The Ghost of Many Whales

So here's an intriguing idea for a comatose industry, one that's dear to many writers' hearts. It probably won't tell you anything that you haven't already heard but it's interesting nevertheless.

First book authors are their own foils it seems. Makes you wonder why we do this but I know all too well why I continue down this road--continue even as I fall asleep trying to work on a project, literally nodding at my laptop. And it's not because what I'm talking about is so uninteresting and non-stimulation. It's just exhaustion because the world, goddamnit, is tiring.

All writing has rules. Stories have plots, they've got to string along a certain way or heaven forbid! the idiot sub-agent or associate editor won't get it because they're all conditioned to respond to some sort of Harry Potter or horny vampire story. (I wrote half of a horny vampire novel years ago and pitched it to an agent who said something to the effect of, "Is it on par with Anne Rice? People want Anne Rice." To which I replied, "It's better than Anne Rice because I'm a better writer than Anne Rice, damnit!" The agent didn't sign me.) So if you come at them with something that hints at literary, then duck under the desk, the heartless, gutless pussies.

Well, anyway, that's not how I write. I once read part of this monumental Tom Clancy book with which I struggled mightily because it was such crap and so boring that I just couldn't finish it. Robert Ludlum's early stuff, however, was fun--something I've thought since first looking at that stuff in high school. After Parsifal Mosaic he kind of loses me, though. It's good storytelling but the writing was what it was.

This is all low-brow critique, isn't it? I mean, does anyone really sit down to read cover-to-cover Sons and Lovers or Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man? Maybe, though unlikely. I haven't read either of these in years and I doubt I shall complete again; I've always relied on the weather to dictate the terms of my reading: Berlin Stories in the late fall; Revolutionary Road in the summer, along with On the Road and A Passage to India. Currently I'm enjoying The Rest of the Earth, an outstanding literary western by William Haywood Henderson. I heartily recommend this novel--shades of Faulkner and McCarthy.

But why the hell does a beach book have to be an excuse to be distracted? I read Empire of the Sun and Absalom! Absalom! whilst soaking up the rays one summer; these days I don't really hit the beach; I value my skin and anyway it's gonna be sunny tomorrow because this is California...

Dostoevsky and Tolstoy work well over the winter. In the spring I suppose you could divulge in Howards End and Rabbit, Run. Those are very "green" seeming books, all rich in language and heavy on story. They release you from winter. Try it out.

So what about Dryline Rhapsody and North of Here? The former was mostly written over a summer and fall, with a hiatus in the early winter and finally completed some mid February a few years ago. The latter has been written and rewritten over the period of many years that I'm not sure exactly when it was penned but the story is certainly is something for the winter since it's set in northern New Hampshire over a November-December time period. And it's a dark subject. I would recommend either one for the beach.

In fact, I would recommend Moby-Dick if, for no other reason than to remind readers that the novel is the greatest written in the English language and that the ghost of many whales haunts the waters over which the wind blows. And wouldn't you know the chapters are around five pages each?

**Project update**

Focusing and outlining. I'm happiest when I'm at work.

Peace.

T.A.M.

Hush; Could That Be a Deer - Part II

Peace, like a lake. Gentle lapping of the shore. The great forged rock thrusts skyward to form the rest of the mountain. Clouds drift by distantly, shading the calm surface at intervals.

Charred remains of someone's lakeside camp. Hacked lengths of wood now softened from the burning are summer cool in a fading light. It was someone's camp by someone's lake. The rest of it was the mountain's. I sat by the water on a ledge and watched the lake fill with the colors of the afternoon.

One's journey never really begins or ends at some alpine lake rather continues from there to the rest of one's days or until it's forgotten. In the thin-air silence of the mountain's time-passing is not noticeable in our terms; we can see the jagged edge of rock or gnarled bark of a hearty mountain pine to guess that it's a place of long times. Yes, and the watermark from past replenishing tells of levels invisible or momentary.

I haven't seen these places in more than 20 years but I would often revisit them in my memories and, subsequently, in my writing.

It's always been very important to me, identifying with New England. Maybe this is because it is going away. In North of Here, I was creating a small town experience that I'd never had (this despite being from a small place); I took a certain amount of liberty and stretched the truths a little but what you see there is more or less what happened--if only in my mind.

But I've been away for a long time. Even if I were to return to that place, I'm fairly certain that it simply couldn't be the same. So I write about it instead. North of Here is a wintertime novel; for me all of New England is wintertime. There is something about the cold, wintry windswept commons at dusk that evoke a certain drama. I'll never shake it.

