Rat Poison For The Soul

I’ve been working on a new book that I hope to have out before too long. It’s a play on the Chicken Soup For The Soul series. I call it Rat Poison For The Soul. It’s a collection of seriously disturbing and depressing thoughts. Here’s a sample:

You’ve already met the right man, the one that is perfect for you, and he’s married to your cousin.

Even vegetarians eat animals because there are bug parts in everything you eat.

If your husband finds you unattractive, he’ll probably never tell you.

No matter how disgusting your wife says something is, she’s probably done it before, with some other guy.

There are more things crawling around in your mattress than in your flower bed.

In the next five years, it is likely that your job will be done by a machine or an overseas worker.

You will never be sure whether or not you mouth wash and deodorant work as well as you think they do. Nobody will tell you, they’ll just talk about it with others who know you.

You’re going to die. Seriously, think about it. You and everybody you know. Even babies.

How many men has your wife really been with? Does she still think about them? You know in your heart that she thinks this about one of them: “he wasn’t husband material, but damn was he a great lover!”

God exists but he doesn’t like you.

Think about the last time your dog licked you and then think about how long your dog can go without licking itself.

The Secret Sacrifices Of Scott Walker

   
 Governor Scott Walker is not a complainer. Or a bragger. That’s why most of us are unaware of the personal sacrifices he has made to help keep the budget of Wisconsin afloat the way he has. I've heard people say that he has balanced the budget on the backs of schools, teachers, and other workers. Many people think that his cuts to every program that makes this state a great place to live—from grade schools to the university system, from state parks to Wisconsin Public Radio—placed the burden only on the least fortunate Wisconsinites. I am here to tell you that’s not the case.

     Many have assumed that Scott Walker’s election commercial showing him carrying a brown bag lunch was a cynical ploy aimed to appeal to the average voter. But I have it on good authority that since the time of his election he has eaten a simple sandwich for lunch every day. Not roast beef on artisan bread mind you, or even bologna, but generic peanut butter on day old bread. A simple Google search will provide you with ample evidence that even when dining with his wealthy contributors from out west or with the heads of state he needs to meet with to make things better for us here at home, Governor Walker is right in front when it comes to sacrificing for our great state. And if you want to sit down with Governor Walker and cut him a six-figure check, you better bring your own brown-bag lunch too.

     There are countless other ways he has sought to save money, from cutting down on heating bills in the capitol by insulating it with protestors, to forgoing the Governor’s Humvee and choosing instead to ride his white stallion, Rocinante, as he patrols the boarders of our state.

     I am reminded of a great tragedy by Sophocles—I believe it was Oedipus Rex—when the people are suffering and call upon their king for help. Oedipus tells his people: “Sick as you are, not one is as sick as I. Each of you suffers in himself alone his anguish, not another’s; but my spirit groans for the state, for myself, for you.” Well, perhaps it was not Oedipus I was thinking of, but surely Scott Walker is reminiscent of some great tragedy.

     So protest if you must—especially on cold winter days when the need for your body heat within the dome is at its highest. Just remember that our leader would not ask from you any sacrifice that he has not already taken upon himself.

Free Book For Kindle For Three More Days

I've got my book, Perchance to Dream, free for Kindle for the next three days. Here's a hastily written intro meant to entice you:

A mass suicide is about to take place, but one mother cannot bear to include her son. She sends him away from the little village hastily assembled on an island far from anywhere, telling him to pick berries and not to come back until his pal is full. He returns hours later, only to find that everyone he has ever known is dead. But the voices of the dead seem to talk to him, whispering secrets only the dead know. Perhaps it is only madness caused by horrors too great for a young boy's mind to endure.

It's 20 years later. The boy is now a man.

Perchance To Dream

A New Holiday

I came across this today and felt the need to share:

I felt it today, a certain change in the air, like a spiritual spring has finally arrived. Don’t ask me how I know, but I do: I know that as of today the human race has finally found its footing and is ready to move towards accomplishing the destiny it has always been striving toward. Our record so far has been of struggle and misunderstanding, of hopes followed by disillusionment. But we’ve finally realized both the inevitability of the struggle but also the inevitability of the victory. It’s going to be quite a journey, but we now know where we’re going. We know that while we are free to worship God in whichever way we choose, or to not worship at all if that is what we believe, that we need to respect the practices of others who are not harming anyone else. And if we see another of our brothers or sisters in error, it is up to us to show by example and perhaps by gentle persuasion the path of peace, of hope, of love. I feel it, know it to be true, this burning love for life inside of me. It is a love not only for the life I have been given but by extension a love for all the life that is. For life is life no matter what vessel it resides in. We are all rays of the same sun.

