...in passing...

...and when they leave, as we all will, we leave all behind.  Only flimsy memories linger in our wake...brutally weak, threatened by the casual natures of fashion of this world.  And so he went as well.  My friend.  A man who leaves behind a daughter, family, friends.  We have his memories.  We shared them.  We will keep them.  But that is all.  It is within this we must be.  Our memory is all that is behind.  Perhaps a stone; perhaps no stone.

That is why the night's chill scares us in the blush of youth.  We fight it, we protect against it.  We do what we must to elicit warmth.  To our ancestors warmth was hope.  Fire held promise.  We would live another day.  Now fire comes in many forms, it still does the same.  But, in the end, it is but a phantom.  Shadows of life, reality is there somewhere.  We chose not to see.

Do we really see those around us - not in shadow, but in essence?  I doubt most of us do. It is not our nature.  I try.  I really do.  I've seen the essence of souls, because I choose to.  I would tell you what I see, but it is of no import.

These are all but shadows, and we retain them in a closed hand.

..."Pace" Test Page 1...

Slowly getting up to speed on the comic, Pace, illustrated by the very talented Larue Binder.  Want to make sure to take the time to do it justice.  Here's a sneak peak:

Presam, of the House Sophist, Second to the Left Hand

The machinations of politics had infected our world; the lines of loyalty had been cast too tightly on Cerberus. I only mulled this over for a second: the soft scent of the summer’s fields pulling me away from the task at hand. Even a momentary lapse in the interplay of a conversation could have dire effect.

Jilael, of the enemy, of State Loyal, third house of the right hand spoke to me in vagaries and it was difficult to follow his point. The problem was this very meeting, here as we walked in the open air of the Neutral Commons, the conversation was on the Proctor Elect and his family line was in desperate needs, had implications that could go three (maybe four) moves ahead of the center focus. I woke my mind up to Level 3 as best I could. Jilael could be using his incessant wanderings as a ploy.

My house, the second house of the left hand, State Sophist, was to be protected at all costs. We had the law on our side, with some of the strongest Adjuncts and their precedents to protect us. However, we were vulnerable for that very reason. We were not strongmen; we lived upon the writ of law. Other houses did not follow this rule, and thus the Commons were born.

Jilael shifted the weight of his Temperer, the small totem of our own personal estate, to his other arm as we continued our walk. His Temperer was named Keft. She had short cropped hair that she could hide her face. I suspected she wore her feelings too easily. But such a Temperer could have great value in situations requiring emotional beats. Keft shifted her small frame, claws pulling on Jilael’s shoulders up to his ear. She whispered something that I caught as her own dissatisfaction with his oral argument. I noticed her fur was on end.

“So, Presam, the story of the Proctor Elect, as is the story of the World, as imperfect as it may be,” he paused, of course, as we were in the Common, “…may the gloriousness of the Proctor guide us all...” I repeated the phrase as blankly as I would say a greeting, to allow him to continue. “…we shall find the crux of this vulnerable position for both our Houses wanting this temporary solution.” He should have said his House. The temporary line was also unnecessary. It was redundant. All solutions, all truces were only as good as the words being spoken.

“I appreciate your concern for our House, Jilael of State Loyal, but you must understand the position we are in to being able to carry out this cause. You are basically requesting the capital of our trade, the very backbone of our House to help fund your activities. I must dutifully request to understand even further the benefit to us.”

At this, my own Temperer, Ceki, bristled and whispered to me, “Careful, I sense he has something. I cannot tell what yet.” This entire conversation Ceki was still – he was keeping a watchful eye on Keft. Occasionally he would pretend to stare at his timekeeper, but I knew that was an artful way to see reaction, to hide a glance in another direction.

“Presam. I offer to you a fair, overly fair, mind you, agreement. We are being honest in our deal, as honest as these things go.” I could tell he was not good at negotiation and used to either getting to a point, good or ill, quickly. “Let me return to my House with good tidings, and you with a purse full of tyle to continue the great estate you and your family are used to.” We both stopped as I turned to mull this over one more time – although I made it up some time ago. It was a sign of respect.

Ceki put his soft furry lips to my ear, as he had done since I was a child, “I see you know what to do. However, I am still uneasy.”

“What shall we do then? We both know this agreement is poor. Taking it would be ruinous.”

“Agreed, brother,” he stroked his claws on the back of my neck to look over my shoulder at the awaiting bureaucrat. “I must agree that the deal is no good. We must fear the repercussion later.”

It was that I told Presam the House decision. He turned red and sweated profusely. Keft climbed down and walked away. Both were probably told to do what was necessary to get this deal. She looked grim, at one point putting her claws over her head. Ceki looked piteously on her.

“If in the near future, you come to a more favorable position for us to pursue, I would be most welcome to that.” He shook his head the entire time we said our goodbyes.

“There is much afoot at House Loyal these days.” Ceki agreed and fell asleep on the walk from the Commons.

…

That evening, as the leaders convened for the mid-week repast, the assemblage beamed at me. There was to be some joke at my expense, no doubt. As with all of our meetings, the Temperer’s were not present. I had left Ceki to his recognizance after the afternoon. He would have been a helpful companion where I do not like surprises. Ceki would quickly calm me with words of support – such were the best of the Temperer’s, and much to mine own. We were a good House, but I sometimes wonder at their humour.

“Brother Presam, so how went your meeting with Loyal today and our dear brother Jilael?” this from a beaming Georg who held up a goblet for an instant. He was my true brother and the one to traditionally set up the joke, whatever it may be.

“Brother Georg, the offer of Loyal was not befitting our regency. It was not in line with the values of our House. I respectfully declined Jilael and request he let me know if there is a better offer in the future.”

His face cast a grim look, just a ghost of one. It shook me to the core. Something had happened. “Well, Presam, no better offer before the Proctor Elect?”

“I am afraid not.” That may have been the crux. Perhaps the Proctor Elect was key for some other machination. But I was not aware of such a dependency. Ceki never…

“And what response do you think we got from House Loyal at this?” My blood drained from me. The smiles disappeared from the assemblage. The glasses seemed to thrum through-out the chamber of the keep.

“My brother – I do know not.”

A large serving dish had been on the table. I had not taken notice of it before. But it would be uncommon to see the main dish served before likkat. How odd it seems for the summer flowers to cascade around the frosted glass dish. The assemblage moved in upon me, subtly. Georg moved toward the dish.

“If I have been in error, I throw…” Before I could continue Georg scowled at me saying what cannot be undone. He removed the lid from the plate and I almost reeled.

The Temperer still smoked from the cooking. It had been dressed and seasoned until, I hate to say this - it smelled delectable. It was Keft. I sighed, but looked bewilderingly at my brothers. They started a low laugh and patted me on the back.

“Jilael was forced to take his life at his failure. The deal that would’ve been brokered hinged on your decision, and you made an excellent choice. To be hindered by that House.” He tut-tutted at the thought, “They have fallen in stature, some say by two seats.”

Brother Uier couldn’t help himself and pulled at the skin of Keft and put the fat into his mouth. He smiled approvingly to the group.

“Let us eat, House Sophist, and may we someday be first of the left hand!” I cried it out in relief. So are our days here in the World numbered.

…

...the hobbit...

The Hobbit is such a simple story, in terms of fantasy, but so beautifully succinct and so loving of its world and its characters.  I read and re-read the book at least three times in succession when I was 14.  Like the average nerd, I found a corner (literally) at my high school, sandwiched between a locker and a wall.  I lost myself for an hour a day in Middle Earth, with little interference.  To get through certain parts, I would continue reading in the next class (American History then Government).

