A Sample From Shell Shock, The Sequel To Seven Stones

I had a busy week writing this week and thought I'd share a snippet:

Shuffling was heard, paws padding on soft snow. Doug found himself in the middle of the group mind, a mind whose purpose was to kill. It was an alien intelligence, an intelligence unknown but knowable, if fear and loathing did not prevent him from trying. It was not hatred, not evil, it was merely the sort of fear that caused one to kill in order to preserve the life of the pack. And Doug was incidental to it all, he sensed it. The scene acting itself out in front of him was one in which he was just an accidental observer. Blood would be spilled in order that order would be preserved, the pack allowed to survive.

Gagnon seemed to have heard something, as suddenly he raised his rifle to his shoulder, aimed, and fired. A piercing howl went up in the direction where Gagnon fired. Again, he surveyed the forest’s edge, seeming to see what Doug could not. Again a shot, again a howl.

But the movement within the woods seemed to increase. His shots were merely stirring up a swarm of angry hornets. Doug was within the caldron, could do nothing but stand and stare. Gagnon’s behavior began to grow more and more erratic, turning again and again to confront foes he could not possibly see. He turned in Doug’s direction, looked straight at him, but did not seem to see him. Still, Gagnon raised his rifle. The futility of his situation almost made him stay where he was, but a thought of inspiration made him fall to the ground.

The bullet flew over his head and again a howl could be heard from the woods, a sickening howl that conveyed all the horror of the situation. As the pack seemed to work together, so too did the entire pack seem to howl through the voice of the wolf that had been shot. But the movement in the woods only increased. Doug looked up, saw Gagnon swirling around now, attempting to ward off a threat that seemed to come from all around him. He was in the middle of a semi-circle of woods, twenty feet in all directions.

And then the first wolf came out from its hiding, a great, grey wolf with eyes that shown yellow in the moonlight. Gagnon was not looking at it, could no longer seemed to focus, instead swirling around, looking for the enemy everywhere but not seeing the danger. Soon another wolf, then another, slowly crept out of the shadows of the woods into the clearing. Three, five, ten, a score, all of them larger than Doug could have imagined. Still Gagnon turned in circles, looking for unseen dangers as the wolves slowly circled their prey, closing their distances as they moved.

At last a black wolf slipped from the shadows, seemed to be part of the shadows himself. Larger even than the others, he appeared to be the alpha-wolf. One eye only glistened a sickly yellow in the moon’s light, but its white teeth shown brightly. At last Gagnon’s focus seemed to return, as if finally seeing what it was that has been haunting him. He raised his rifle and aimed it at the black wolf, that looked at him with the one yellow eye. But there was nothing more than a click as he pulled the trigger. He had spent his ammunition.

The black wolf worked its way among the others, still part of the pack, not its driving force but the leading weapon of whatever force drove the pack on. Doug was within the circle that focused on Gagnon. He gripped the axe but had no hopes for himself other than delaying his death by a few seconds. But the wolves paid no more attention to him than Gagnon had.

The pack was continuing to close in, so close that one brushed against Doug’s leg. Doug lowered the axe in its direction but missed. Still the pack seemed unaware or uninterested in him, as if he were no more than a tree or a stone to be worked around. The occasional growl could was emitted, teeth exposed in order to get its preys attention and fear. Taking the only chance he saw, Doug started to work his way outward from the circle, picking his way slowly through the throng. He anticipated sharp teeth attaching themselves to his arm or leg at any moment, but he was able to pick his way through the throng unmolested. His back was turned to Gagnon, but he could hear him talking to the pack as if he expected them to listen. But the authority he had always had in his tone was gone now, it was full of fear, marking him as the kind of prey that was an easy mark.

Free from the circle, Doug walked slowly to the forest line, nearly as slowly as he had walked away from it. He found a pine that seemed hospitable and jumped to the lowest branch. He climbed, higher than he needed to, as high as he could. When he felt at last secure, he turned his gaze towards the clearing, saw the wolves continue their encirclement. As Gagnon turned, the occasional wolf would make a lunge at his back, forcing him to turn again. The pine branches obstructed Doug’s view so that Gagnon was one moment visible, the next hidden with reaction he made towards a wolf. He did not see when the first wolf took him down, only heard the scream of pain. The rest he only partially saw. Doug would not have been able to look away, but he was grateful he could not see it all. The screaming abated and soon after so did the snarls. He couldn’t tell for sure—perhaps he only imagined it—but he thought he saw Gagnon gaze up to his spot in the tree as he was on the ground, a resigned look in his eyes the same as Doug had seen in the deer’s.