Or is it simply because I was there during that wonderful, confusing, simple time of life--youth, late adolescence--that I keep looking back for answers? It was, after all, a time and a place before all this, during which that small place called Chesterfield was shamelessly attached to a past better suited now for old photographs; a whitewashed clapboard-sided church on some gentle rise. It's iconic, and I've known these places so well.

I write New England. Even Dryline Rhapsody wove the parts of the story back to the places I had once known. I haven't seen the New Hampshire in the summertime since then (three or so years ago) but it was more or less everything I remembered.

That muse, whatever it was, drifted off somewhere. I look for it still. All writers seek to create a perfect or even imperfect world in their writing. We seek to recreate experience and add to what we might've known or wish we could know. I don't know that I'll specifically write about the place in earnest again but I do know that whatever it is about the place continues to backdrop my stories.

**Project update**

Marketing, marketing, marketing. Waiting to see what happens.

Peace.

T.A.M.

Hush; Could That Be a Deer?

In the spring there was the scent of fresh cut grass, at long last after the typically long winters. At the four corners, the bikes were ditched just blow the wall where the field dropped off from the road. And apart from the wind that shook the newly budded leaves, the town's silence was broken only by the church bells in the village.

This was part of Chesterfield, New Hampshire once. For me it was a place of the old names: Smith, Jones, Stoddard, Johnson, Nutting. In fact, the road on which my father had built a rather spare log cabin back in the early '70s was, on the old maps, called Jones Road. It was later renamed Poocham, which is thought to be Abanaki for "gathering place". The old names in an old place.

All of growing up is a categorizing of time and place, a remembering of what once was and what was perceived to be better. I do indeed reflect on my youth and adolescence as being a simpler place than the world in which we now live.

With every passing day, however, another part of my memory goes away. I write about it often and I try to be as honest as I can but there is a certain amount of sentimentality when looking back. It was simpler time and it was simpler place.

I've had conversations over the years and while I confess that I've at times over sentimentalized New Hampshire, there really is nothing I can think of that compares to those days: the sun seemed kinder, the air cleaner, the winters crisper. Those were oddly transitional years--between the post-Vietnam and the Reagan years. Kids were pulled between two ideals so is it any wonder I turned out the way I did?

Once, while walking one of the many Chesterfield hills I had come to know in the early summer of my late college days, I stopped in the woods and stood among the tall fern fronds. The day had been warm and now the cool shadows of the setting sun cast across the open woods. The trail continued along the swamp's edge; I was tucked beneath the base of the mountain, walking south to where the road quickly turned right and lead to the pond.

While counting salamanders (I was a poet in my youth and this is clearly something poets do) I wasn't really paying attention to the ferny hill until quite suddenly the thunderous drumming of a deer fleeing up the mountain stopped me in my tracks. I watched the white tail flash through the pines as the majestic beast made little work of completing the distance between us

I watched. Then it was gone and woods filled with sporadic birdsong defeated only by the spacial woodsy silence.

Other poets probably see it the same way, indeed as do other writers: these moments of our live are imprinted and cataloged, collected and ultimately reused in a story, song, or novel. While I know I can never go back in time nor can I really return to that town, whatever it was about that time and place is forever engraved in my imagination, the source of all my writing, that place I had known for most of my life.

**Project update**

Ready for a change and for a new project. Admittedly, I've allowed my songs to sort of take over but I think this needs to change now. It is, after all, summer--a very good time for writing.

Peace.

T.A.M.

Eureka! It's Gone.

Frankly, I'm all for it. California as a state has failed; long live California.

It started as a dream. This ideal place for the so-called middle class. Cheap land, seemingly infinite resources, breathtaking beauty. It's been exploited, raped, robbed, and pillaged. It once held promise but like everything on this side of the water, it's become sour. I'm not one to dwell in pessimism, but now there's talk of breaking up the state. Hmmm.

I blame Governor Schwarzenegger, sure. But I also blame everyone else in the California legislature--the extremely partisan body that just can't get out of its own way. And so, ergo California: a failed state. Let's break it up and start over again.

Where would I live, I wonder? I don't altogether trust Democrats these days and I could never get behind Republicans because they're as exploited as anything in this world. On the other hand, the others parties all the way down the line can offer up nothing either. I'm independent. There's a certain amount of conservatism that must exist just as there is a considerable amount of liberalism that has to exist in this beautiful world of ours.

I mean, is it too much to ask to have fiscal responsibility, health care for all, education spending that's not gerrymandered all to hell, clean water, clean air, clean energy, low taxes, and an infrastructure that works?