And, then, glory of glories, there was a PC game at Walden Books (yeah, remember that?).  It was an interactive text adventure that I could sneak into Computer class (yes, a class that introduced the fabulous Apple IIe).  Between the OEM IIe I had at home and the one at school - I was in pre-geek heaven.

In hindsight, it was definitively one of the first times an ancillary product would come out of a piece of a written one.  There was a definitive extension of a work into something else: something electronic.  And, like many games of the time, your mind would need to hyper-extend the excitement since it was basic graphics in the extreme.  Ah, text games - take a gander below and wonder how this would play out today?

Anyhoo, Empire has the Hobbit soundtrack available to listen through (no controls, you'll have to go straight through), but it is a lovely soundtrack: http://www.empireonline.com/news/story.asp?NID=35757.

And, while at Barnes and Noble this past weekend, came across a leather-ish pocket edition that would make a great gift, pending you can find a young kid that still likes to read: http://www.amazon.com/The-Hobbit-Deluxe-Pocket-Edition/dp/0544045521/ref=sr_1_7?ie=UTF8&qid=1352995091&sr=8-7&keywords=hobbit.

If you have yet to read it, it's Lord of the Rings lite and a very quick commitment.

...Shelley's "Autumn"...

Only published after his death by Mrs. Shelley, Autumn explores a theme common for Percy in the year of 1820, specifically of death and decay.  His friend, Keats, would die within a year of these musings and Percy not much longer after that.  What would these passions foretell.

"The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing,
The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying,

And the year
On the earth, her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead,
Is lying."

In Death, published in the same way:

"All things that we love and cherish,

Like ourselves, must fade and perish;

Such is our rude mortal lot - 

Love itself would, did they not."

And, in 1822, a very lyrical piece, Lines, is much more defined in spirit:

"When the lamp is shattered,

The light in the dust lies dead;

When the cloud is scattered,

The rainbow's glory is shed;

When the lute is broken,

Sweet tones are remembered not;

When the lips have spoken,

Love accents are soon forgot."

And, then, the poet's death.  Considering the wealth of permutations in the cause, he did suffer drowning.  But, again in consideration, let's go with the most fantastic of reasons:

Shelley's ship, the Don Juan, was eventually run asunder by the political agents of Wales, who sought to rob him of materials that would have created great upheaval through-out the West.  In the process of fighting a ship of twenty men, Percy would succumb only when he ran out of shot.  At this, he resorted to using hand-to-hand techniques learned by pirates in the western coastal towns around Pisa.  He at last took the material and drowned himself.  For country!

That's what one could call speculation.

...final problem, or, BBC's Sherlock S2E3...

...there's nothing more wanting than the sensational in this post-millennial era; the theme was found in The Dark Knight and the primary theme of the last episode of BBC's Sherlock.  In the latter we find that the detective's fame had become a burden, then, like a runaway train, found a life on its own.  Ultimately, Sherlock knew the response - as the answer could only bring safety to his closest friends and put to rest a deadly series of events.

The second season finale was loosely based on the short Sherlock mystery, "The Adventure of the Final Problem" (full text at the link).  Of course, series writer Steve Thompson put a modern filter on the whole affair and put forth the argument that we can become victim to our own largesse.  Sherlock's talents and Watson's incessant blogging of them presents the foundation on which Moriarty could weave his web.  Thompson crafts a much wider arch in three themes, where Doyle's short story really only provides a very basic premise: the detective has put a (vague) trap in place for Moriarty, whereas his nemesis sets his own web to "inevitable destruction".  The deviation between both plays is terrifically played out:

The theme that is shared is that Sherlock has sets his formidable sights on the take down of Moriarty, who had proven to be the focal point of a shadow organization of crime.  "The man pervades London, and no one has heard of him.  That's what puts him on a pinnacle in the records of crime."  As you can imagine, as Sherlock explains to Watson, taking him down would definitively prove the detective's prowess to rid the evil of London.

The definitive nature of the struggle is what is engaging between Sherlock/Moriarty.  They are of equal intellectual stature, capable of great evil or great good.  In the teleplay, they play a game of chess via fencing - physical harm more for our hero in stark deviation to the detective's encompassing attempt to win the entire match without having to resort to tricks.  Like the story, the criminal sets in motion a few attempts on the life of Sherlock, but fails.  In both stories, it is ultimately up to Moriarty to take the matter up himself.

This is where Thompson adds two layers to the entire affair.  Adding to Moriarty's tricks, to push Sherlock's own fame against him, putting doubt upon his record and, like our era, building disdain for him all together.  Fame turned quickly into derision.  Sherlock is little concerned about it in the episode, as no one should.  One of his stature, as a "special", he easily weathers the negative publicity.

But, beyond that, the criminal then stages a kidnapping in such a way to make it look as if the detective, all along, was creating the crimes, building up the case, then resolving it with the media looking on.  Doubt settles in from even his closest confidants, who began to question Sherlock.  At this, opposed to the publicity, weighs on Holmes more - if he cannot have the trust and respect of his friends, then how are things worth the price?

Between the publicity, the mistrust, the staged cases and the attempts of his life - it all culminates upon the roof of St Bartholomew's Hospital where Moriarty and Sherlock have it out once and for all.  It is not happenstance: the nod to Barts is apparent in that was where Watson and Sherlock would meet first in the first Doyle story "A Study in Scarlet".  The end of Sherlock seems very final with a lamentable Watson struggling to move on.

In the short story, the dogging Moriarty grabs at Holmes, but instead falls into the Reichenbach.  In at least, Doyle explains the miracle of the detective's escape and subsequent exploits over the next three years.  I have yet to see the third season, but I am hoping they do explain how the Holmes was able to explain what appeared to be extremely final.

...she made me something splendid, beautiful. I beheld it like a light in the dark...

...the lady danced around me like a nymph, she held a gift behind her back.  I smiled, but the underlying tone for me was off.  She was too happy with it.  The bit of self-satisfaction put me at odds.  Anyone happy with themselves is never to be trusted.  As much as I loved her - deeply, fully as I loved her - she held the red wrapped package and danced about in her own way, "Why are you so happy?"

"Why aren't you?  You are never happy."  She was not wrong.  I got tired of the game and crossed my arms.  My tan pea coat warming with the change, "I'm happy when I need to be."

"Hmpf."  She uncrossed my arms and stood on her tip toes.  She knew the effect.  Her light green eyes sparkled in mischief underneath her light red hair.  It fell in long curls around the frame of her brow.  She gave me the demure smile.  It was an act of deferment, but it was anything but.  She could ask anything of me with that smile.  It was my stupid weakness.  She was my stupid weakness.

She led me back into the house.  The kitchen was lit with candles and sprigs of evergreen framing them.  Squash and chestnut soup was lightly roiling over a chafing dish.  All were a contrast against the dark brick wall.  The epitome of picturesque: what with this part of the house framed by wild ivy and potted willows.

The kitchen was warm, but not overly so.  The dampness of the cool rain this morning would see to that for the season.  The smell of beef roast from the oven made the heart feel warmer than it should.

We sat and she still had the smirk on her face.  She placed the red papered gift in between us.

"I don't want to open it."  She frowned, "You know you have to."  I tried to stare through her, into her - but her will was a wall.  It's presence was foreboding.  I took a deep breath and frowned in resignation.

She clapped like a child as I reached for it.  It felt small, but heavy.

"I hope you'll like it."  I tore at the paper and I held a small druggist's bottle.  It was dark brown glass and fit in my palm.  The cork stopper looked as if iodine soaked it through.  I felt uneasy as I placed in front of me and stared at her.