Chapter 1 Of Seven Stones

Chapter 1

September 24, 1913 Chicago

     The table rocked slightly in the darkness. Each of those sitting around it held the hands of those next to them.

     “Do not break the circle,” intoned the medium. “Do not let go of the hand you hold.”

     They were all dependent upon each other to ensure not only their safety but to create the necessary link to the other world. They were all at the mercy of the medium, who alone had some experience in such matters. He alone had power to communicate with the spirit world. He spoke as one who was already halfway between this world and the next.

     “If you notice movement above you, if you feel anything touch your cheek, say nothing, do nothing. Do not call attention to yourself and they will not pay undue attention to you.”

     “A moment please,” spoke another member of the gathering, timidly. “I wish to remove my spectacles. I won’t be needing them in the dark and I fear they may be broken.”

     “Do it if you must,” came the voice of the medium, obviously perturbed, “but do not delay or disturb the forces around us again.”

     There was a fumbling in the dark for a moment as the man could be heard removing his glasses and then hands reached out again to re-form the circle.

     The medium intoned the spirits to make themselves known. Over and over he chanted, until his utterances were nothing more than low moans. Soon, even the low moans drifted away into a silence. And then the table began to move, slowly at first, and then more violently, lifting and dropping to the floor. Each of them could feel it through their elbows and hands that rested on the table. A slight audible bump as it fell back to the floor sent shivers up spines.

     Before long there seemed to be motion above the heads of those who sat at the table, the stagnant air of the attic being stirred by unknown forces.

     “I feel contact,” the medium shouted suddenly, almost as though he had been stabbed.

     The table dropped and the medium could be heard gasping unevenly as though he was breathing for two.

     When the medium spoke again, it was no longer with the same voice.

     “Greetings from the world beyond the world,” the voice uttered in a sarcastic tone. “To those of you who are open to the truth, I wish you well,” the voice came a step towards pleasantness, for a moment, then changed to a hiss, “but you are unwise to allow those who dare disbelief to be among you. The circle is your one protection from forces even I cannot control. Do not allow that circle to be compromised by doubters.”

     There was silence. Then the table began to rock violently. In the darkness, it sounded as if the medium was convulsing. The madness grew. Soon a bell was ringing, a horn blew frantically.

     Without sight, neither imagination nor the senses could make sense of what was going on around and above and below them. It was an invitation to panic, to abandon any attempt to impose reason on the situation. Just when hearing began to place the source of the disturbance somewhere above their heads, there came again the rocking of the table that was felt beneath their clasped hands.

     As the rocking of the table reached new heights of intensity and the ringing of the bell became more frantic, a beam of light flickered on. For a moment, it only served to increase the chaos. But soon reason began to reclaim a foothold among the people gathered around the table. It was a flashlight held by a member of the circle and it was pointed directly at where the medium sat. Or, rather, it was pointed at where the medium should have been. In the circle of light that bathed his high-backed chair, no sign could be seen of the man responsible for all the noises in the dark.

     “You can come out, now,” came the voice of the man holding the flashlight. The head of the medium slowly rose above the table. On his chest an amulet with a large green stone reflected dimly the beam of light from the flashlight.

     “Using your head to move the table. I’ve seen such methods used many times before. And undoubtedly using a false-back shoe so that you could use your foot to ring a bell. Aided by a compatriot or two, no doubt.”

     The voice that came from behind the light was commanding, the face that stared into the light now timid in its unexpected exposure.

     “You expect these parlor games to fool me, Slatterini The Astounding? A magician trained in the art of deception?”

     Behind the beam of the flashlight, the figure holding it could be observed ripping off a false beard and glasses. The old gray-haired man who had slowly made his way up the stairs earlier that evening now revealed himself to be a clean-shaven man in his early twenties. The frailty had vanished and was replaced with a glare of certainty and vitality. He was young and of no more than average height, but had attitude and confidence enough to assert his authority.

     “By sleight of hand you fool people into believing the preposterous. You play upon people’s fears and longings, conning wealthy widows into giving you not only their wealth but their very ability to reason. You separate your followers from family and society by filling their heads with such nonsense they can no longer maintain normal relationships.”