Governor, you really should disband the legislature and spend the next 20 months getting this right. Californians are so checked out they probably wouldn't notice. I'm pissed off like anyone. Your kind of bravado and populism was just an empty suit. Real leadership calls for real leaders, not some dipshit actor.

Further, by all means, legalize marijuana. Who the hell cares?! The revenue would be absolutely staggering. And if anyone thinks for a minute that the so-called conservatives down in Orange County and in the Central Valley ain't ever took a drag on a joint before or had themselves a line or bought smack, or chased the dragon, they're all fuckin' crazy.

So, how about a five-state or less solution? Why the hell not. It couldn't get any worse and actually might be a boon. I would likely live in the state of Angeles because I like burritos, I'm not racists, I know the area and I've been to what will one day be known as the state of Reagan (Orange County), and it ain 't all that.

On the other hand, Sierra, where you will one day find the Central Valley and whose capital will be Fresno, has a certain amount of--how dow I put this?--salt-of-the-earthism, which is rather appealing. Land, land, and more land; flat as hell, a straight line highway to the state of Francisco.

Ah, yes, Francisco! That'll be a groovy place forever. Oakland will be the capital if for no other reason than to give props to the shitty Oakland Raiders.

Humboldt, the state that borders Oregon (might even be absorbed by Oregon, actually) will likely retain Sacramento as the capital and that place will be the main exporter of legalized marijuana in the still-new millennium. It'll be a paradise--and not just for stoners. Everything will organic--even the air--and some will be serious and some will be drowsy but it'll be a great place to visit.

So, eureka, there you have it. The Golden State's gone. The great bear on the flag shot down by some NRA retard from Bakersfield or Norco. It was great, thanks for the memories, California.

40 Days & 40 Nights

Well, it's not like I abandoned this blog altogether or have given up on the whole writer thing. As I have said to a learned friend of mine--and, indeed, as I often say--"Life gets in the way of living." I guess this holds true for blogging: Life gets in the way of blogging.

These past 40 or so days since I last updated this things have been wrought with the busy-ness of life. I've been in a wilderness, as it were, finding my way back to my laptop only recently to begin work on another writing project. Meanwhile, there's the whole music thing--songwriting, performing. (Yes, performing. I've got gigs coming up in Pasadena this month and next. Booked gigs! Be there!) But all the while I've had this yearning to get back to a story or continue a story. I'm almost there.

Then there's the whole day-job thing. It really taps into one's soul, I find. Then there's the whole 46-inch flat screen TV (new) that is such an incredible distraction (not to mention the Cup and the Playoffs). All in hi-def. Insane. At least my digs are sleepy-quiet.

The other projects--Dryline Rhapsody and North of Here--are drifting in the tides of submissionland. It does take that long, folks. Ah, that I were a banker--then my tears would be valid, I suppose.

But I digress, as I often do. I'm still here, still determined as ever. The weather is changing on the West Coast; the jasmine plants are blooming and the night air is filled with the intoxicating fragrance. Nights are cool, days warming. I've literally climbed a mountain or two in the past couple of months, which, admittedly, did a number on my sinuses but who the hell cares?! It's a mountain!

So, Dryline makes the rounds as does North of Here. Afterlight Dreamers, which has taken many forms of late, is shaping in another direction; such is the story of my life thus far. A writer writes, but sometimes he makes a living too.

So, there you have it. An update. Been at sea, 40 days and 40 nights. Seeking now the olive branch to guide me ashore.

**Project update**

See above.

Peace.

T.A.M.

If This Is It...

I don't know anyone who would profess or even confess to being a Huey Lewis and the News fan. But somebody was because they were everywhere for a time.

Back in the 80s when those guys ruled the airwaves and whose campy videos were in heavy rotation on MTV, you paid attention because they looked like the guys down the street, practicing in the garage.

This is not to suggest that they weren't any good; I recall Huey himself saying that they would either be huge or at least be the greatest bar band in the world. They turned out to be both.

You can name the songs ("Do You Believe In Love", "I Want a New Drug", "If This is It", "Hip to Be Square", "Jacob's Ladder") and now that I tee them up, I'm pretty sure you know a few others that I don't, and you at least know the chorus to the aforementioned.

And yet how come I don't hear them on the radio anymore? I hear everything but these guys nowadays. The plethora of retro stations in L.A. alone should at least lend three minutes a day to the News but I've yet to hear it.