Her smile disappeared and she sat upright.  The air grew cooler, "Drink it.  It's poison."  I knew it was.  I mean, I knew it was going to be when we took our walk.  I knew it when I awoke this morning.  It was poison and I did not doubt her for a second.

She stared at the bottle with me.  "It's the world in a bottle."  Meaning that it needed to end.  We needed to stop existing.  She held out her glass and ask for the first serving.  I uncorked it and drew the two glasses.  She held it up to her mouth and stared at me in a seriousness I would never have seen otherwise.

"I cannot live without you, Leo."  In some ways, this was resignation.  I couldn't live without this, without her.  I never could.  I drank it quickly.

The world swam quickly and the awful, dreadful weight of impending dark swept through me.  It felt like going through a tunnel that was quickly getting smaller at the end.  The pain of the body convulsing as it tried to fight the damn fool thing the brain did...it mustered what it could to fight.  The larger muscles, the legs and the arms, were gripped in pain as they tensed beyond measure.  I fell from the chair.

Her giggle came at me somewhere in the fog of blurred dark and I knew instantly she did not drink with me.  I could hear her glass calmly tap against the kitchen table before there was no more....

...it was, in itself, entirely redundant...

writing taglines for a comedian friend I don't know.  it was either that or a list of word association that ticked through my mind as I couldn't sleep tonight.  last night.  wrote it down I told myself of the book that was hers, she wrote her initials in bold red.  across the front plate, it led to the middle of the book.  in red sharpie just to piss on my expectations.  tonight.  yes.

vomit.  that's redundant.
laughter.  ditto.
gnashing of teeth.  completely unnecessary.
that's probably why I kicked the science fiction actor in the back, while they were waiting in line at the restroom of the comic convention.  why was he here anyway?  he hadn't acted in years.
i did respect him though.
i owed him that much.  respect and a kick.

after he wiped away god knows what he smiled amicably and told me that i was a great patriot.
you said it mister.

It was then that he shifted in the cab.  The sway of the road was indicative of the country.  The rhythmic texture of cobblestone made way for the rutted mud.  He wouldn't have made the journey, if not for the grey evening and the wash of rain, as this but an afterthought to his singular thought.  This wholly farcical affair in Welsea was to draw to a close, and Hulbert Frees was to be the artist and agent of its death.

He pulled down his cap, a light mist collecting along his clothes.  The driver must be soaked through.

Hulbert stared out into sea, but couldn't make out the difference in grey.  The country was unimaginably flat.  The grass cliffs contrasted like a torn page.  The cab's lamp let out - the oil had grown to lively in the glass and put out the wick.  There was no rest.  He could only put his arms, stretched to across the entire length of the couch, upon each door to right himself.  It took all of his concentration not to extinguish his gullet.  "Redundant indeed."

He wondered why the horses did not break their legs in this ruddy soup.

...she will...that's what she did...

...she looked at me.  It was an even stare, not typical for her.  She didn't slouch.  Her hair was pulled behind her ears, which she barely ever did (on account they were large, her ears, but I loved them because of it).  Johnny Griffin was on the overhead, pumping out 'Latin Quarter'.  Her grey eyes were fixed, her lids pulled back just enough to command attention.  She had it.  She always had my attention.  Lahna's name is Congonese for 'peace'.

"I have a secret."

Inwardly my heart dropped a few paces.  In my 38-years I knew what to expect from that statement.  It was hardly ever good.  It meant, for a 24-year-old, she was going to do something brash.  She accepted a job 3000 miles away.  She got a tattoo, which always look stupid on a hot chick.  It's like taking a Sharpie to  Greek statuary.  She quit her job.  She's gay.  She's secretly in love with me.  Now I'm getting stupid.  It must have been the third absinthe shot.

I returned her stare with a cock of my left eyebrow.  I'd like to think it says, "What shit is this now?"

"Is that it?  You're not going to ask?"  She smiled with a smile that was flash paper.  It blew up in my face like uranium.  In my old man's heart of hearts, I hope that smile was just for me.  (Oh, I know it wasn't.)

"What do you want me to say.  I know how this goes."

She frowned and looked out the windows as she sipped at her Blue Hawaiian.  "You're boring."  Now there's a phrase no hot-blooded middle-aged asshole wants to hear.  I was getting hot under the sports jacket.  A string of sweat washed along my spine.

"You met someone."  Her facade crumbled.  I hate having little victories.  She stopped sipping and slowly maneuvered her glass to the coaster like she had to aim.  I knew quickly that she wanted to get my take.  She wanted a rise (or not) out of me.  For a half-second her eyes got just a tinge of water.  "Oh my God," I said to myself.  Lahna actually cared enough about 'this' - although 'this' was nothing more than a year's long tract of interest.

She finally nodded, almost as if she were perturbed, "His name is Mark."  She didn't return her gaze for most of the rest of the night.  It didn't dawn on me until we were leaving.  To tell the truth, I don't remember anything else we discussed.  I was in a stupor up until I was helping her with her coat.  Her light brown hair tumbled around her collar as I helped her into the white wool frock.

She was being kind when she finally made contact with me again and smiled kindly, so sweetly.  It was a look of a young lady who made a decision.  I didn't feel a thing.  I was numbed to the core.  As we separated at the foyer, she gave me the old look.  The bright look.  My heart came back for a second.

"See ya."

And, I haven't had my heart since.

...the city vertical...

the vertical belies that within
upon the staid dress
glass stretch parallel
framing lives
behind

verdancy is a crime otherwise
for stone is what we crave
bound and bonded with
electric
and steel

the common risen to parnassas
denied once and once more
I descend instead
forgotten
alone

...these things are on wattpad...

...moved Miss Kitty over to Wattpad.  I like the way WP conforms it in a traditional format (apart from a blog where the linear nature can be compromised at times).  I'll also wrap all of these stories through the end of November.  Already have new chapters building every couple of days.

  

...blurgh and droogsie foowilishness...

if'n mwah heasp in courtn roog
dishappen mish filin, mahg supperin stoog
an clareanian mushta ding napperin sap
floo reatain mesti
gave happerin stap

disinferin mustak dng yu moof ti
han nag erin moostik eif na tooerin stik
fool d'yunikerin steef gan noos
multitudious masher
an quarertooterous ooo

fah
deep sitted yu carmain locutus
anstil ertvacopolous
and that's what he admitted
when he said he had
milowerbanumus

...

...September the Barbarian...

...playing around with a story, "Charlie Guest", on Wattpad.  It dips in and out of first and third person, as Charlie 'races' to find some stolen hard drives for a guy named McMillan.  Having fun with something that is a gated blog, essentially.  Appreciate all who check it out.

Also moving the story "Numbers Game" over so I can piecemeal that one as well.  Like that it is easier to publish as I'm a centaur on the go.

...August, the Conqueror...

...apologies if the site has been dormant for a few weeks.  My little sister has gone off and gotten married which put everyone's lives in the midst of le grand fete for a few weekends.  Fun for sure, and many adventures had with the family.  They are now resting comfortably as husband and wife, I'm sure with many dreams to be had on the horizon.

The little time I've had has been attempting some minor poems and many photos.  It has been the tail end of summer and necessitated some respite for my family, or they would threaten me with grumpy stares for many a day.  I'll post some of the shots when time permits.  I was able to re-charge the batteries between the hectic duplex of my 'life'.

Griffith Observatory - not my sister and brother-in-law, totally random!

WATTpad has been of interest to me, so I'm migrating a few of my shorter stories, still gestating, over to the site.  Right now, Numbers Game is on the site, and I'll try this whole 'chapter at a time thing'.  If anything, there's a ton of teen writers cutting their chops, so it is interesting to see this burgeoning media take off.