     The people seated around the table were too surprised for the most part to say a word. The medium, a middle aged man with hair and mustache precisely oiled and styled, stared as much as possible his hatred past the glare of the flashlight. The woman seated next to him, obviously an accomplice, rose in her anger.

     “You don’t understand,” she screamed. “Of course a medium cannot be expected to achieve success with such skeptics to siphon off the proper psychic energy. It is your doubt that has caused the failure here tonight.”

     “And it is my doubt that caused Professor Munchin to make such a show of things, too, I suppose?”

     The accomplice would admit to nothing. With the hair piled atop her head, she seemed a good deal taller than she was. “Faith is of the utmost importance. Sometimes the faith must be encouraged. When there is doubt present, the spirits will not make the connection. Sometimes those in attendance must be given something to stir their faith before the spirits deem the circle worthy of an appearance. Sometimes—“

     “Bosh!” exclaimed the man with the flashlight. “Utter and complete claptrap, coming from the crudest of cons. Not only shall I write an explanation of all that I have witnessed here tonight and send it to the newspaper, I shall incorporate your practices into my stage act along with an explanation of how your tricks are done. The practices of those in your profession blacken the reputation of those in mine.”

     “Here is my card, sir,” he said to Munchin, producing it seemingly from mid-air. He walked towards the medium and placed it boldly into the other’s breast pocket. “You are formally invited to see my performance at the Aragon Ball Room, this weekend. It promises to prove quite instructive.”

     No longer walking like an old man in mourning, he walked towards the stairs that led from the attic with the practiced movements of an experienced showman. With no further words, he strode out of the house and into the gloom of twilight. As he walked, he whistled to himself as he twirled a chain that had on it a rather curious pendant with a green stone in its center.

     Back in the attic of the brownstone house, a lamp was lit. What had appeared a moment earlier to be a group of strangers now talked quite familiarly with one another.

     “He’s gone,” said a voice coming from the stairs.

     “Are you sure?”

     “Yes. He hopped a street car headed north.”

     “Damn magicians,” said the one who was called Professor Munchin, “they should stick to amusing children with card tricks.”

     “It’s Houdini who got them started,” said a heavyset man who was dressed in a suit of such finery that it left little doubt as to his wealth and position in society.

     “Houdini’s going to get his before long,” said Munchin. “But this Slatterini fellow has proven to be a rather useful idiot. Whatever publicity he provides should keep our real work from being discovered. No better cover than to have the world believe we’re scam artists, eh?” Munchin chuckled, as did the heavyset man, pleased with themselves.

     “Well, now that that’s taken care of, suppose we proceed with the real order of business for the evening,” said the woman who moments earlier was feigning outrage.

     “Are you sure you’re still up for it?”

     “The longer we delay, the more I fear to do it. Let us put it off no more.”

     “Very well, then. Let us gather around the table.”

     Removing one chair from the gathering, the six individuals resumed their seats at the table. Hands were once again clasped, heads bowed in the dim light of the gas lamp. Led by Munchin, the group began a low humming while swaying slightly to an unheard rhythm.

     Where the presence came from they did not know. Whether it made its appearance in the center through an opening they had created, or whether it wormed its way through their individual life forces to become a single entity in their midst was impossible to say. They only knew they felt a seventh spirit among them, separate from the group and yet oddly connected.

     It was hard to know where one of them stopped and the other started. Clenched hands reached deeper than the surface, seemed to merge into the other until it almost felt as if each was clutching the beating hearts of those next to him. And in the middle of all was this strange new entity, as though it were the solution that enabled them to dissolve one into the other. And as their hands seemed to reach deeper than the surface, so now this apparition seemed to reach into the hearts of each of them, like spokes in a wheel.

     “What’s happening?” said the woman to the left of Munchin, a concerned quiver in her voice.

     “Stay calm,” Munchin said, exhibiting none of what he preached.

     The members who sat about the table no longer swayed but began to shake as if in convulsions.

     “There’s something wrong!” screamed a member of the circle. “We can’t control it.”

     “Don’t worry,” said Munchin, “I have the amulet. Whatever I summon must respect it.”

     “Where is it?” screamed the woman.

