wilson Pickett died today at 64 yrs of age. A heart attack. This guy was one of musical idols for decades. I loved his voice and his soul. I hope he's sitting somewhere with Marvin, Otis and Same and they're having a fucking blast in Heaven. More later... (5 Comments |Comment on this)
Wednesday, January 11th, 2006
5:14 pm	I am infamous yet again How the hell I keep winding up as the butt of the joke in The Other Dark Place's postings...yikes. Anyway, this was probably my fault this time. I posted something to the effect "Here we go again" with a link to an attack on me by none other than the internet's resident fucking crazy kid, Nick Pacione. I tried to delete anything from the Shocklines Writing Forum that I thought Matt wouldn't like, but wound up being the butt of the joke again because I lost my temper and said if that ass didn't stop sending me emails I was going to think of another alternative than reason--the first alternative which I tried in several emails this afternoon with crazy boy. Here is a copy and paste of Mr. Pacione's first email: SUBJECT:Go to hell you liberal bastard Date: 1/11/2006 11:17:18 A.M. US Mountain Standard Time From: nickolauspacione@earthlink.net Reply To: To: nickolasecook@aol.com I know my views well enough and will say I don't agree with homosexuality, just because I don't agree with it does that make me a fucking racist in your eyes. You're nothing but a no named nazi who thinks that all writers need to be a liberal. Here's another: actually Date: 1/11/2006 11:41:49 A.M. US Mountain Standard Time From: nickolauspacione@earthlink.net Reply To: To: nickolasecook@aol.com You're a sad excuse of a human being, just because you call someone who has old world views as moronic. Just because I find something unnatural and wrong, does that make me a racist? No. I don't call an African American the n-word or someone who is Arabic a camel molester, just because I think something is unnatrual -- I don't see some lifestyles as a fucking race. And yet one more: what kills you Date: 1/11/2006 11:42:54 A.M. US Mountain Standard Time From: nickolauspacione@earthlink.net Reply To: To: nickolasecook@aol.com Is that you find a writer that doesn't support a leftist world view, I think the whole leftist way of thinking shitheaded and immoral. Well, there we go. Some wise words from Nick Pacione. None of this is touched up. No paraphrashing going on. Pure, unadulterated crazy boy. On a lighter note, an update on my publishing credits so far this month. I now have a total of five short stories in print online, or slated for print online, or in paper print. I have been getting more rejections than acceptance letters, but , hey, nobody said this was going to a walk in the park. My experiment with six months of reading/writing nothing but short stories seems to me to be working out quite well. I also have some great news that is a huge kick to my writing career...but can't share it officially until I get the say-so from a very famous author/anthologist. I will post it when I am able. I am very excited about this one. The chats are going well, and I have learned a great deal about those whom I admired from afar. of course, a chat isn't exactly dinner and show; it's not as if you get to really know anyone for real. But I do think I've seen sides of my favorite authors that I sometimes didn't care to see. No names. No specifics. Just a learning lesson for me. A good one in a way. I'm no starry eyed teenager who doesn't know that the ideal of a person is the person. I learned that a long time ago about most everyone. Everyone has B.O and bad breath at some point. There is no perfection. Anyway, more later...and next time, I'll post the links to all the web sites that are, or will be, printing my stories in the next few weeks. (3 Comments |Comment on this)
Sunday, January 1st, 2006
8:20 am	Happy New Year! The old year is out and the New year is here. I accomplished quite a bit of my goals this year, professionally and personally. As I grow, and watch the years fall behind me faster and faster, I'm beginning to find things about myself that aren't as bad as I thought in my youth. In fact, in controlled bursts some of those faults have actually been beneficial to me and others whom I care about. I sold my first story, got published on line four times, and headed a pretty successful writing group through Shocklines, and also headed some pretty successful chat sessions for The Message Board of the Damned. A few days ago I Goggled myself and was astounded at how many entries I have. And I don't even have a published book yet. Goals for this year include: Getting a book published either online or on paper Getting even more short stories written, published and recognized. Getting my stomach to show even more definition (a task that would certainly be easier without sweets, dammit). Add a boxing heavybag to my workout routines Getting chat sessions for Clive Barker and Peter Straub. Well, that's a good start on a goal list this year. Out of all of them the cutting back on the sweets for my stomach's sake will be the hardest...hehehe. To all, a Happy New Year and may your own goals come to fruition. (Comment on this)