Actively, I'm still working on Pace and Filipino Cookbook and a one more short sundry book called Songs for Perfecia.  I'm trying to wrap up some home projects and be able to spend the holidays roughly approximating work.  My video projects are a brewing too; this weekend was one last crazy before some normalcy.

...wicked...

it was known oh, yes, it was
said with comma overemphasized and let it sit in the air
accusatory
that was me but not a me I typically hear from
and the third person walked in
beneath his suit trembling
at the accusation he made with a comma
the outside seemed to stop at the window
and turned in fear
away from the chips of cheap white paint
that collected for the last 14 months
in little piles
and with dust and with sunlight

he hadn't breathed
his hair stood on end
his eyes were expectant
not knowing it would not get his answer

and the radio blared with an insipid laundry soap commercial
but it too was tempered and low
the house was awaiting with the eyes

and the chair which sat the answer
was there with the house when it went up for rent
it smelled of must and dust
no matter what was done

he stared
his breath boring into the corner

...face...

Show thy face forward, to the tempest
And let not its lack of focus deter you from the fore
The warrior infinitum
The endless sword that does not dull in a trial of a hundred foes
The empty winds shall break themselves upon it

How can we fear a shadow's whisper
Or cower for a weakened reed
The mountain has set itself in the unbroken
It rises impassioned
The stone as steel
Assail thyself on its face tremble at its impassiveness

And the robe of faith
Truly emeshed in righteousness, not for itself, but what is right
The cloth untenable
Its flow daunting
It perplexes the self-loving
It remains hidden

Face it with unhidden eyes and name for me its faults

...always...

little one i shall, for the better part of my life, keep you like a favored poem in my heart.  A perfect angel you are, untainted by the world.  Your womb will never find end, it will encompass the sphere of sky.  I could only imagine your beauty and it will be fulfilled.  May Mary caress your tender cheek and provide for you infinite comfort.  This is a bitter world and the chill draught of air will be for me to suffer.  There is triumph in this, there is a conquering nature of perfect innocence.  Turn ours eyes then on a sun that will never set.  It will warm us in the same glorious coat of light.  May those that seek harm, that celebrate death, find their reward.  No one can take from you.
0

...cutting a thumb to catch a break...

Don't use folding knives.  If you apply the right pressure and twist, the goddamned thing will swing back on you.  I took an inch by 1/4 inch bite off my thumb like a dog-eared page of a book.  My remark as soon as I saw the knife close in was how fast flesh looks dead...takes a second.  I'll discuss at another time: it's been a pain trying to type or use a mouse for a few weeks now.

Meanwhile, Powder Blue and Heart-Shaped Box made their physical copy debut on Amazon.com:
- Powder Blue Gentlemen
- Heart-Shaped Box

My Twitter theme of #theoc summer sweets continues: http://twitter.com/jackedwardsshow.  Gaining a weight as a result, good things calories go straight to my ego.

Working actively on Pace (the comic book), a few video projects, and Filipino Cookbook.  Should have progress shortly.  Happily distracted with a little side tag called A Canticle of Jade.  Thanks for returning, I appreciate it greatly.  More to come...

..."Bing"...re-pitch of sub-site and abridged published version...

...to make the first draft more palatable, even by small measures, here's the unabridged, but published version that is available on Lulu.  The sub-site has also been fixed with appropriate links to make it easier to follow the blog.  Links at the bottom of each chapter have been fixed as well to flow correctly.  The e-book version had inconsistencies that were inherent in the drafts fixed.

...skin...02jul12...

lay out the blueprint.  when it is fresh it smells of prussian blue undefinable to any other smells (although, he will admit unselfishly it could be found in used bookstores - that's why he goes.  He won't buy a thing, but walk up and the down the aisles, fain interest in something then the other aisle.  He'll leave with a smile when the clerk misses him yet again.  He must think it stealing of some kind.)  he traces the schematic, across the lines where electrons will one day fall.  they must make there way back upon itself.  they must perform an action, must react, must continue down avenues and make processes upon cascading decisions.  capacitors here, regulating charge.  varistors here to keep the electric slop in check.  he measured out the voltage as he lead down the pathways of the circuit.  he would be correct, but he found places where they could be made more efficient, or, add processes for more work.

he adjusted his brown shell frames.  they would gain oil as the day wore on and tended to slip.  he brushed his arm across his brow, the grey shirt smelled of Salems.  the incandescent light strained his eyes after so many hours.  the lighter areas of the print tended to meld together by the end of day.

he made notes on a stenographers sheet and piled the good ones together - they were meticulously done, his secretary couldn't work with his normal writing.  he'll need them typed and ordered by drawing number tomorrow afternoon for the drawing pull down.

he rose and flipped out his fob, a carry-over from his father's father.  3:50pm.  late day.  the radio was playing Fifth Dimension, but a song he hadn't heard before.  must be new.

as he gathered his stuff he scanned the schematic again.  not for notes, but looking at them with a clear mind, processing them as if the first time.  entering long a long sheet laid across the tabletop of his mind.

he put his notes near the door, this time scanning the work around his lab and performing the same trick he did with the drawing.  this time, he played with work that needed to be done.

the remote controller rack needed to be done.  tomorrow will need to find time to take thirty minutes and put the RF kit together, power it and mount the dial.  it needed to have that working if it was going to pass QC by next week.  the pin on the ANT will throw a logic value (1) to the transistor and the lamp will go off.  the lamp was a problem since they were unreliable.  perhaps keeping it in a low cap state and heighten it once (1) is reached.  he saw the board on his page and put corresponding designation on them (GND, DATA, U1, C1, C14, ANT, L1, etc).

this may not take twenty minutes.  the light through the shades had moved across the floor, he let a few minutes escape him.  it was 420p now.  he raced off, threw the notes on jennifer's desk and pushed his way out of the double doors.

the light hit his face like a warm slap.  turn off that part now or he won't be able to sleep tonight.  a cold shower and a stiff one to even settle in.  put on a reel-to-reel of AFRTS that he recorded at Clark, they played a bunch of stuff that sounded like home.  music was coming from California and no where else the last two years, just inching below the Beatles.

...Pace: Back in America...24jun12

1867.  Boston Harbor.

The mass of black and brown suits huddled around the gangplank of the steamship.  The Colorado had docked, the tug just trudging away into the mist.  It was early spring, but unseasonably muggy.  The moisture clung to along the ship, giving off a polished gloss.  The grey light and the brown highlights of the harbor cast itself like a Daguerre-type.

A young man squinted at the landscape around him.  The city of Boston was unknown to him but for his incessant questions.  He needed to know the lay of the land before he arrived.  They landed near Barton's Point, he surmised that early in the trip, which would allow him egress to Leyerets Street.  From there he would progress to the Commons, to South End and out into the country.  He needed to be free of the city by dark - or risk his schedule, of which, lives were dependent upon.

He traveled light, with only a 'Ditty' bag upon his person.  The bulk would be found in the shoppes of America - as he carried around enough money to get him where he needed to be.  The Church made sure of that, and, being a growing influence in the burgeoning West, he needed to get there if he was to avoid delay.

He excused himself as he shifted down the gangway.  Wearing the livery of a craftsman masked his brusqueness, although his vocation was much different.

Leyerts was easy, but it took a few turns to find Commons, the street was large enough to distinguish itself as the main thoroughfare.  He walked quickly and could not yet afford the time to enjoy the sights around him.  Within two hours he made it out of the city proper and into the country.  He'd have to find another form of conveyance now.

With some questioning he came upon a small hamlet known as Jamaica Plains, and from there was able to haggle for a horse, buying as little tack as necessary to ride him.  As he had experience on bareback, this was not the problem - however he did need to ride some 150 miles over the next week.