Instead, as usual, we're stuck with the Stones, The Doors, The Doobie Brothers, Journey, Styx (ouch!), Guns 'n' Roses (still), and at least on the drives home Nirvana, which is scarier still, considering how many t-shirts those guys still sell; I've yet to see anyone walking around with a Doobie Brothers or Bad Co. shirt on...

I wonder if you can get a Huey Lewis and The News t-shirt? And if you could, would you really wear it? I've seen kids walking around with Lionel Richie and Paula Abdul shirts, as a sort of inside joke, I guess. Well, the joke's on them because I'm certain that Mr. Richie, who's reportedly sold upwards of 100 million records worldwide, and Ms. Abdul, who's on TV once a week flirting with wannabes, are still making money from that crap of two decades past.

But getting back to Huey. It was a pinnacle time in America when we first heard "I Want a New Drug". Back then still nearly 20% of the workforce made ends meet working in industry (compared to something like 7% now). Disco was on the skids, yuppies were on the rise, and money was king. Along comes a bar band with harmless lyrics, catchy riffs and sing-along choruses that worked perfectly into the scheme of weekends. I mean, whole records seem to be devoted to it anyway but there was something in those lines that reeked of getting a buzz on, keeping it on, trying to get laid, maybe even getting laid, passing out on a beach, waking up in the sunshine, getting a buzz on, keeping it on. trying to get laid, failing miserably at it, passing out on a beach, waking up in a fog, shaving on a ferry, getting back to the city to make it to the office by 9:15. It was an ideal time! They wrote the harmless score to a million MBAs!

Okay, maybe not, but I suspect they were, ultimately, an invention of MTV. Indeed, I suspect that if there hadn't been an MTV there wouldn't've been the version of The News we know and love.

I started by saying that I don't know anyone who would profess or even confess to being a Huey Lewis & The News fan but I say now I wish they were around. We could use a dose of that sort of fantasy if for no other reason than it's hard to go through the weekends like a goddamn warrior to the Jonas Brothers or Miley Cyrus (God help us).

**Project update**

I've been quite busy with projects, thus haven't had time to update this blog. More coming on that front. Meanwhile, thanks for dropping in.

Peace.

T.A.M.

Shortfalls and Waterfalls

My father was five when the Great Crash changed America--and much of the world--and ushered in the Depression.

He, like a lot of folks of that era whom I've met over the years, recollected the sort of day-to-dayism of the times. I've tried to imagine what it was like with nearly a third of the population out of work. Man, that must've been crazy. But he did say that some of the best writing came from that era and I believe this is true.

But here we are in California with the unemployment rate rocketing toward 11%. California--the dream of America, the place that owns 10% of the country's population. That's a lot of people out of work. What the hell's going on here?

I lived in Orange County for a couple of years and only recently moved back up to L.A. Orange County is a mythic place of money and affluence. It's a dreamland of sorts--not a ponderous place and certainly not a place where people go to think about things. No, OC is a safe haven for those who're are influenced or otherwise driven toward success and excess.

I first ventured into this Shangri-La in 1990 when I attended a cousin's wedding. We went to some crazy Newport party and stayed out all night, winding up at someone's house where we jumped off the roof into the pool. It was decadent, it was cinematic, it was California. Anything goes. I would move to the Golden State some six years later and by then the dotcom era was about to kick into high gear, so there was plenty of money to be made.

Laguna Hills is a sleepy place eight miles and change from the coast. In the two-and-a-half years I lived there I think I actually went to the beach four times. I just don't go to the beach and would much rather prefer to go to the Laguna during the week when it's not so crowded. Still, I liked living there. It was the antithesis of literature and therefore unspayed ground. I wrote the second draft of Dryline Rhapsody and completed MILFord here, not to mention several songs. It was a creative period the times were good.

I've often said one would have to be crazy to buy property in California but I am wholly convinced that this is where I'll be buried. I won't leave this place. I've laid down roots here, however begrudgingly. I suppose it's not a bad place to live; surely the current economic climate might make for a level playing field.

And I can write here. Despite the shifting sands, I have found something of a muse in the maddening myth that is California. If she's a mistress then she'll leave ; if she's a partner she'll welcome my nuances with a resolved countenance. Either way, gone are the fields of my youth; I am part of this legacy and aim to make it work for me.

**Project update**

Actually, I've been revising Dryline Rhapsody and have re-read North of Here, since I'm making another push with both of these manuscripts. It's a long-ass road, man. Otherwise, I continue with other writing projects, including the collection of poetry, California Variations, which is also about to make the rounds.

Peace,

T.A.M.