Category: Writing

Random musings about writing.

My New Favorite DROID App and an ENDWORLD Update

The Madchronicler1 Comment
Well this is quite a new experience albeit one that I’ve been looking forward to. Some time ago I downloaded the “Blogger” App for my then DROID phone. I have since upgraded to the DROID 3 (sexy phone, BTW. DROID and DROID 2 owners? If you have an upgrade available I HIGHLY recommend it) and am finally attempting to blog on my phone and upload it to “Random Musings.” We’ll see how it goes. Perhaps this will force me to take a more minimalist approach to writing not only “Endworld” but ALL worlds and ALL forms of writing. Not just novel writing but blog, poetry and short story writing as well. Not that “minimalist” is a prerequisite for being a writer (good, bad or somewhere in between) but it is good to occasionally focus on making a point quickly and not being too “wordy” or “talky.” I’ve been accused of the being the latter more times than I can count and RECENTLY no less (thanks, Em: I know it’s ‘kinda talky and I’m attempting to scale that back a bit). That said, enough “chit-chat (sarcasm FULLY intended). On to business.
 
First an “Endworld” update: I broke the 150 page mark the other night and the rewrite currently sits at 155+ pages. I started this process in late April, 2011 and I figure I’ll be roughly 65-70% home by the time I finish writing the next sequence (which is, incidentally, the Battle for Freeworld One). Those of you that read either Version 1.0 or Version 2.0 may be a little shocked at that statement. In V. 2.0 (’cause that’s the only one I have now. I’m not sure what happened to V. 1.0) Freeworld One happens at around page 90-95. And it’s not really a “battle.” Well I assure you that in V. 3.0 (hopefully the LAST version) it is poised to MOST CERTAINLY be a battle complete with an ample share of Michael Bay-esque explosions and carnage and… I hope… a few tears. 
 
That said, I had hoped to be done the initial draft of this rewrite by the end of August, 2011… specifically by 8/27/11 (the day I head down the shore for a week) but that, unfortunately, doesn’t look feasible. There is a possibility: I never know when a writing sprint is going to start but admittedly? I’ve got A LOT more on my plate now than I did 10, 15, or 20 years ago and other things DO have to take precedence from time to time (SEE: Wife, daughter, family, “Curb Your Enthusiasm” and the occasional movie on AMC. I’m looking at YOU “The Shawshank Redemption”). But 155+ pages in three months? That’s not half bad. It’s on par with my most prolific creative periods and I’m satisfied. But admittedly? The writing process is beginning to wear on me. For good reason: I haven’t written more than a few pages of ANYTHING in over a decade before this and I’m not exactly conditioned to novel writing anymore. You could argue I never was in the first place but that’s irrelevant. I’m rediscovering my stamina and if I finish this by the end of September, 2011 I’ll be happy. So stay tuned, friends. After FW1 and Halmier’s Pass (you’re on deck, Tim Redfield. Are you ready for your closeup?) = The home stretch. 
 
Other than that there really isn’t much more to say on the topic of “Endworld” save for this: I mentioned a few days ago in my collective, social networking reality (FB, Twitter, Google+) that I’d had “an intense moment of literary clarity.” Well, I DID friends. And it was big. I mean REAL big. I joked with a friend about it on Twitter (@Chelle_MNN who, incidentally, has her OWN blog if you’re interested in reading: http://petitechild.com. It’s quirky, entertaining and informative) and the “conversation” got a little heated (jokingly, of course) but in essence the upshot of said intense moment that I experienced is this: While I can’t reveal TOO much of what I’ve decided to try I CAN tell you that “Endworld” is no longer just the beginning of a trilogy of novels collectively called “The Endworld Chronicle.” It’s a starting point for something much more vast. An idea that I came up with a long, LONG time ago that has–in subsequent years–never left my mind. I always knew that the world of “Endworld” was potentially a part of that idea but I never considered it to be the STARTING point. In short, friends? My planned, little trilogy of post-apocalyptic romances is now just “The Miller’s Tale.” Before I tag and bag this blog entry and go price up a sensor or two I want to leave you with this. It’s part of a scene from Alex Parker’s/Roland MacNuff’s interaction in Freeworld One. Those of you that know me may recognize what is being referenced. Those that don’t? I have one word for you: EDONA. ‘Kind of rolls off the tongue, doesn’t it? 
 