"For the price that you seem to be desiring, s'yr, I'd give you the Quarter/Arabian yonder," the man (Ross was his last name), motioned toward a dark brown one that was playing with a full Quarter in a large pen.  "Alright."  Ross motioned his man to cut it and bring it out for dressing.  With some amateur checking of the horses mouth, fetlock, cannon and the like - he felt he had a good enough choice.  Time was a factor, and he was sure this one could make 20 miles a day.

He purchased tack, but mostly what he was used to, which was a bit rare this far East - but decided on a Western tack, with hackamore bridle and the most basic of saddles.  He dressed the horse himself, then took it around the pens a few times, turning it left and right.  The horse was responsive enough.  He paid Ross and headed out on a direction of West.

Here, under the eves of low hanging 'ulmus', he pushed the steed forward, heading down roads of shallow mud.  He pushed the horse, but not to hard - but he had to get her up to a point of being able to do 20.  On Ross' recommendation, he suggested that she not go beyond 10 the first day...and even then it would be pushing it.  Being inexperienced, he guessed at 8 miles for the first day and find an inn that could accommodate it.  He named the horse, "Her'.

...

At a point of three miles into the ride, he needed to rest.  Allowing Her to drink, he took out his Ditty bag and pulled out a woolen 'poncho' of a make that was said to be made in Mexico.  He exchanged his beater jacket for the poncho, which, if not being able to keep him as warm, was at least dry.  He took off his pants and squeezed out the moisture out of the wool.  The itching and chafing of the ride was going to be trouble (it already was).

While in the bag, he ensured that a lantern was still safe from wear (it was), and shifted his Bible and other belongings.  Seeing his accouterments made him pause.  He prayed thanksgivings for a safe trip thus far - making it from Spain to America within 47 days.  Only a short period of motion sickness marred an otherwise quiet trip.

He plucked at the flowers of an arrow wood bush.  The crush of them in his fingers had the faint smell of witch hazel.  He tasted the bitterness of one just to see if there were other features of the plant.  He took a sprig and put it in his bible.

After stretching out and massaging out Her, he returned to its mount and headed off once again.  The evening came quickly on account of the low clouds.  He made way for a large road and hoped he would come upon an inn.

...

they'll be reward at the end...

Darling child . You did nothing wrong so do not fret . The silence is reward enough from those that turned their lucid stare away from you . Know that you were and are loved beyond measure . May then those hold you to their breast . And the meaning is made clear in where you are now . Where you are met to be . No longer coldness to surround but peace to envelop you . A single kiss upon your brow is more than you received . You were not refuse . You were sunlight . You had inheritance to sky, sun, stone . Let us dwell elsewhere tonight . Not upon decisions you could not escape . The cry was short . You are held aloft . No reason to cry any longer . The bosom is warm and complete and your inheritance . May the starlight shine and transfix . May the breath of want and care linger along new skin . The touch is complete and is wanting only to protect and nourish you . It wants only for fruition . Calm and sleep . Gentle eyes and ready hands await each stir . Only wanting to make sure that someone is there . It is fine . I am here .

And spoils, we found none...

The promise was laid bare upon his crown . Be shall not sine . Fragrance fell and escaped tither to Routres . The must of spine stacked tall in isles and aisles . The earth quaked and hungry moth hangs above to bother me . Right . Kathy he called out, not by word but by cry . Heathcliff was right . To bash his head upon stone . To love . His throat hoarse . She met with jaded eyes on curtains that wanted for silence . Not I . There not desteened . Twere stay that way . Ghouls all hungry to satisfy on mediocrity . Take upt the sloppy fill . I derision fair it with vogue disdain and damned foresight or damned be it same . Tonite then and I'll from vanity gain .

...May, she threatened...29may12...

tHe calendAR staRed back.  Her slate blue eyes didn't blink.  They didn't waver from the heavily fortified serif text that was woefully lined to perfection underneath the forgettable color sketch of a perfunctory city hall.  M-A-Y.  It had too many lines.  It relied to heavily on the serif.  It yelled serif.

Her blond hair was pulled back, the remnants too little to work with: a spit of a tail that barely made it out of the band.  The frames of her new glasses were thick, and black.  They looked like a punctuation on the edge of her nose.  And she still hadn't blinked.

THe nUmbERs.  How slow they felt, different then the face of a clock.  A clock's numbers seemed to jump and play.  The calendar was lacking anything than INFORMATION.  It TOLD you the number, not introduced it behind the dance of the hands.  It was static and sat, and sat, and sat...

She smelled her breath.  It was a bad habit, but she felt, all of a sudden, she had too much time and too little to do all at once.  She breathed on the back of her hand, right next to the soft of the back of her thumb, where it met her wrist.  Then she sniffed.  It smelled of rancid taffy and mashed potatoes.  The latter was from dinner.  The former was what she kept near the bed.  Saturday morning bad breath blues.

The sun was well ahead of her.  The blinds indicated that she had wasted a few hours already.  She pulled back the left part of her lip back toward her ear.  M-A-Y.

I may go over to the record store and listen to the new 45 of Bobby Darin's.  I may go over to the dress shop and look at the white tea dress with the lace fringe over the silk weaved cotton.  It had a black ribbon for a belt.  I may just sit here and wait until Monday and die.  [She didn't even know she over used the word much too often to mean anything anymore.]

She thought of Derek Krause, even though she made a vow with all her might to put his stupid antics aside.  But his stupid face and his stupid nape hair and all the stupid smirky...ugh.  He better not say anything to her again, after what he joked.  Jerk.  It took five minutes, but Derek Krause finally made his exeunt.  She turned over on her stomach and took in a deep breath, realized that she was holding it too long.

This is what May is going to bring me.

...tipsy bloggin...19may12

Ain't nothing wrong we do if we have the heart behind it to make it so. Love is all in the end and you have it or it's escaped you. Just love and be loved and revel in those that seek to love you. At the end it will be to what you will cling. It is what we are when we die and in perishing release that love for those that continue on and on and on. I would be naught but for it, give me excess of it fill me shape this vessel to suit the amor of the world. To those that hate, peace. Your cup shall be filled with what you spew forth. But to those that truly love your cup shall be ready filled. Your eyes will be filled with tears of joy and the might of the moment art your beck and call. This is true art and what will allude the foolish mind no matter the haughty course pursue. Assail thyself on rocks that you have laid for others.

...solace...18may12

I have found the profound in your shadow
and the memory of the air where once you moved
the scented air from on your skin
and the touch of sun light warms
what was once only where you stood

and I'll find blessing on long forgotten footfalls
that I can steal from moments long ago
that weaker minds would long forgot
but I will not
for they rest in here with me


the smile was incidental
yet e'en trivial not meant for one
as trivial as I
for I am shadow upon shadow
the dark that you cannot see


and from this forgotten corner
in the recess of the world's most weary halls
I bleed dark upon dark paper
with tears that appear
as if to fall from night's inkwell


the smile was incidental
yet e'en meaningless but not for me
as meaningless as I
for I am dark upon darkness fell
the shadow that you cannot see



Don't remember me, I am unworthy
of even that
for I am satisfied to live in shadow
and cling to tattered dreams
that once were sails

What mast shall I cling when my mind fails
and I cannot upon you lend
the paper's thin promise of
my sleepless nights
and wear away in lightless ever

the smile was incidental

yet e'en trivial not meant for one
as trivial as I
for I am shadow upon shadow
the dark that you cannot see

...Miss Kitty "Utterances Incapable"...