And that is why at eight o’clock this evening, March 19, I stood and looked outside from the highest window in my house with a candle in hand. I looked upon all of the houses I could see from this window, and knew them to be filled with people just like me. I knew all of them were capable of love, and that it only needed to be given the proper conditions to flourish. I knew all of them were in need of love, and that I had a vital role to play in giving love. I knew all of them, just like me, were going to err and stray from the path and that we all needed to work together to get to that future that awaits us all.

It’s a simple message. It requires no religion or government or corporate sponsorship. It just requires individuals who realize that they are connected to the rest of the world in a very deep and beautiful way. You just need to know that the light will shine through any darkness.

I looked out tonight, and mine was the only candle lit. But I would be back again next year on March 18, and every year for as long as I lived, and someday I would look out and see every household with a candle, or a flashlight, or whatever kind of light they wanted to shine.

If you feel it too, if you know in your heart that we are all connected by the heart, I invite you to shine your light on March 18. And I invite you to share the words I wrote. Do not share a link, or tell where you found these words, just share the idea. Let the idea stand on its own and do not let any other thought or “ism” attach itself to it. It doesn’t matter where the idea came from, it belongs to everyone.

A Short Excerpt From My Novel In Progress, Seven Stones

Yesterday I shared a more contemplative piece of writing from the same book, today I offer this:

     They were entering through the door, obeying the call of their master. It was the stone that was the master, not Delavois, he knew that now. Delavois had put his own twist on the evil that radiated from it, but he was owned by it as well. He was just another meat puppet it commanded to carry out this horror.

     Doug looked around him,  at the shambling beings that entered the house, as well as the jellied remains of individuals that ran together in an obscene soup. Black ooze floated body parts in a semi-sentient slosh. Amongst it all was the sense of suffering. He could feel it now that he had possession of the stone. It was all the suffering the living could feel brought to another level. But as horrible as it was, he knew it was not the evil he felt. Suffering was not evil, it was that which caused it that was evil. He had mistaken the fear he had of suffering with the fear of evil, but he knew better now. He had learned at last—too late—something that would have served him well in life. Still, better than not to have learned it at all.

     The creatures were almost all through the door. One of the more ragged things was dragging itself through with one good hand and a stump. Doug recognized it as one of the creatures that had frightened him the most, now it elicited the most pity. Its suffering was more palpable than any of the others, though a small thing compared to the overall stew of tortured flesh. The flesh demanded release, but something flowing through their veins obeyed the will of the stone. Doug hazarded a glimpse at the stone and noticed its radiance seemed to throb. Looking away, he saw the accumulated filth that was once human flesh seemed to move in response to the pulsations. It called to them, pulsed within them, sought to command them without the use of the medium that Delavois had been, what it called out to Doug to be. It seemed as though the urge to die and the urge to obey the stone warred within each of them, jerking their bodies in a forbidden dance. Doug could feel the pulse within him too, as if a second heart had taken up residence in his chest, pumping fear and compulsion throughout his veins, but he choked it down as he might nervousness.

     He saw what he assumed was the last of the creatures enter the door, a desecrated hunk of flesh so obscene that Doug wondered how it made its way here. He had seen animals hit by trains look more possible of motion than the mass of exposed flesh and bone. In some part of it that Doug assumed was its head, two white eyeballs stared in his direction.

     It was time. He would go to the gas soaked curtain and light it with his torch. Then he would stand guard at the door as the house burned to ruins. It would be over soon. And as much as he feared death, he knew he was doing the best thing possible. But as he moved towards the window, attempting to avoid contact with the living corpses, he felt a strong grip on the arm that held the torch. The terror he had been able to keep at bay now flooded in on him and he instinctually tried to move away. He was halted by a less than sentient mound of flesh.

A Sample of My Writing

This is the kind of writing that I really love to do, and I'm increasingly convinced it's the kind of writing people are uninterested in reading. If I had to describe it I would say it was Victor Hugo smoking hash. I'd really love to hear you opinion of it:

     A knock upon the door of the man the entire neighborhood knew only as Ashavan awoke the old man from a long bout of contemplation that had been taking place over a book resting open on his table. At some point the conversation he had been having with the writings of an ancient writer had abandoned the book’s pages and taken up residence within his mind. So frozen had he been that it almost appeared he had found some spot outside the stream of time.