     Munchin looked down, panic welling up on his features. But panic soon changed to pain as something seemed to grab a hold of him, as if a hand reached up inside his chest and around his heart. Soon, all of those around the table shared the same look of agony on their faces. A vague shape above the table was noticeable, its features indistinct except for a malevolent grin. It was only a few seconds before they all slumped forward dead onto the table.

     Seated on a wooden seat aboard a streetcar, a young man snuck a glimpse of a pendant that he half-pulled from his pocket. His expression was one of intense curiousity.

     “I hope they don’t notice this missing.”

If you like what you read, the book is available on Amazon. Simply click here to see more. And please sign up for my mailing list for future sales and giveaways.

Random Thoughts Part 18 (The All Politics Edition)

I try and avoid politics in this blog. Even now I try to avoid being overtly political, I'm just making observations that are hopefully too obvious to deny regardless of one's political views:

Government should not tell us how to live our lives, that’s the job of corporations and their 24 hour a day propaganda machine.

Unquestionably fire is a wonderful thing, one of the great discoveries of mankind. But to suggest that because it is good that we should not try to regulate it, to contain and control it, is absurd. How is the market any different? Shall we abandon human reason and desires to it, or can we not somehow limit its potential to burn?

More elections have been stolen by impeding voters than will ever be swung by people voting illegally.

Congressmen have become so busy raising money that they have been forced to rely on their donors to actually do the work of writing laws.

Capitalism gives us a choice of a thousand different bottled waters while it pees in the public well.

Responsible gun owners support responsible gun laws.

The flower of peace shall never blossom by being watered with blood, except, perhaps, the blood of martyrs.

Climate change deniers who point to every bit of snow as proof of their opinion are like alcoholics who point at every instance they have not misbehaved while drinking to prove they don’t have a problem.

We are all going to have to work together to solve our nation’s problems. Of course, there is a strain of political thought today, a very prevalent one, that says working together IS the problem.

Centuries ago, the Catholic Church had no answer to the theory that the earth was round, and so was forced to oppose the idea. Today, the religion of the free market has no answer for global warming, and so must likewise oppose what does not fit its world view.

When the last public school has closed and the last union disappeared, then the voices that now clamor for choice will fall silent. While there will be no choice left, they will say nothing, because it was never really about choice for them to begin with.

The more corporations take over our country, the louder will be the voices from the media that free enterprise is under attack from the government.

We are at a stage where we must learn to believe in Utopia…or 1984.

If you’re going to be a politician it helps to be a pathological liar.

If money equals free speech, then how can prostitution be illegal?

Why do governments put sanctions on countries that do bad things? Because corporations are soulless money suckers that would do business with the devil himself if it netted them a few bucks.

Beware of politicians who talk about working for the taxpayer. When they said the same thing in the South prior to the Civil War, they weren’t talking about working for those who actually did the work.

When our politicians talk about free trade, they’re not talking about the poor black man selling cigarettes on the street corner.

Of course the Confederate Flag is a symbol of intolerance and hatred, all flags are.

Conservatives have fallen on hard times. In the 70’s they callously told the poor, “Get a job!” Today they are forced to say, “Get a second job!”

Government is what big business wants it to be. To think to change society by going after government is like a bull going after a matador’s cape.

If you make credit too easily available you will have idiots driving around in vehicles the wise cannot afford. And in the end it will be the wise who will end up paying.

Is it too wild an assertion that elected officials should work for those people who pay their salaries instead of those who pay for their election campaigns?

The New Art Movement

     We are overdue for an artist’s movement that will change the world. It may sound absurd to you but it is only because you have been sleepwalking through life of late, we have all been sleepwalking. It is we the artists who shape perception. We see the path and leave signs in our art for others to follow. But we have lost sight of this fact. We have allowed others to tell the stories, to paint the picture. We have allowed corporations and profiteers to take over. The world of late has been shaped by corporate artists for corporate interests. Hell, we’ve even become corporate artists ourselves, allowing ourselves to believe we do what we must to earn a paycheck.

     Even worse, we have become irrelevant. We have become domesticated, toothless, and fangless. We have forgotten the power we possess and quietly whisper half-truths and assertions we ourselves do not understand nor believe. We no longer even dare call ourselves artists because we fear what the name implies. We fear to take on such a bold undertaking and so call ourselves songwriters, novelists, painters, or filmmakers. But we are artists, all of us, all who seek to express beauty and truth. If we are not artists then we are propagandists. Even if we do not out and out lie, if we do not profess what we believe, if we do not reflect what we see, we are in the camp of the enemy by lulling the population into somnolence when we should be awakening them to their true condition.