"It is this wild longing - it is this eager vehemence of desire for life - but for life - that I have no power to portray - no utterance capable of expressing." - Poe, Ligeia


It was for Miss Kitty that I took the leap into poetry.  And not only a brusque interpretation of the theme, but I took upon the cap and feathered pen and fully understood poetry in one early winter's night.  Only because I could not find expression, as limited as my education was to that point, did I find the flowered words published in my otherwise ignored An Introduction to English a dawning of sorts.  Here I could pound words from the clay of my heart's unmitigated tempest (or as I first wrote, 'shit') and at least have a point.  It has been a curse and power ever since:

"A thread of gold leads to your heart

and I could not (by my soul) win its prize

among the ruins of my trials

meaningless supplications to impart"

The yellow pads were stared at long enough to give a reddish hue to the world around me once I emerged from the trance.  I was, in effect, attempting to define what I saw in her, the first transcending woman in my memory. To hide her well, the moniker Miss Kitty came as a bit of subterfuge.  The appellation was a homage to her taunt musculature - the curve and shape of her hips as they led past the roll of her supple estremita to the curve of her back - reminded me of a feline stretching.

"Would they weigh much to one like you?

As I'll never fit those expectant sighs

that comprised your loving light's rise

though same in effect, fail to be construed."

I left a note, of many.  There were larger envelopes and a stationary that was unique to Hallmark at the time, when letter writing was at least an option.  I would leave my imprimatur on the face of it.  So, by the second one, she must have known.  How foolish I once was - I laugh at the pitiable, purposeless waste I was back then with a lip curled in derision.  Especially, when chancing her finding one of these notes in her locker, she immediately...[x].

"The golden thread was but lost art

and as I enjoyed the sport just the same

lingered much to late on the game

walked from the whole, but cannot of its parts."

I wish I could say that high school had its moments, but, aside from the darkness that intrudes upon the children of this age, I have no good memories.  MK was the culmination of those moments, where my heart was ground to dust.  I may not been able to verbalize at the onset of what I affectionately call the prison, I was able to give utterance to my sentence.

...photo posts part two and more updates...

...on the main site, the Philippines sampling is set at http://www.edwardianjackal.com/ej_photo_philippines_2012.html...luckily the formatting for the blog site is holding up...if you see problems, simply refresh and I've had it eventually come back the way it is envisioned...

...on the tumblr site, http://edwardianjackal.tumblr.com/, I'm staying with my Mary theme.  These are photos I've taken of statuary either of the Virgin Mother or of ladies that I may come across in my travails...

...Twitter, http://twitter.com/jackedwardsshow, continues to update the weekend outings that I have with the family...may they be something to do or eat in Orange County or outlying environs...

..."Interminable" is available in the Barnes and Noble Nook Store, http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/books/1110196058?ean=9781105644276.  Keep in mind the blog story that you may have read was only the first draft, the one released is third.

...on the 'to do' list is a massive effort to work on the Shoppe, the Deviant ART site, the Cafe Press selection and more...time permitting, time that I cannot conjure...

...on the video side, I'm still working on the prep work of a short run vlog.  There is also a song in the works...

...photo posts and tumblr project...

...the Japan photo page is live, finally...for tumblr, i'm thinking of doing a series of Mary, the Virgin Mother...

more updates to come soon.  Still catching up from the trip.

...the Interminable released...

...as soon as I got back from across the Pacific, I immediately went over the second draft of "Bing" and flushed it out.  Within three days it was set to Lulu as an ebook (only) and available now - http://www.lulu.com/shop/jon-edwards/bing-crosby-and-the-interminable-da-vinci/ebook/product-20037854.html. It still takes time to hit the Nook and iBookStore sites, but it should be there soon.  Hope you enjoy and let me know how it reads...the follow-up is already popping around in me noggin.

Was stymied a bit on the new look of the site.  Blogger/Google put in new commands that disallowed iframe functions to nest the blog in.  So I went another route and just set them to /frame commands with better results. It took me some time to consider a three frame front page, but I worked it out.

Spent the last two days putting together a photo site for San Gabriel Mission, the Philippines and Tokyo.  They should be up by end of week.  This includes some new items on DeviantART.

I'm also compiling a study of Mary for tumblr - a study of every picture I have of Mary from around the world.

...bought worms from a vending machine...

...trees tower overhead of the shrine
wine and whiskey comprise walls
blessings are made/given - and we walk ancient streets, my sister and I
cold winds whip across the bay where airplanes land
dinner boats scrape the surface of the water cutting a silent white 'v' in their wake
I lean against glass towards the billion pin lights - stories float to me
before bed I listen to video games by the sultry red head
my mind comes back to you
not that it matters but for the truth
despite all of the experiences it comes to me so easily
and  it does not matter so easily...

...about and abroad...thinking of you...

...found some free time over the next week on a few planes to pull out some yellow pads and hit the tarmac whilst minding the paper cuts.  Bing is almost through the cleaned up draft, fixing lots of elements and making sure it is unified before putting the old hanger bangs on the tittlepull.  Also working on Pace, the comic book, over the next three weeks.  Nook e-books are live - Kindle should be up in a few weeks.  More photo wall stuff a'coming, just need a few hours to post some new places.  Will have tons next Friday night as well.  Watch the antics on Twitter and join me on Facebook.  Much afoot this year and tired to boot.

...of "Perfecia" and other things in the ruins...

...I had first come across the writings of U- in the 23rd of September.  The General Walker in Berchtesgaden  was to be demolished in a few years, the proclamation having come from the Bavarian municipality.  As with any Nazi facility, there were a host of antechambers, bomb shelters, hidden caches and were not to be treated lightly.  The work was perilous at times, dangerous to be more fair, and ridden with the all consuming bit of dust that turned off the majority of twenty somethings.  Those didn't even get to the dust, they allowed their own mild interest to do that for them.

There was one such room that hadn't seen the light from, by my reckoning, 1946.  It was a lean-to at best, just slats of wood and beams holding off the very end of a long berm.  It was only discovered when I stopped the excavation having seen the all too familiar pattern of lines that were contrasted when the berm broke apart.  Shadows and light make up most of history.

The room was comprised of empty crates, once destined to hold the Model 43 Stielhandgrante, but, efficient Allied forces smartly took them away.  By the looks of the room it may have been a hideaway to escape the occasional heat of the late August Alps.  There was a lamp, a cot, a few tins that were rusted beyond recognition.  There must have been occasional dampness in the room.

There were personal effects in the far corner of the room.  Seemingly not interested to be found, as the owner simply piled up the stack of papers underneath the cot, right against the small natural stone brickwork that dotted each corner of the space.  We tend to forget that the average size, even 40-something years ago, was slightly smaller than we are today.  I had to hunker down the entire time, but I figured a man of about 5' 2" could easily find the space comfortable.

The papers were in a series of leather bound, loose-knot enclosures.  The paper was fine and I appreciated that it was made of a good mix of CaCO3, calcium carbonate, and still had a sheen to the little light that came in through the slats above.

I packed these into a bin, along with the lamp, a pair of glasses (broken), some writing instruments and a small hardwood keepsake (octagonal).  The rest couldn't stand any more damage and would become like the rest of the berm: dust.

I had to attend to some other antechambers of the General Walker (before, der Platterhof).  I scanned the documents quickly for a reference.  I came upon a name that was repeated through-out.  The bin was marked, "23SEP--, GWH, NEE, 50.16'x8.21', berm extension antechamber, affects = "Perfecia"".

..."Bing"...Part 5...full version available on Lulu...

5:

Hate to say it was an uneasy ten hours, as the feeling was an underpinning of my fear.  Having not seen the man and really get to understand his contraption brought trepidation throughout this whole caper.