Saturday, December 24th, 2005
6:43 am	Merry Christmas To Me! I sold my first story yesterday to an outfit called Primordial Press--yes, for real, honest-to-God money. Not professional rate mind you (which I believe is .05 cents a word currently), but, still, my first sell! Their magazine will come out in the spring of '06. Now that's two stories accepted for publication in less than two weeks. The other was Alternative Realities Web-Zine's acceptance of another story of mine earlier. So I hit my goal for the year, close to the end of it. I am thrilled and walking on cloud nine right now. I have less than 50 pages left of 'Jane Eyre', and then the great short story experiment begins. Back when I first started writing, I read nothing but anthologies, any and everything I could get my hands on. But I haven't read a short story collection from cover to cover in about ten years now. I am eager to get back into them, so that I may take them apart and see how they worked for me. Or how they didn't work. I added 'The Howling Man and Other Stories' by Charles Beaumont to my TBR pile for the great experiment. Also the classic collection 'Masterpieces of Horror and the Supernatural' by Wise and Frazer (?). This is already a hell of a great Xmas, as my dogs are all okay again (Woo's eye is much better and Lilly's foot has healed without any complications), my wife is in good health and still loves me without reserve (despite my faults), and I feel productive, without that old brooding sense of failure sitting on my shoulder like a nasty breathed revenant. And now, with this final kiss from fate, I am elated. To all, a Merry Christmas (or insert whatever holiday greeting makes you smile) and a Happy New year!!! (Comment on this)
Monday, December 19th, 2005
5:51 pm	I've set aside all my novel length projects at this time, and am working exclusively on short stories for different markets. I am about to finish reading Jane Eyre, and in the spirit of improving my skills as a short story craftsman, I am going to be reading exclusively anthologies. Here's my basic problem with writing short stories: it's so much work for too little gain. The work is time consuming, the competition is enormous, and the recognition which the (hopefully) eventual short stories garner is scant. I mean, it seems to me that it's hard enough to get published in the novel length department; why kill yourself for almost nothing? I suppose it's different for those who genuinely enjoy writing them. But here's what I found in the last few months to be true: while writing shorts might mean little to nothing career wise, doing so has helped me learn the economic use of the language. I'm finding all kinds of things that work and don't work in reference to how the story flows and its meaning. And I am afraid of being in the mindset that every story idea has to be a novel length project. I think that way lies self-aggrandising bullshit. No one tells you how to edit; this is something you have to learn as you go. Blowing every idea into a novel doesn't mean much if everything you write is inflated to the point of boredom. Christmas is right around the corner again, and again, I feel the stress of the season upon me. Why am I stressed? I have all my shopping done. My work Xmas is done and over with... We do have a party at home, but it seems to be rolling along on track. Not the wrong kind of mix so far, and not boring either. Anyone who's ever thrown a carefully planned party knows what I mean by that, I guess. Someone was 'nice' enough to leave a little comment on a post I made back last month. For whatever reason, they felt compelled to share with me their opinion of sobrieity at the last WHC in NYC. Let it be known: I did not touch a drink. I never do around strangers. That's something I learned a long time ago (from other poor schmucks' bad examples). I am a big guy and it tends to attract the wrong type of attention when people start getting really shit faced. It seems my persona sends some low frequency signal to every Charlie Bronson would-be-bad-ass for a square mile or so. I can't count how many times I've had to 'help' someone decide that a fight would be a bad idea. The worst episodes have always been with really drunk guys with even drunker friends egging him on to take a swing at the big guy in black. Time for a chat... (5 Comments |Comment on this)
Thursday, December 8th, 2005