“Alex smiled as he reached across with his left hand and pulled his right shirt sleeve up as high as he could. I could see the the top of his forearm clearly and it was bare. On the underside I could see… SOMETHING… though I could not positively identify what it was that I was seeing. That’s a tattoo, I thought. The black mark appeared to be designed of two circles atop each other, perhaps in a clean figure-eight or perhaps in an overlapping one (it was impossible to be sure) and it incorporated an arrow that seemed to be cross-cutting the figure-eight and was pointing toward the palm of his hand. I made a mental note to inquire about it further if given the opportunity…” 
 
F.
 

An ENDWORLD Update

The MadchroniclerLeave a comment

Good morning, afternoon or evening friends (whenever you’re reading this). I hope all is well with you as it is with me. Life is good: Family, friends… all are wonderful. My little girl is about to turn two (where the hell did the time go?) and she’s showing all the tell-tale symptoms of a forthcoming bout with The Terrible Twos, a bout which I’m sure will take up more than its fair share of both mine and my wonderful wife Nicole’s time.

I haven’t posted anything on “Random Musings of a Pseudo-Madman” in quite some time. It’s not that my creative output has slowed. Quite the contrary: My ongoing rewrite of “Endworld: A Novel” is going incredibly well. 110+ pages in as of the writing of this blog post. The first 100 pages or so were forwarded to my editor this passed weekend and I’m looking forward to seeing how much my writing has improved (or not; I leave that for you to decide, Amy) in the decade since I last rewrote it. While the overall framework of the story is relatively unchanged–it has the same parallel story structure start to finish that it had when I completed the first draft sometime around my 21st year on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence–it’s definitely… um… well, the best way I can describe it is fatter. ‘Kinda portly like me.

Consider: I’m about to write of Roland MacNuff and Maria Markinson’s first encounter with Alex Parker in Freeworld One. Those of you that read either the original manuscript or the rewrite I did back in 1998-1999 might remember that said event occurred around page 50. The fact that it’s happening on page 110 now means that I’ve added roughly 60 pages of exposition to the story arc. Trust me when I tell you that–at least in my opinion–said exposition was imperative to making “Endworld” more of a novel and less of a story (or a self-evaluation of my psychological state at the time: I leave that for you to decide). Fact: “Endworld” isn’t just a story. It never was. It’s a whole world that has existed in my brain for almost 20 years. I want to do that world justice this time; I want to tell not just Roland’s story but the story of the world he runs through in the beginning and… eventually… fights for in the end. Hopefully 60+ pages of exposition doesn’t impede the flow of the tale. That flow was one of the original novel’s seminal strengths per those that read it and it compensated for the overabundance of plot holes that my immature mind invariably created. How many times is he (Roland) going to get knocked out? Why the endless supply of cigarettes? Are the machines really THAT stupid?. Well, friends, I locked down the first two plot holes and explained the third. Hopefully when I do finish this and get a copy in to your hands you’ll agree but that day is still a little ways off.

Some have expressed interest in reading what I’ve written so far. One or two people have criticized my latest “Endworld Rewrite Project” as nothing more than a false promise to the people that have been hearing about my supposed trilogy of novels for almost 20 years. I assure you that this is not simply another empty promise from a guy who, for a time, was accused of making many. This is the real deal, guys. At the 100 page mark–when I unexpectedly killed off a main character from the original manuscript (as for who I killed offyou’ll have to wait and see) and introduced another that will, eventually, become my hero’s arch-nemesis–I realized that I was, in poker terms, “pot committed.” For better or for worse… good or bad, “Endworld: A Novel” is going the distance. And after that? “Children of Endworld” and “Heaven and Endworld” are going to get the same treatment. Maybe I’m delusional. Maybe “The Endworld Chronicle” doesn’t have the scrote to survive in a world of real literature and real authors and maybe it’ll never make it further than the posts on this blog/those of you reading this who desire a copy’s hands. But I’ve always believed that if done properly (and not overly reliant on “The Terminator” and “The Wonder Years”) it did. 110+ pages in and I’m still confidant in that assumption though I refuse to allow myself the latitude of losing my humility. Until I get a letter telling me that something that I’ve written is “published”–“Endworld” related or otherwise–I’m still just an everyday Joe Schmoe who works as an Office Manager/Inside Sales Rep for a hydraulic and pneumatic distribution and manufacturing company.