I could hear the three of them, distinguishable by their unique footfalls; they were making circular sweeps.  Da Vinci knew enough, but, like a novice, they only went as far as the light would fall from the campfire.  With cloud cover it was pitch black otherwise. They were in such a hurry - as they thought they were going to simply kill me - they carried no kit and no torches. Had they a standard light, they would have found me laying mere yards away.

Whatever Da Vinci had, he seemed to be wearing it.  It sounded 60 pounds heavier than he should.  I had him pegged at about 110 pounds, by the descriptions I received from at least four witnesses.  The footfall seemed to be much more substantial than a size 12.  For five hundred years old, he was as limber and adroit as his guides. And I pegged them in their early twenties.

....

My watch had 1:48a. The conversation had stopped. They must be resting, with at least one on guard duty. If I enter the right way, I could at least take one out. Da Vinci was always the wild card.

I took a knee, a little wobbly from shifting the blood around, and carefully did one quick pop above the brush line. In that half-second, I saw that both guides were sitting near the fire. They were not moving: no sign of Da Vinci.

I checked my weapons, made sure, for the thousandth time, that the safety was released. This was going to be a quick fight. I had the two guides for sure. I'd have to play it by ear for the bastard. If I was lucky, he was asleep, and I'd have time to trip him up before killing him. At worst, he had set a trap and would kill me easily.

Either way, it's now or never. I rushed forward, the switchgrass like a curtain when I came upon the camp.


...full version available on Lulu...

...longing...

a child knows, through legacy, to grasp when it desires
and the plant leans into the light, its roots where dampness resides
the fertile rich of touch
the deep ancient elements of life
only satisfied when found

what can be done then, when the shops close
and the sun retires, and the streets lay
empty and bare?
the air does not want for me
it's breezes disinterestedly past
as I walk aimlessly forward

the dark and shadowed copses
of Harbor Boulevard, the lights gone
by this time of night
offer nothing but repose
my foot falls like intruders to no one
in response

the warm-less glow of dawn in a few hours
may offer something, but I don't care
for it much, very little
it means less in light of you
would it not be so

breathe moment to sullen moment
from the glorious moment that will not repeat
(nor I repent) from the awakening blush
that proves the rule
I had a heart
once

...V...deux

spent
like last week's paycheck
on cigarettes and dollar menu items
can't even look at myself on account of the dark circles
and oily hair
the television's burnt out
the liquid crystal is toast
and the smell of plastic rises out
in a welcoming draft of warmth
if not for the smell
I would enjoy it

but
you are passion's fruit
like it cannot be obtained
by any means within me
since distance is demanding rule
and I've no power
to change it

and
you but stare at words
and cull over them briefly
there's not much there i know
though I long beyond all
that there could be

and
my headache is richly deserving
the mark at the end of bad poem
rolled out much like sickening velvet
in garish red lights
I dreaded as
a child

but
there's you, real in its intent,
though aloft like golden fruit
once spoke of in the papyrus of the Greeks
before their library blew up in flames
(by passion?)

and
the light in your eyes could
rebuild the Colossus of Rhodes
and restore its glory as there's you:
a goddess from the gates of Parnassus
or the green of early spring on Rodna
the exhalation you make in the air
that I would melt for
the stars would be the happy chorus
watching o'er
the Muses watch over you
V

...a golden thread...lyrics...pass deux...

...
the dappled light of night and tungsten
I fell, clumsy to the last
reaching out with open hand
and finding nothing in which to cling
far from you
...
the ground came to meet me with
thoughtless shadows wrapped about
leaving little pride, less than storybook
and warmless light
...
human to the last failing foresight
and staring at days that stretch quietly across
the scrap of stone like a helioscope
devoid its novelty
...
there's a golden thread that leads to your heart
not so much lost as simply said
it is from me
...
meager existence when one is blind to sense
my gentle hands seem only to find dust
upon their return from the stillness
of shadows
....
despite all despite me that thread is elusive
as if Erabos had taken it to the fringe
of thought and reason
and forgotten it himself
...
but here I am and you'll rise above all else
so whispered echoes won't reply
but find themselves in the bosom of stone
and wane away
...
there's a golden thread that leads to you
if I'll not find it
may the one that does find it brilliant
just the same
...

..."Bing"...Part 4 (abridged)...now available on Lulu...

4:

I could sense him out there – my hackles would go all in a tizzy when death was near.  No matter where I found myself, from Shanghai to Palm Springs, the hairs on my nape would get the tingles and I'd go all queasy - that was proof enough for me.  I was smartly cautious, although dear Africa wasn't going to make that an easy chore.

Trekking away from my humble soapstone abode and into the brush, reminiscent of switchgrass (or some other form of virgatum), grew 6 feet tall along this strip of savanna, which made it a perfect ground for hiding. But, as prey and predator can be easily reversed in the wild, I had to be the smarter one here.

....

Once or twice, as I was in mid-movement, I could hear the snap of a large thing reacting.  There were only two options: fight or stay still.  My eyes scanned the area above the brush.  I did await a silhouette so I could shoot it.  But, I heard it walk away. Better then, I said to myself, it would have been a bad way - I would've shot one of his henchmen, allowing him time to fight back.  Not knowing by what means he could kill me, I could not simply walk up to him like a Saturday morning matinee Western.

The second time I stayed real quiet, like a teacup at dinner, for at least a half of an hour. The sound never returned. The queasiness persisted. I should have also mentioned it must have been 90 degrees out and humidity that never eased, no matter the wind speed. My clothes were a mash of sweat and oil. The sweat was bad enough - every time I attempted to look up, my eyes would burn. But I could wait this bastard out despite him having the advantage.

The sun hit the center of the sky.  During the apex of the heat, I crawled to a short bush that allowed me a bit of a reprieve.  I allowed myself to pass out for minutes at a time.  It was a stupid move, but it wasn't by choice, believe you me.

I checked the brush around me when I came to, not one imprint of a step was made: a good sign. The bad juju that clung to me for the better part of the day was starting to wane. I'll take that Da Vinci may be good at killing, but not so at the hunt.  Most of the deaths he inflicted were simply outright, nothing subtle in the approach. However, as bad as he was at not being quiet about murder, he was a tit-mouse when it came to hiding.  My tactic was to hang as close to the fringe of his trail as I could.  It took two or three times to get back on him again - being out in the wilds I doubt I'd have to do the same.

....

I couldn't sleep now, it would have been dumb. I could hear their conspiratorial conversations in the dark. I just had to wait out 2am, the witching hour, and take them all out if the good Lord would let me.

...on to Part 5...full version available on Lulu...

...a heart shaped box...

OK, this was supposed to be done in November ~:^/ for a 2011 release, but the holidays were a bit brutal for me this year.  Did the right thing in many ways, so I gave myself a pass and didn't lapse back into a hot dog binge.  But here t'is in its expensive glory (sorry, I can't really control the pricing - but the ebook will post soon after).

I dedicate this particular title, as Valentines is around the corner, to those few men and women throughout time who loved purely and completely.  The characters in this anthology only wanted what was best for those they fell for and nothing more.  Why would you ask anything of the person you love?  In love's strictest sense, there should be nothing in return.

There was an idea planted in my heart as a young child - that of the 'champion'.  Much like chivalry in the age of the knighthood, the champion seeks only to dedicate themselves in constancy to a single woman.  It is unrequited and takes on a thousand pains, but, in the end, it affords the objet d'affection the honor of being loved for who they are, not what pacifies the ego.  It has to be the highest form of romantic love I can think of - the person who sacrifices themselves for their love, wanting nothing but for that person to truly be fulfilled.