9:31 pm	J. N. Williamson Dead I had written him a few times, hoping that my words of enthusiasm would make his final days in the rest home a little brighter, even recorded him some jazz Cds, in the hopes that the music would lift him from the monotony of such an existence. Now he is gone. I'm sorry now that I never got up the nerve to call him and talk to him. Gary Braunbeck had given me his number and I kept it, hoping that I would one day get up the nerve to speak to him. Now the opportunity has passed, and I feel like a heel for missing a moment to tell a man who inspired me with his work ethic in the business. What a sad, sad loss to the horror genre. And this doesn't help my day any, not after spending most of the evening in the pet emergency room, taking care of Woo Phat. he hit his eye on something last week and the cornea developed an ulcer, which might be eating through the inner layer of eyeball. If that happens he will lose his eye. The vet gave us several prescriptions and a huge bill (about $400.00) and says he may still need surgery (another $1,700.00) if the drugs don't work. All I can do is sit and feel numb after a day like this. My best friend is worth more money than any vet could charge, but how we can come up with that sum is beyond me, and with Xmas right around the corner, too. Last week, it was about $100.00 to have Lilly's foot fixed, after she ripped a back toenail off. This has been a bad month. And with the shit at work, it ain't gonna get any better. Time for some sleep... (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Saturday, November 19th, 2005
9:22 am	No More Sci-Fi Cons for me, please... Okay, despite the fact that the admission for three days is only 45.00, this is still on my top ten list of all time stupid things to do. I knew I was getting to the point that sci-fi cons just weren't doing it for me any longer. Last night cemented it. I guess I've gotten very spoiled hanging out with the ultra-cool sophisticates which are horror people. No offense, but these guys stink! And I don't mean that figuratively... The next time I think it's a good idea to go to a con that has such stimulating panels as "The Future of Geeks: destined to rule the world but will the opposite sex always remain outside their grasp?", please someone fucking smack me in the back of my head with a giant sized Star Trek phaser. Lesson learned. The thing is...I think I'm getting to the point that if I'm sitting on the other side of the table for much longer there's just no point in going to any cons. That sounds completely pretentious, but that's how I feel about it these days. (Comment on this)
Tuesday, November 15th, 2005
5:39 am	The second chat came off pretty well. I was a little scattered yesterday, because of the half a dozen things I'm trying to juggle at once. Hoping to have my Leisure packet sent out by the end of this week. The TusCon is this weekend. I've got the SWG subs I haven't even delved into yet. I have a novella I'm working for hopeful submission to a secret project. And on top of all that: I've got home and the wife to worry about. The housework isn't getting done on as regular a basis as it once was. Not that it's surprising. Most of my day is spent in front of the computer when I have a day off. So am I burned out yet? Hell, no. I'm just getting started here... My hope is by next year that'll be so damn busy with writing that I won't be able to see the world for days at a time. The chat with Monica Kuebler was great. She gave us pointers on how to freelance for Rue Morgue, which ism y absolute favorite horror magazine ever. If I could get a story or review in it, I could die a happy man...hehehe. The TusCon...what can one say about a bunch of socially inept overweight, balding white people sitting around discussing the merits between Frodo's feet and Kirk's toupee? Sometimes I wonder how such people make it through life at all. They seem to have no idea of the reality around them. Much easier for them to exist in a world of make believe than deal with the horrible things the the real world. And I go every year. So what does that say about me? HA! More later. (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Monday, November 7th, 2005
8:52 pm	First chat and a lost Chet returns My first chat with Message Board of the Damned went off very well tonight. Tom Piccirilli was a delight, as usual: erudite, bold, and concise in his replies. He’s a man who has a good grasp of his own craft and knows how to articulate it to others. He’s one of the best writers out there and the fact that he allowed me to throw him to the wolves for the first, untested, chat shows what kind of a good sport he is. I am buying some much-wanted books from Chet Williamson himself. It was strange to be emailing a man whose work I’ve admired for so long, and on the strength of just a handful of books. He was one of the great interviews in Stanley Wiater’s “Dark Dreamers”, a book that inspired me to get serious about writing. At the time I think I was all of twenty years old when the book hit the shelves. You’ve got to remember this was during the heyday of horror, when seemingly everything on the shelf was some cheesy horror cover, emboldened by new names and new voices out of the dark. I once tried to explain to Wiater what his book had meant to me back then, but he was drunk and a little antagonistic. Somehow, I don’t think the import of my words really sunk in. Oh, well, they can’t all be great people. The thing with Dan Simmons showed me that much. The chats are coming along fine. I’m adding more and more people every week. Now I’m up to February, all the others months having been filled pretty quickly. That’s about all for now. Gotta get some sleep. Up at 3 AM as usual, to work ten hours, come home to workout, and finally to get a few hours to writ (5 Comments |Comment on this)
Friday, November 4th, 2005