But I continue to dream forward. I always have and I always will. That said, I will be taking a self-imposed break from my latest “Endworld Rewrite Project” but not for long. I don’t anticipate it lasting more than a few days but I need to rest my brain for a bit lest what I’m writing starts to stagnate. I’ve realized in the subsequent years since I first wrote and completed “Endworld: A Novel” that one of, if not my greatest failing as a writer was not stopping when I started to wear down. Writing a novel isn’t an all-out sprint to the finish line. It’s a marathon, and completing a marathon successfully entails knowing when your body is beginning to wear down and conserving your energy for when you need to sprint. As it was then and as I envision it now, the last 30 or 40 pages of “Endworld: A Novel” is an all-out, balls-to-the-wall sprint for the finish line both for Roland and Maria and for the person tasked with telling their story. In the now twice revised story structure of the novel that sprint begins in about 80 or 90 pages. In the time between a lot has to happen. More so now despite the untimely departure of one of the main characters and the “introduction” of a new one that is crucial to the eventual outcome of the trilogy. I want to be fresh as I write it. Henceforth the “Summer Break” that I’m imposing upon myself. To be continued. 

That’s all I’ve got, folks! In closing, let me simply say this: Renewing many of the ideas and inspirations that originally… um… inspired “Endworld: A Novel” has been both a joy and a daunting task. But looking at it with a 35 (going on 36) year old’s perspective and not the perspective of a lovelorn 18 year old has been enlightening to say the least. At it’s core “Endworld” is a love story and a tribute to my friends and family. But beneath it all? It’s actually pretty dark. Is it believable Sci-Fi? I leave that for you to decide when it’s done. Enjoy!

F.

So I had this idea once…

The Madchronicler1 Comment

…to write a trilogy of novels. No, that’s not exactly true. When I was 18, I had this idea to write a novel. I was working over the summer at the Reconstructionist Rabbinical College in Wyncote, PA. (also not entirely true; I worked there year round, but full time in the summer). I was typing up reference cards on an old Royal typewriter (this was 1993, folks; typewriters were still relevant) when suddenly and without warning this idea popped in to my mind.

I’d always been an avid reader… a huge fan of everyone from Stephen King to Shakespeare (I was still a few years away from my Miller/Kerouac/Ginsberg phase). My mother was and is fond of telling tales of me being a child/pulling all the books off of the family bookcase, laying them on the ground and pretending to read them one at a time. And writing, at the time, was less of a hobby and more of a hassle but I had realized sometime around my junior year in high school that I had a knack for it. Said knack was nothing that I openly acknowledged. I was too busy trying to be popular to start trying to write stories. But this idea… well, it had an unusual and unexpected degree of power. Immediately, I replaced the long, blue reference card that I had been typing with another empty one and I began typing what would become the final, unaccosted and unedited scene of the first novel I ever wrote, “Endworld.”

Some of you reading this may have read that scene and the 200 or so pages that proceeded it. Most of you probably haven’t. I’m not going to give you the same stock answer I’ve been giving for the last 18 years. I’ve called “Endworld” everything from “dystopic romance” to “a fictional autobiography.” Anyone who doesn’t know what “Endworld” is about and is interested in knowing please, drop me a line and let me know. I’ll provide you with the best summation of it that I can… I’ll even tell you what influenced me to write it. I might even send you a copy of the unaccosted and unedited final draft if you desire (it may hurt your head a bit but I’m happy to oblige). All that matters is what was born that hot, summer day in 1993 as I sat in the un-air conditioned RRC Library; the humming Royal typewriter with the long, blue reference card in it sitting before me.

A world was born, friends. A universe within my own subjective universe. My universe. “Endworld” was my Middle Earth. My Westeros. My Path of the Beam. It remains so, even to this day.