     Such places exist among the endless abodes of every major city, places that seem to be sanctuaries from the present, immune to the hustle and bustle, the sound and fury that in the end change nothing. Like long unopened books sitting upon dusty shelves, there exist people filled with knowledge that has somehow been saved from extinction. But buried as they are by time, there abides in them yet a seed awaiting the proper condition for germination. There is some process that occurs in dormancy, some subtle shifting of the fabric of reality that science has yet to discover. From such forgotten places as these occasionally springs, in some unseen future, a gigantic oak whose day has come.

     He had been on the verge of something, some subtle thought that he could sense was true, profound. It was a butterfly that fluttered towards a deeper understanding, a new way of perceiving the world. He had experienced it often enough in his life, this briefest glimpse of something at the edge of consciousness. He had experienced it enough to realize that this was how all great discoveries began, like discovering the first thin tendril of a vein of gold that awaited mining. To be dragged away at such a moment was being awoken from a very pleasant dream. But as much as one tries, one can only stay so long in the world of reverie before returning to the far more unpleasant world that the collective mind had so far been able to cobble together.

     Annoyed as he was by the interruption of someone at his door, he managed to realize there was some connection that existed between what he was reading and the person who stood outside. There was, after all, some purpose to his long searches into the past. Flowers would someday bloom from the roots he followed downwards towards nourishment. Such a flower perhaps now awaited him.

The Left Wing And The Right Wing Are Not Working

I am occasionally reminded we have this thing in our house called a television and that my wife pays some satellite provider money to supply us with channels for this audio-video apparatus. Such was the case today while I ate lunch before returning to playing on Facebook—er, I mean writing. I turned the thing on and sought something to amuse me while ingesting calories. Since the news channels are so spiritually degrading, and since my wife doesn’t pay extra for the naughty channels, I ended up on C-Span. What I saw was an author named Jay Cost discussing his book, A Republic No More. The event was hosted by the Cato Institute, a conservative think tank. As he spoke I could not help but admit that his grasp on American History was vastly superior to my own. And as he sat and discussed issues with two representatives from the Cato Institute, I realized that they too spoke from a wealth of knowledge beyond mine. And from their conversation they did not look to promote any agenda or to obfuscate the truth but endeavored to get to the facts of the matter.

Now at this point I have to admit that on the scale of things, I’m pretty far to the left of the spectrum. And when I say “left”, I’m not talking Vote For Hillary left. But beyond the political sides of an issue, I am first and foremost interested in the truth, rather than what information best supports my biases. And the speakers at this event spoke the truth, were clearly digging for facts rather than trying to heap arguments upon a faulty premise. That’s the sort of thing I can respect, the sort of thing all of us should respect.

When the author was done with his presentation, there came a time for questions from the audience. Again, I beheld thoughtfully asked questions with an earnest desire for truth rather than confirmation bias. And towards the end there was a woman from some left-wing organization that asked an intelligent question. And that intelligent question was asked respectfully. And then, and this was perhaps the most astounding thing of it all, the conservative writer from the Weekly Standard, brought to speak by The Cato Institute, cited Ralph Nader as the man he has been reading the most lately, stating that Nader had been the earliest critic of Fannie Mae and Freddy Mac, long before the 2008 financial meltdown. He then mentioned that perhaps it would be up to the far left and far right ends of the spectrum to come together under a new coalition (an idea, by the way, that Ralph Nader has also been espousing).

The truth can sometimes be so obvious that you hardly see it, but occasionally it takes the time to smack you upside the head. Those talking heads and politicians that you see and hear all the time through corporate media are not the real representatives of either the left or the right. They are demagogues put there by the powers that be to create straw men for the hard-working but underserved to cast their rightful anger at. The left and the right do in fact have much in common if they’d get beyond the leaders who are allegedly speaking for them. If we began to once again accept the idea that there is a universal truth that we could all reach some sort of consensus about, if we discuss the issues both critically and respectfully, we could work on solving many of the problems that are affecting this country, and by extension, the world. Rather than have our politics resemble two kids in the back seat on a long trip, we could be an example of how a republic could be run. And lastly, and this cannot be overstated, if we were to do this we would never again have a Bush or a Clinton in the White House again.