4:51 am	Message Boards So I'm on THE OTHER DARK PLACE Message Board, expressing my opinion on someone's use of the 'C' word in reference to a woman on another message board. I was appalled that so many men thought it was just fine this guy used the word as a slur against her. I said simply I'd punch someone's lights out if they made the mistake of doing it in front of me. Not bragging; I've done it before. My God, the assholes came out to play then. I was alternately accused of being a lier, a moron, and plain no good for humanity...hehehe. I know it's hard for some people to grasp the idea of getting violent. Most people never have to fight after high school. Given my various professions, that's not the case with me. I've had guns pulled on me, been shot at several times, stabbed, sliced, beaten, kicked, and pummeled, all in he name of making a day's pay, or stopping someone else from getting hurt or killed. This statement was called bravado on the message board. It never fails to astound me how tough it is for people to comprehend that others might have to live with violence on a daily basis, just to get by. Oh, and the best part was when Paul P. jumped in and told everyone that he was part of the "Family" (aka The Mafia) and that he knew violence intimately. For some reason, Paul could fathom his own life, but just refused to believe that anyone else might have an equally violent life as a child. Was this some kind of social dick swinging going on or what? Not sure how to respond to such obtuseness, so I didn't. I gave up. Not worth the effort trying to convince anyone of what I've seen or done. (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Tuesday, November 1st, 2005
9:30 pm	I've been 'Sneft'ed All right, all right, all right...jeez..I'll post a damn comment already. How did I get involved in the great Brian Keene/Adam Sneft controversy? Simple...I opened my big fat mouth on Shocklines. Let me set the record straight right here and now: Brian felt really bad about what happened between me and Sneft and wrote me to tell me it was him. That is how I found out. I was oblivious to his true identity until then. Yes, I later received several emails advising that the whole caper had blown up in Brian's face, but I already knew all about it because of Brian's guilty conscience. Brian Keene is my friend, and I wished him lots of luck with it. Hell, I thought it would have been one of the greatest marketing ploys ever. Too bad it didn't work out quite the way he wanted it to, or else he would have gone down in history for that one. But there are other things in my life besides the Keene/Sneft affair. Chat Host: Message Board of the Damned http://www.mbotd.com/ Moderator for Shocklines Writing Group http://p082.ezboard.com/bshocklinesforum The Horror and Jazz-Blues Review: The Official Web Site of Author Nickolas Cook http://www.angelfire.com/jazz/nickolascook/ These three items are taking up most of my time. The chat master gig is courtesy of David Wilbanks, who runs the Message Board of the Damned. If you haven't seen the guests I've got lined up for the next couple of months, do yourself a favor and stop by the link above. I'm proud to say the three that make me giddy are Monica Kuebler (co-editor for my favorite magazine Rue Morgue) Craig Spector, one of the best horror writers ever, and Don D'Auria (editor for Leisure Books). The Shocklines Writing Group is coming along very well. I've been reading some extraordinary stuff from these guys. I'm trying to figure out a way for them to post their work for potential buyers to read. And, of course, my own writing, which is nothing but short stories right now. No novels until I get the short stories out. After BACK ROADS I found I needed a bit of an emotional rest. It was a difficult novel to write. More later... (Comment on this)
Saturday, October 22nd, 2005
7:39 am	Rejections, Killer Bees, and a friend returns... Here's my track record this month: Mundania Press rejected "A Kind of Blue"-- no reason given. Alternative Reality Web Magazine rejected "Jesus' Ghosts"--reason: because it wasn't actually a story (true enough), but requested something else based on its merits. Deathling.com rejected "Round Midnight"---reason: because it didn't fit their current themed issue (Impairment), but invited me to send something else based upon its merits. Lullaby Hearse rejected "Round Midnight"--reason: narrative wasn't compelling enough. Space Squid rejected "Jesus' Ghosts"--reason: not what they need currently, but invited to submit again based upon its merits. Coscomentertainment.com rejected "Paint It Black"--reason: market closed unexpectedly, but invited in future to send another novel based upon its merits. But I've still got another dozen mags looking at various stories, and three more publishers looking at various novels, so maybe something will come of it all. Monday, I awoke at 3 AM to get ready for work to find a small swarm of sleepy killer bees in our tub. After getting an obligatory sting or two, I flushed them down the drain and started to shower. I was divebombed by more, coming from the roof. Thankfully, it was very early and they weren't exactly as aggressive