What ever happened to it? Again, many of you know the answer to that and those of you reading this that don’t? A brief synopsis: “Endworld” begot “Children of Endworld” which begot “Heaven and Endworld.” A trilogy of novels written between 1993 and 2000 that I thereafter called “The Endworld Chronicle” that told part of the story of my hero–Roland MacNuff–and his plight to escape the world that he inherited from his parents. A world run by machines. The Administration as I called them. It was my take on Artificial Intelligence and dystopia. One possible outcome were machines to ever (stealing a line from “The Terminator” here) become self-aware.

There were multiple problems with it. Plot holes galore. An inconsistent narrative and stilted dialogue. No one that read it–myself included–ever doubted the heart that went in to writing it. They simply doubted the skill. I guess I can’t blame them for that. After all, how many times can one man be knocked unconscious before he suffers permanent brain damage?

The books were a product of my upbringing. Heavily influenced by both cinema and television. More specifically, the aforementioned “Terminator” movies and “The Wonder Years.” Did I watch too much TV as a child? Yes. I admit it. And that overindulgence in the medium(s) carried over in to what, in essence, was a highly unoriginal piece of writing. Whatever happened to “The Endworld Chronicle?” The answer is simple: I tried to forget it ever existed. I focused on trying to write more complete, more original and more consistent stories. But I was rarely if ever successful. In the subsequent years since I finished writing the last paragraphs of “Heaven and Endworld” I’ve dabbled in everything from short story writing to poetry to essay writing to blogging. I’ve achieved moderate success in all formats (albeit with only a few casual readers) but nothing ever… for lack of a better term… “got me off” like writing “The Endworld Chronicle” did (Nicole, if you’re reading this, please don’t assume something dirty and sexual per what I just wrote; I swear that I never did anything deviant while writing them). That universe… my universe… has never left me.

If anything, it’s grown sharper in the subsequent years since I finished writing about it. Sometime around the halfway point of the second book (that’d be “Children” for those of you keeping track) I realized that there were aspects of the “really, really real world” that I wanted to interpret for the purposes of Roland’s story. There’s a scene about halfway through “Children” where Roland and his merry band of revolutionaries manage to restore power to an old, dusty computer that they find in a ski lodge in the Rocky Mountains. The damn thing still runs on a Windows platform (at the time it was WIN 95 but I changed it in a later re-write). Said references begin in earnest throughout the latter half of “Children” and carry over in to “Heaven.” By the time I was well in to the writing of “Heaven,” not only the personalities of my characters but the appearance of their world began to take shape. Thereafter, what had once been nothing more than a story became something greater. It became a vision of Roland’s machine-controlled world in all it’s dystopic glory. I finished “Heaven” strong and with the intention of revisiting the first two novels/injecting them with the same new found perspective that I injected in to the last 50% of the “Chronicle” that I’d written.

But my life changed. Drastically. I completed “Heaven” in the late summer of 2000 while living on the second floor of my friend Renee’s family home (incidentally, she’s probably reading this right now and ‘Nay? Thank you again for giving me a place to live for that summer). Less than a month later, I was living with a “friend” and her six month old son in an apartment in Morristown, PA.. Less than two months after that I was living on the floor of my friend Tom’s apartment in Feasterville, PA.. A month later? Northeast Philadelphia…

…And the rest is history for those of you reading this that know me. If you don’t and want to know, let me know and I’ll let you know (how many “knows” can I cram in to one sentence? Forgive me friends. It’s late and I have to be up at 5:30 AM tomorrow. I’m rushing to finish). Drastic is the understatement of the decade. I had little time to consider revisiting “The Endworld Chronicle.” I was too busy getting promoted to Store Manager at CVS/Pharmacy and meeting my soon-to-be wife Nicole/embarking on a life with her to even consider it. Why?