     It is time once again for human art that expresses human values. Not money’s values, not machine values, not corporate values. When humans take back art they take back control of their path, their direction, their destiny.

     It must be done boldly, not with one eye behind us, fearing that it will not provide a living. The time has come for choice, the road has diverged and we must choose which path to take. In truth, the paths diverged long ago, and we have been stumbling halfheartedly through the tall grass. It is time to find the path those who have inspired us have laid clear for us.

     To crawl on the way we have been, meekly obeying our baser motives, denying all that is best of our humanity, or to embrace with both arms the visions we see at our best moments. Perhaps we have waited so long because we've allowed ourselves the belief that the other path, the path of doubt and timidity, offered at least a degree of security. Now we have walked it too far, can no longer deny the destruction and hopelessness that lies at the end of it.

     We must embrace our childish dreams with adult determination. It is not maturity to do otherwise, it is a refusal to develop ourselves into the most complete humans we can become, a refusal to grow into what we are capable of being.

     Crawl from your cribs and your playroom you call your man cave and stretch out into a larger existence than you have dared imagine. It can be frightening, yes, but it is worth the risk. The alternative is a life not lived. Put aside fear, and dare.

     Art is not a diversion, it is the summit of human understanding. Literature is not the construction of a beautiful though frail glittering glass ornament. It is the creation of a prism through which we are able to see the world we live in in a way we never have before. It is not the plaything of ivory tower intellectuals nor an escapist drug for bored housewives, but the raw, pulsing stuff of life, the essence, the soul.

     Art is a prism, not a microscope or telescope, which has us looking too finely or too far, but a prism to see what is before us, what is nearest and most relevant.

     You the artist shape how your audience perceives the world. You influence their behavior. It’s a big responsibility but you cannot avoid it. That is why you must try your utmost to give what you perceive to be the truth. To do otherwise, to produce work that is devoid of the deepest parts of you, is to tell others that the deepest part of you—and them—doesn’t matter. Is that the message you wish to convey?

     Charles Barkley once said that he was not a role model, but he was wrong. Once you have someone’s attention, you are a role model whether you like it or not. If you ask to be listened to, if you go out of your way to seek the attention of others, then you incur the responsibility that comes with that. You cannot merely entertain, it doesn’t work that way. You cannot offer only entertainment without message because that in itself sends a message, that life is a trivial game we play with no real purpose or moral aspects.

     The world is adrift on a rudderless ship, but you the artist are the rudder, you know it to be true. You ask for them to see through your eyes, to follow you as you weave your story. You are the navigator who sees the directions written in the stars. Do not tell the rest what they wish to hear but tell them what you have seen. Do not tell them for another instant what they want to hear when you know it’s not true, no matter how much approval or money you stand to lose.

     You are the artist. It is given to you to see what others do not or will not. It is given to you to speak of beauty and of truth. That should be enough. Indeed, there is no other reward that equals it.

A Rich Man's Freedom

Freedom in capitalist society always remains about the same as it was in ancient Greek republics: Freedom for slave owners. -Vladimir Lenin

     Freedom for a rich man means something different than it does for the rest of us. Because to the truly wealthy freedom means not having to rely on anyone else for their happiness. This is an enviable kind of freedom to have, one that I’m sure we’d all enjoy if it was available to us. The only problem with that kind of freedom is that it costs a whole lot of money. In fact, if you want to be sure you have enough wealth that you’ll never have to rely on anyone else for your happiness, were talking tens of millions of dollars.

     Nevertheless, it is a freedom that is available to anyone. Potentially, at least. I mean, there is no law stating that certain people are not allowed to acquire that kind of money. Black, brown, white, man or woman, nobody is banned from being in that club once they have acquired the money. And the U.S. does provide the opportunity for advancement for anyone willing to put in the effort, there is no doubt about it. But even the most hard-working and shrewdest of us have little more than a lottery winner’s chance of acquiring the kind of money that would give us that kind of freedom. Realistically, only an elite few of us will ever get to experience that kind of freedom, I’m guessing somewhere near the one percent mark, a cutoff point that has been getting a fair degree of attention lately. And overwhelmingly, the most likely way one will gain that much money is by inheriting it. In that respect we have not moved far from the royalty we rebelled against in 1776.