as they could have been. That same day, we had an exterminator come out and spray. When he riled them up, you could hear the hive underneath our tub and in the walls of the bathroom, and it sounded like an Irwin Allen filmset from the 70s. With the killer bees dead, their honey contaminated by the poisons (which by the way, their pure white royal jelly goes for about 150 bucks an ounce on the open market, and the guy who sprayed almost cried when we demanded he kill them now and not wait until four days later so that he could vacuum them out and steal the royal jelly and sell it), I found out that my friend Larry was back in town and was looking for a place to live. We found him an apartment a few miles away and I spent most of two days getting him situated and supplied. He lost his license a few months ago because he a weird seizure, so he has no car and no way to get around, no job, and probably no way of getting one right now. The doctors put him on a drug that has caused some major memory loss and physical debilitation--but it's either that or he's sure to have another seizure and die. This is the same guy who was beaten severely and almost died last year (see past postings for more about Larry's condition). It's depressing to see him like this. It's aging him before his time and it's really got him down. I'm going to try and help him anyway I can, because that's what friends do for one another; but it will cause (and already has) some friction in my marriage to do so. Kim can get pretty proprietorial about our time together. She's worried that Larry's needs will outweigh her own, because he is limited right now. Of course, my wife will always win. There is no debate about that... (Comment on this)
Sunday, October 9th, 2005
10:59 am	BACK ROADS Finished BACK ROADS is finally finished! 8 months and 26 days to complete the first draft. 104,000 words. 174 pages, single-spaced. It’s like having a burden lifted from shoulders. All of the things that I wanted to say about hate and prejudice in the environment that I grew up in, all of the things I wanted to say about myself and the world I see around me, I have captured most of it in this first draft. Now comes the work of waiting for at least six weeks to do a revision. During that time I will be working on an outline for the next novel, get caught up on research reading for that novel and this one, and get some reading of other folks’ works that I’ve been promising for some time. They’ve been patient and I appreciate it. Nothing is like handing over something you’ve worked on for so long and have some one look at it and then getting nothing from them for a long time. I did that with A KIND OF BLUE, handed it over the Ed Bryant, thinking I was doing something smart. Of course, he never responded to me about it, even though we see each other at every WHC and TUSCON. He smiles and says he’ll get to it. I know he never will, but he’s a great guy for saying he will. I hope he doesn’t. It was some pretty shitty writing. Kind of misogynistic, too. All of my anger at my then-current life came out in that one, man. Not proud of its unconscious subtext. But it is what it is, right? Anger is an emotion, too. Today we will celebrate, for I am free again, until the next book…hehehe. I have no idea where the hell I’m even going to try and sell this one. It’s not horror, nor any other genre fiction. Maybe Joe Lansdale will have some advice next time I see him. He’s sold stuff that’s not horror, but horrific in content. Maybe Pic can help me decide. He’s all over the map when it comes to writing. More later…. (Comment on this)
Saturday, October 8th, 2005
5:44 am	Goodbye Car... On Monday my stepson Casey totaled my car. It wasn't a car that I had any particular love for- in fact, I cursed it each time I had to drive it. But I had spent the last five years paying for it, and had only two payments left to go to pay it off completely. It would have been mine. Now the car is sitting in a garage, dismantled by a team of insurance adjusters. I mean, it's sort of a relief to be rid of the damned thing, because it had a list of things that were going wrong with it, or had already gone wrong with it. Not the best of cars, if you know what I mean. But still...five years of scrimping and saving to pay it off...and now this. It's like a gigantic kick in the ass. I know, I know....it could have been worse. It could have been a brand new car, and he could have been seriously injured- which he wasn't, thankfully. I keep trying to remind myself of that. And then I remember...five years of paying every month, sweating it out when I lost my job a few years ago, worrying over every little knock and ping when I drove it. Yesterday I found out that the car's value was 3,000 dollars. The insurance company will cut a check for my financier and for us, and we are looking for a new car today. Great! Another five years of paying, thanks. Really trying not to be angry at my stepson, but this sucks, big time, having to start all over again making payments. I was really looking forward to having that extra money each month. On a lighter note...things are still going well for my submissions mission. I haven't received anymore rejection letters, so life's not all crappy. Tomorrow will be spent getting more things sent out. And, hopefully, getting BACK ROADS finished for good and all. I'm about four pages from THE END. But these are the most important pages, as each one must count towards that last line in my head. (Comment on this)