In short, “Endworld” may have begot “Children” and “Heaven” but there were other stimuli that begot “Endworld.” Said stimuli need not go mentioned in this blog entry as their is existence is irrelevant currently. Fact: “Endworld” was more than just my vision of the future; it was me fictionalizing my wants, my needs and my desires. I was driven by said things back then. I was obsessed with them. More specifically, I was obsessed with an ideal that only ever existed in my mind. I wasn’t just writing a story: I was writing my life as I wanted it to be. With someone as I wanted it to be. Anyone that’s ever done that knows how equal-parts intoxicating and self-destructive it can be. In theory? It’s something you have to experience to fully understand. In truth? I do not recommend it. Bad ju-ju, kids. Bad, bad ju-ju.

But now at 35 (sadly pushing 36) I find myself revisiting not the “Endworld” born of my completely misguided 20-something wants, needs and desires but the “Endworld” of my vision: The dystopic, Administration-run world that my hero, Roland MacNuff and his aforementioned merry band of revolutionaries desired to escape. The true “meat” of “The Endworld Chronicle.” I don’t think anyone who’s read the books or anyone who’s discussed them with me… shit, anyone who’s known me for some portion of the last 18 years denies that there is something special there (and if you don’t feel that way please feel free to tell me as I continue to thrive on constructive criticism). I can not deny that “Endworld” is something that defines me and may, long-term, define my life and the lives of my wife Nicole, my daughter Cara and our two furry children ‘Dorna and Roxy. Not to mention the people so lovingly depicted in it. My friends, many of whom (I hope) are reading this right now. This universe needs to be made right. It needs to be explicated properly. Without an overabundance of misguided emotion. “From within the Void,” Jackson. Yeah, Marine, if you’re reading this right now, that shout out was meant for you. Respect. I’m still pissed at you but hey, you’re on my mind so that’s a step in the right direction, aye?

And that’s all I know. I’m asking for insight here, guys. Anything you can offer me. “Endworld.” Is it worth revisiting? Is it what I feel in my heart, soul and mind that it is: The literary depiction of me? My opus? And if so, what recommendations would you make for making it work? I look forward to hearing from you soon. Thanks for reading through my latest Friday-night rambling. G’night.

F.

Retrospection Revisited

The MadchroniclerLeave a comment

Back when we were all incarcerated for nine months in “State Pen” PA, and no one lived any place else, I had this idea. Said idea was the product of many pensive afternoons spent sitting in the shadow of one of the science buildings on campus. I can’t remember the name of it presently, but I remember I called it “The Shrine of Science” in multiple journal entries and poetry compositions. Hell, it might not have even HAD a name. It was just this really cool, U-shaped building that had its own courtyard. Said courtyard had the usual accoutrements: benches, trees, trashcans (no ash-trays then; society had not evolved in 1996-1997 to the point that it felt ash-trays were necessary). My customary position in said courtyard, however, was not reclining on one of the benches like the sun-lovers, or leaning up against one of the trees like the nature-lovers. No. My customary position was seated atop an steel grate, beneath which howled an ancient generator. Subsequent years and their accompanying wisdom have helped me to realize that what I postulated in my imaginative mind THEN to be a Morlock stronghold or a Gatekeeper of the Beam was, in fact, nothing more than a commercial-sized heater, and my reason for sitting there was not wholly symbolic—an English Major sitting in “The Shrine of Science,” scribbling entries in his journal—but practical, i.e. it gets really fucking cold in “State Pen” in October, and stays that way until late March/early April.

One frigid afternoon… I think it was in January or February of 1997… I formulated this idea whilst warming my ass on the completely pedestrian heater grate inlaid in the walkway that was my customary resting place in “The Shrine of Science.” I was smoking a cigarette and drinking a Mountain Dew (not an uncommon sight, as anyone who was incarcerated with me in “State Pen” for those nine months in 1996-1997 will attest to), and completely independent of anything else, I began thinking about my life. All 21 ½ years of it. Where I’d come from; where I was; where I was going. Admittedly, I was very, VERY confused at the time and this thought process quickly segued in to another: Why not write an epic poem called “Retrospection” looking back over the course of my life from a poet’s standpoint in an attempt to gain some clarity and direction on my current situation? At the time, the idea seemed ingenious. And the initial stages of composing “Retrospection” were quite enlightening. I started seeing my situation with a clarity that I hadn’t had before. The two-three weeks spent working on “Retrospection” were, academically, my best in “State Pen.” In fact, were it not for the sheer amount of “academic” work I did in those two-three weeks, I likely would not have graduated in May of 1997. My 60.7 average in my Ed Psych class would have ended up on the wrong side of the letter “D” and I would have been forced to prolong my stay in “State Pen” for another couple of months. Thankfully, my incarceration ended in May and I was allowed to graduate with my class, thus achieving the goal I’d set for myself of graduating in four years and NO MORE… albeit with a relatively meaningless undergraduate degree and a mountain of debt that didn’t get paid off until the summer of 2005.