     What I’m talking about with that kind of freedom—or more importantly, what the one percent are talking about when they talk about freedom—is the opportunity to make enough that you will be able to do whatever you want with your life. You won’t have to worry if there will be Medicare, welfare, or unemployment insurance. You won’t have to rely on scholarships for your children to attend college (though you’ll probably still take advantage of any opportunity to save a few bucks, after all the rich don’t get rich by letting opportunities to reduce costs slip by). You won’t have to worry about any of the social programs that are available to the rest of us. Therefore, you’re not likely to care about maintaining such programs: after all, programs like those cost money and they cost the rich more than they cost the poor.

     Even for those of us who don’t have that kind of money, it is a beautiful thing to dream about as we work hard to get ahead. But the problem is that it IS only a dream for the vast majority of us. And a dream is not freedom, it is not even the potential for freedom, it is a substitute for it. We are all free in our dreams, but we all have to wake up and go to work in the morning.

     Freedom can and does mean a lot of things. You can be free to do something or free from having to do something. You can have your freedom and still you can starve from a lack of food. Nelson Mandela was freer than most of us even when imprisoned because he refused to bow down to the powers that be. Freedom is quite a nebulous concept. But I’m not concerned with defining what freedom actually is or means, I’m only speaking to the rich man’s freedom.

     And when a capitalist—which is what most rich men are—talks about freedom, he means the freedom to make money. That’s what capitalists like to do, make money. That’s what makes them capitalists. So freedom for them is the pursuit of happiness (i.e. money). To them the sound the Liberty Bell makes is cha-ching.

     They want no limitations on what money can do. Kill them all and let the market sort them out is the philosophy. To impose any regulations on the market would be an attack on everything our Founding Fathers fought for. You see, because their one interest in life is money, they suppose that freedom to make money is the only thing worth living for. And because the rich are still prone to seeing things from their own point of view—just like the rest of us, only more so because their wealth validates their opinions—they assume that is what everyone else wants as well. That’s why they are willing to give what they love so much (money) to politicians, in order to preserve the freedom of the rich.

     The politicians who cater to the rich are quite fond of talking about freedom. They are always there to trumpet the value of liberty. Perhaps they were not the ones fighting for it on the battlefield, but they are quite eager to battle for your freedom in Washington D.C., that evil place where the enemy (government) resides.

     When a politician talks about your freedom, what he is really saying is “I’m not responsible for you.” Reagan talked about freedom and then released the mentally ill from the institutions they were housed in, leaving them homeless. He did it in the name of freedom. He gave them the opportunity to become capitalists.

     Most of us living in a capitalist society are no more capitalists than the average citizen of a communist nation was a communist. Most of us have lives beyond the pursuit of money. We don’t have a clearly defined ideology, we’re mostly just looking to get out of work on Friday afternoon. Most of us work to provide for our family and to be able to afford a few of life’s pleasures. Our needs are simple and we consider our lives worthwhile if we have some time off of work to spend with friends and family, to play a round of golf or do some fishing, play cards or go to the bar for a few, do a little travelling or work in the garden. We want to worship in the church of our choice or not at all if that is what we choose. There are a thousand different interests we all want to pursue, a thousand decisions we wish to make for ourselves, and for most of us that is what freedom means. And to achieve that kind of freedom, the kind of freedom that is available to everyone and not just a tiny minority, we have to work together in order to ensure our ability to attain it. Such freedom will not be won for the majority by each of us acquiring our own hoard of treasure, most of us will never be able to amass that much. We instead will have to trust our neighbors and our fellow citizens in order to guarantee the kind of security only society can provide, knowing that the security and hope for a better life of others is in our hands as well as ours is in theirs. We won’t get rich but we won’t end up homeless.

     That is the only kind of freedom that will ever be available to the vast majority of people. And when we look at it, there is ample material wealth to provide such freedom. It will never provide us all with outlandishly oversized toys, but we are adults after all, not children.

     It is a choice we will have to make, freedom for the rich or freedom for the many. The freedom for the many does impinge somewhat on the freedom of the rich, but so too does the freedom of the rich take from the freedom of the many. It is a freedom based on dominance, based on the notion that the only way we can truly be free is to have enough money to distance ourselves from our fellow man through gated communities, security systems, and armed guards. It is the kind of system that requires locks and bars and security codes to protect the free from those who dream of freedom. And that doesn’t sound like the kind of freedom our Founding Fathers would have wanted. 