Wednesday, October 5th, 2005
3:20 pm	The march of the sugar-coated rejection letters... Okay, so, to be honest, they're very nice rejections letters, very supportive, full of compliments on style, imagery, and such...but they're still rejections. THE HUNTERS was considered a little overworked for Coscom Entertainement, but based on my three chapters supplied, the editor said he'd like to see something else right away. JESUS' GHOSTS was rejected because it's not really a story- more a vignette. Agreed, it is. The editor from ASWH would like to see either a full story based on it, or some other short story. So far, those are the only ones to come back, and they came back relatively quickly. And to think that I once loathed the computer and the internet...hehehe. Will send something new to Coscom this evening. And I already sent JESUS' GHOSTS to HORRORFIND.COM, in the hopes, given their 3,000 word limit, that it'll find a home there for a couple of months. Have I mentioned that really hate writing short stories? I would much rather be writing a novel. But I am wasting time by not having some short stories out there working for me while I finish the novels. I do not want to end up one of those authors with a trunk full of novels that never see the light because I didn't try hard enough. Does it suck getting rejected? Oh, yeah... Would it suck more never having tried and never knowing if I was able to make something of myself with my words? Much more so... Cross your fingers for me. (Comment on this)
Wednesday, September 28th, 2005
11:09 pm	Good Work Things seem to be looking up for me in the submissions end of the writing. I have Leisure and Coscom Entertainment both interested in two of my novels, and several magazine opportunities have opened up for me as well. “Cities In Dust” (named for the Siouxie and the Banshees song of the same title), my short story on Darkwalls.com http://darkwalls.com/index_files/Page336.htm ,actually generated several ‘fan letters’ asking for more about Amos and Hun and the post apocalyptic zombie world in which they live. The truth is that I have always wanted very much to write a zombie novel, but back a year ago when I started it, I knew that, soon, the zombie bubble was going to burst, and I would be left with months of work for nothing. I even went so far as to write several chapters with different characters that I intended to bring together, but I stopped when I got busy writing BACK ROADS. I may have to reconsider it. Especially since Amos’ devotion to his dog seems to have struck such a chord with others. Risking my life for a dog doesn’t feel like such a stretch for me, but I was worried that others might find it overly sentimental and, ultimately, unbelievable. Thankfully, I was wrong…or at least it appears that I was. Part of my other problem with the, thus far, unfinished zombie novel was that I was gong to entitle it TWILIGHT OF THE DEAD, as homage to Romero and all his movie have meant to me over the years. But son of a bitch if someone else didn’t beat me to it. HA! My next book (swirling in my head even now) is going to be a western. I want to prove to myself that I am able to write anything. I do not want to fall into the pattern of only writing horror, and only reading horror. The reading part of the my worries hasn’t been an issue for years; since I followed Louis La’mour’s example and began keeping a reading journal to ensure that I wouldn’t fall into that particular trap. BACK ROADS has been my first real attempt at writing outside the genre I love so much. Re-reading some of the pages, I can see areas in which I’ve improved since beginning the book. That’s to be expected when you spend nine freakin’ months writing a book…hehehe. So the western (unnamed as of yet, but I have some really dark characters in mind for it), and maybe the zombie novel. Although I’ve been promising myself for about three years now that I would eventually finish a novel of mine called BUILDING 13 (about a mysterious otherworldly force that is unleashed by the military, and a group various science and paranormal specialists, led by a tough military commando unit, are sent inside the building to stop the force and save humanity from the ultimate darkness, full of interdimensional monsters and such, almost fantastically horrific in scope). I’ve got three notebooks of hand written chapters for it, so getting it back to the front wouldn’t be much of a difficulty at all. All these books to write and so little time…. Tomorrow I must rewrite three short stories for various mags, and two different 3 sample chapter packets for publishers proposals, and a letter to J.N. Williamson. On top of that, I’ve got keep an eye on the Shockliners Writing Group’s activity. So I better get to bed and get some sleep. More later… (1 Comment |Comment on this)