Yet something happened around the 10th or 11th Stanza of “Retrospection.” I looked at what I was writing, and realized that what I was writing had absolutely, positively no bearing on anyone or anything but myself. It wasn’t even poetry. It was a glorified journal entry with one or two rhyming couplets per stanza. Was it serving its purpose? Yes. But did I foresee a greater purpose in what I was composing after re-reading the first 10-11 stanzas? No. And as any honest artist—writer or otherwise—will tell you, we do what we do not solely for our “art.” Any artist that tells you that is full of shit. We do what we do because we want our work to appeal to a greater demographic. In short, we want our 15 minutes of fame and god DAMNIT, we want it NOW. This desire doesn’t always pan out. I’m not exactly raking in the royalties from the work I’ve published. But long-term, THAT is my goal. Not simply to spend the rest of my natural life writing for ME and me alone, but to one day write things that will entertain others. Make them laugh, make them cry: kind of like “Cats” (shout out to the Royal Masque, circa 1992-1993, and Barricade Productions circa 1993-1994). Shortly thereafter, “Retrospection” perished, never to be seen again. I don’t quite remember what I did with the 20 or so hand-written, loose leaf pages that contained it, but knowing my propensity for extravagance back then I likely burned it or sacrificed it to the “Shrine of Science” gods.

Amazingly, though, this idea of “retrospection” has never left me. Privately, I’ve done it multiple times. Never publicly. I don’t think that the term “retrospect” or any derivative thereof has ever appeared in a single blog post or email I’ve composed in the last decade plus. Until now, of course. I feel that it IS important to look back over the course of your life on occasion. It helps put things in to perspective. Am I at a point in my life currently where I feel directionless? Confused? Am I sitting atop a proverbial heating grate of my own creation in my own, subjective reality, smoking a cigarette and drinking a Mountain Dew whilst staring out at the steel-grey sky overhead, and the small flakes of snow that alight gently, soundlessly upon the black-iron benches and the leafless trees that dot the U-shaped courtyard of my mind? No. I’m sitting behind my desk at work on a Saturday morning, listening to “But, Honestly” by the Foo Fighters, a Diet Dr. Pepper close at hand and the prospect of a cigarette about as far from my mind as it’s been in almost a decade (my recent bout of “sinusitis” has all but rid me of that nasty habit, it seems). The temperature outside is a balmy 71 degrees (Heat Index: 80+) and the next precipitation forecasted for Royersford, PA (where I am now) and Broomall, PA (where I’ll be in a few hours) isn’t until overnight tonight. Not snow, but thunder storms. “Thunder Boomers” as my little sister Katie used to say.

Directionless? Confused? Certainly not. During my incarceration in “State Pen” back in 1996-1997, I was penniless. I was not jobless, but my job as a nighttime circulation clerk at the Pollock Library paid me a $150.00 post-tax stipend every two weeks, a stipend that promptly went toward cigarettes, alcohol, McDonalds Chicken McNuggets and occasionally my rent and utilities. My relationships usually lasted no longer than 24-48 hours, generally from Friday night at midnight (when I got done work) through Saturday or Sunday evening (don’t get the wrong idea, friends. As anyone that spent any portion of those nine months with me in “State Pen” will tell you, I was not a man-whore. I was just a guy who liked to hook-up with random women from time to time, regardless of whether those women were people I just met or people I’d known for years. Not a man-whore, just a bit of a chauvinist). My home was a two-bedroom apartment on the seventh floor of Calder Commons which I shared with three rent-paying roommates (one male and two females) and one or two non-rent paying roommates (you know who you are “Vato”). I drank copious amounts of alcohol and smoked copious amounts of weed. And I was LOST in every sense of the word.