Perceptions And Paradigms

More thoughts from a forthcoming book which I believe I shall call The Book Of Ashavan. If you have read my novel Seven Stones you will know Ashavan was forever scribbling his thoughts in a notebook as he collected a series of stones that gave him a deeper understanding. Here then are some of his thoughts:

Please know that what I ask of you is to stare into the abyss to dig the depths of understanding. You have spent your life distracted. We all spend our lives distracted. We play in the shallows, barely daring to break the surface, let alone plumb the depths. We prefer to live as animals, afraid to look at ourselves as we are,terrified of using our human capacities to explore our world and ourselves.

The illusion is that if I am not one I must be the other. If I am not a bully I shall end up being bullied. If I do not make myself strong I shall be weak. By accepting that we must be one or the other we place ourselves upon the wheel of opposites, give it the energy to spin around. We believe ourselves to be in a battle with a fierce enemy, but if we were to see it truly we would see a dog chasing its own tail.

 There is a center, a reality that is at the heart of all illusion. The problem is that we as humans, we as physical entities, cannot reach it. In reaching towards it we invariably overshoot it only to find ourselves on the opposite side of where we began.

But as we better appreciate it for what it is, we feel it pulling us like planets that ever circle around a sun but keep their distance. The truth is a campfire around which we all sit. We feel its warmth but cannot get too near it. As a society we can only gather around it.

As individuals, ah, the reality is reachable because it exists within us always. We have only to be silent to hear it.

 Do not waste your time in trying to overthrow the dark towers of evil. Instead build up the lighthouses that can steer others to safety. Fighting evil is evil, because fighting is evil. 

People bow to the highest power they’re aware of, pray to the greatest god. Small minds worship primitive gods, devote themselves to small ideas. Corporations and companies benefit from the commitment of people not open enough to see their connectedness to the whole. Countries use people who cannot connect to a higher power as cannon fodder.

Embracing the path means always leaving all idols behind, always letting go. You never have it; it is always leaving. We cannot have, we can only be, cannot know we can only see.

See it as it is, not how it fits into your life story. As you grow towards adulthood and begin to have an understanding of life, the pieces that do not fit the narrative you have written tend to fall to the wayside. So much we perceived in childhood is forgotten because it is inconvenient.

10,000 years of custom and practice bring about a wisdom even if it is not understood. Customs demand respect even as they demand questioning.

Build on questions, do not build on answers. Answers are the death of thought.

Dawn comes, it always comes. As does spring, although not quite as predictably. So it is with culture. There is little doubt our culture is in the dark and cold night now, regardless of our technological achievements. But the farmer is busy even in the winter, preparing for the inevitable thaw. So too do we who mourn the death of what was prepare for the season of rebirth that is to come. We must now be planting the seeds from which great things will someday blossom. We must shine our light as if it were the first rays of a new sun.

My First Novel, Free As An E-book

     An unknown author does what he has to do to get a little attention thrown his way, therefore I am offering my debut novel free in digital format. Actually, I don't mind giving it away. It is nice to know I have something to give to the world. I worked really hard on it, and while I feel I have learned a lot about writing since this initial endeavor, I am nonetheless very proud of The Amazing Morse. There is a lot of me in these pages, a lot of the things that have stuck with me in my life, the questions that needed asking and the observations that I felt compelled to make when it would have been easier to look the other way. And the influences. Sometimes it feels like the voices of the thousands who have influenced me ask that I keep their ideas and memories alive.I have humbly acquiesced.  Hopefully my love for the experiences I've had in life can make it across the pages into the reader.
     There's a lot of my childhood in this novel, too. Everyone has their unique childhood memories, but I hope at least to convey the magic I felt when I was young, hope that it rekindles the same feeling in you, the reader. If it does then I have done something worthwhile. If I am able to hold on to my childhood dreams and help you to hold on to yours, then magic truly does exist.

Here's the link for Kindle

Here's the link for Nook

The Amazing Morse is available elsewhere also. Leave a message for me if you want me to direct you to a digital copy. I like to think that there's something within it that is more than mere entertainment, something worth sharing. At least that was the intent.