HEART SHAPED BOX on LULU

[Interestingly, St. Valentine was a martyr that was possibly killed on February 14th (either a priest, bishop or African layperson).  It is unknown how he earned his martyr's iris, with a more than likely story that he refused to deny Christ (as many early Church martyrs were known for).  But attention came quickly for the deed and he was provided a feast day in the late 400s.  It evolved in the high court times of the Chaucer age as a call for those in love to openly show their affection.  Leave it to the greeting card companies to make it a mandate.]

...prohibition of quaestuary...

Five hundred seven years ago Antonio Ghislieri was born in Bosco, Italy - eventually putting the standard of non-profit for the Church.  Unrelatedly, I'm posting some video from Mission San Gabriel.

The next book should be up by tomorrow night, wherein I'll have the requisite links.

There are a few minor updates over the last two weeks including a pin series on Cafe Press with - "More Human Than Human" and "Enjoy Vellocet".  Yours is to guess their origin.  "29" is still available on DeviantART.

The second revision of "Powder Blue" is re-available on Nook again.  It's supposed to go live on Kindle as well - but not sure when.  It is supposedly available on the Apple ebook store, but I don't live in that world, so I'm not entirely sure.

Once "Heart Shaped Box" goes live, I'll update as well.  Cheers and thanks for coming back!

...she lobbed the blaster in her hand...

...one to the other.  It was simple muscle memory, but key for any one to understand the heft of a laser pistol in unfamiliar hands.  She stared off in the distance.  Eddie shifted his weight and stayed at the periphery of his clientele.  He didn't hold a weapon when his customers did - but he was ready for a string of sonic grenades in a heartbeat.  Eddie didn't at all admire the beauty of the customer, what with her hair up and off of her shoulders and temples - pulled tightly in a series of careful black piles.  He cared more to live the day.

She allowed the entire body of the blaster to spin her hands.  It spun evenly with no predilection to any one point.  Eddie did notice this and instantly knew she was used to firing one, in at least a few years.  The stranger was new to these parts for sure, (the outer territory was very much wild, but small enough to know most of the families, government men, criminals) but knew how to keep her head.

Eddie talked and his chin flapped, "That's a rare piece around here and why I brought it out.  It was obvious when I saw how you walked in that you wanted something...substantial."

She moved the blaster over to her other hand and allowed it to swing.  "Do you have anything close to this?"

"No, m'aam.  For a medium pistol like this one...well, it only sat around because of its impractical use.  Most folks around here need a projectile weapon like a rifle or shotgun.  For hunting and stead protection, right?  Pistols aren't more than a light thing - like you see in the case right under me."

"Is there a place I can fire it.  Obviously not in here.  If it shoots straight, you got yourself a deal."

"Yes'm.  Go ahead and take it right through there."  He pointed out a little room that led to a concrete bunker.  "Keep in mind I only have a three shot pack in there now.  That should suffice."

"So you say."  He bristled at the comment.

She went to the bunker and pulled off three shots - the smell of ozone and scoring filled the air as the lasers hit their paper targets.  During that short period of time he crossed his arms and put his left sweaty hand on his own hidden pistol.  He wasn't stupid.

"You got yourself a deal, fat man.  Ring me up for this, my tack and a few light packs."

"No problem on the weapon and the tack, but you're going to have to stow it away and come back for the packs.  I can't provide ammo to anyone unless they've stored it in their transport."  He nodded to an alarm to show he knew if a piece made it in or out.

"Fine.  As you say."  She paused and set the piece down on the counter.  "But your system sucks, I could've shot you a while ago."  She pulled back her coat to show an illegally manipulated blaster.  It was a custom piece and he, had he not started to profusely sweat at the situation would've asked a few questions on how it was made.  "But I'm not here for that."

"Ring me up and I'll take all of it right now, including the packs.  The second thing I need from you is to point me the rough direction of Cam Eyres."

"Cam Eyres?!"  He didn't take an eye off her hands as he scanned her credit chit.  "We don't even know if that asshole is still alive."

"He is."  She gathered her things and began to walk out the door.  "And...he soon won't be."

Continues in http://theedwardianjackal.blogspot.com/2016/01/original-free-gun-huntress-part-ii.html

...week one done...

Enjoying the sanguine bubblegum richness of Dia Frampton's The Broken Ones as I sift through the editing phase of the next anthology book.  I enjoy the 'cute hawtness but acts like she doesn't know singing about those who need help'.  We get it: although you are not one of the broken ones of which you sing.

Listed a magnet on the CafePress site here - enlisting the health benefits of Vellocet.

Wrote out another first draft chapter (three) to Miss Kitty.

Delays on the UStream site as the weekend was richly busy.  However, I see Sunday as the possible 'day'.  I'll list as soon as I can schedule it out.

...contempt of commonality...

When I dress down on the weekends you'll be hard pressed to distinguish me from someone that lives on the rails, or, most closely, a plumber's assistant.  I dress unabashedly low.  Most of the weekend days are spent cleaning or fixing the house; I'll not go in and out of even something half-way decent.  [The only exception is Mass; I'll attempt to look like someone other than street performer.]

Tonight, a group of posh kids, obviously lost, found themselves at my local Target.  The look the barely-20-year-old gave me was one of almost pity.  It wasn't so much contempt as it was that hovering air of 'I'm not like him'.  It was a queer look and he moved along after I caught it - he and his hipster friends leaving at the same time I did.

There's nothing wrong with the look, nor was I offended in the least.  I had a rough sweat-top and jeans that should've been put down many years ago (I guess I can equally unabashed say that I still fit the same clothes I did 15 years ago).  You add that rough hewn look with the air of uncaring abandon that I find myself growing into with the plebian contents of my cart - it offered itself wholly.

No worries - I was bemused at the two seconds of attention.  His date, a thin little Thai girl that was the artistic type, gave a few looks earlier in the store trip as well.  I say that non-egotistically, I know I'm cut from the same cloth.  It's not attraction in the least, it's artistic commonality.  She wore those popular black leggings, simple brown ankle-high boots, a knitted white sweater that fell off her shoulders.  Her hair was a dark black.  They looked like they all just smoked pot about an hour prior.

Either way, he walked four feet in front of her the entire time.  The subtle disdain was apparent; even wearing a white sweater jacket in January was a middle finger in my book.  It still does not surprise me how women are treated these days - they are glorious creatures, but modern man seemingly can do without them.

Came across, not in response to above, J.V. Cunningham's poem, "Coffee", and here an excerpt of it:

"I have so often fled
Wherever I could drink
Dark coffee and there read
More than a man would think"

I've avoided coffee for a few days, but I can't wait again to have a hot cup in the quiet of a small diner and think over things.

Updates abound, as I continue to work out the 2012 overlay for the entire site.  The working draft is in front of me and it feels good to get closer.

...new year...humble beginnings...

...with the new year, an overhaul of the primary website to a 'back to basics' look (make sure to refresh your browser for the main site and the store).  In honor of the new year, drew up some new artwork for the deviantART site with "Skull #29".  Another one will be posted by end of week, "Heart Shaped Box #9" and "Crying #11".


As I'm sure with you, the holidays have been a bear as for getting work completed.  I'm back in the swing again (barely, or, I'm completely figuring this out incorrectly).  Anthology #2 is in last draft and should be posted by next Sunday - although formatting is something that has to play out slowly.


Equipment has been purchased for my UStream account and I'll be playing with that as well next weekend with a test run.  Link to go up once I get all the technical aspects worked out with the streaming application.


Updates will happen with CafePress, the Photo Wall, and more...the other items above are priority.


Thanks so much for visiting -  please check out the mini-blocks and get updates on Facebook (friend me, I won't bite), Twitter, YouTube, etc.  If I don't get on the blog, these other instruments are being updated.