Now? I work a steady job that pays me well, albeit an, at times, less-than fulfilling employment. My bi-weekly allowance is the $50.00-$150.00 that my wife deposits in my checking account dependent on when our mortgage and our bills are due. I generally don’t see the rest and I’m fine with that (one thing my 34 ¾ year old, 6’ 1”, 280 LB frame does NOT need at this point is a bi-weekly rationing of Chicken McNuggets). I’ve been in a relationship with the same woman for nine years this November (married for five this October 15th) and my home is a three bedroom, one and a half bathroom Colonial on a little street in suburbia that I share with my wife and our 11 month old daughter, Cara, not to mention our two cats Pandora and Roxy, and this week, my “dog-in-law” Melanie. I drink copious amounts of Diet Dr. Pepper and haven’t smoked a joint in a very, VERY long time. But ask me if I’m directionless or confused and I’ll scoff at you before smiling and telling you that no, my friends. For the first time in 35 years on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence, i.e. my subjective reality, I’m FOUND. I’m a gosh-darned living, breathing testimony to “Amazing Grace,” along with remaining a living, breathing facsimile of a smiley face.

“Have a Nice Day.”

But you knew that, didn’t you? If you’re reading this, everything that I just wrote save for the bit about my “dog-in-law” and perhaps my proclivity toward Diet Dr. Pepper is likely not “breaking news” to you. In fact, the last three or four paragraphs completely contradict my previous statement that artists create “art” not simply for the sake of their “art” or for their own, personal purposes, but because they want to appeal to a greater demographic. Before passing judgment on me, though, consider the following: At approximately 11:30-12:00 this morning/afternoon, I will be departing work and heading home, where I will eat a quick lunch and take a quick shower before getting ready to head to a first birthday party: that of our friends’ Sarah and John’s daughter, Ava. Tomorrow, I’ll likely be heading over to our friends’ Caren and Matt’s/Tom and Michelle’s to meet THEIR newborns, Josephine (Josie) Molly and Grace Learned. In less than a month, I’m hosting 50-60 family and friends in my three bedroom, one and a half bathroom Colonial on a little street in suburbia for my own daughter’s first birthday party. Of those 50-60 family and friends, many were in some way, shape, form or loosely connected fashion incarcerated with me for nine months plus in “State Pen.” I say plus ‘cause as anyone who knows me knows, my tenure there only diminished in frequency after May of 1997. Truth be told, I was still a frequent visitor through the summer of 1998. Said people—my fellow “State Pen” inmates—will not be arriving with a six pack of Yeungling or cold, now-defunct Pennsylvania Pizza in tow, but with THEIR little one’s and spouses in tow: “Vato” and Kim plus one; Austen plus three and Tom plus two to name a few.

And it doesn’t end there. Also in attendance will be my little sister Katie plus three and my mother plus three, not to mention my in-laws Mariann, Chuck, Deborah and Andrew plus one. Nicole’s friends whom I met nine years ago when THEY all lived somewhere between South Philadelphia and Temple Pharmacy School and no one lived anyplace else are ALL plus one’s or two’s, with one plus three to boot. And of course, I’m a plus two (plus four if you count my cats whom I’m helpless NOT to think of as my children). All will be arriving at 2:00 PM (RSVP’s pending, of course), and will not be staying until long after a midnight reveler who calls himself “The Mad Chronicler” decides to make a drunken run to the now-defunct Pennsylvania Pizza for “Boones” Malt Liquor. Rather, all will be leaving at approximately 6:00 PM to return home to their respective, nightly routines. Give the baby or babies a bath; get them dressed in their PJ’s and ready for bed; read them their favorite Dr. Seuss bedtime story (Cara’s is “The Lorax”); watch over them as they drift off to sleep in their cribs or beds, their little legs curled up beneath them, their little bodies rising and gently falling as they sleep the sleep of the peaceful… the innocent. Carefully tip-toe out of their room, being careful not to step on the creaky board that lays 14 ½ inches and to the left of the door; being FURTHER careful not to unlatch and re-latch the door too loudly as they exit the room. Retire downstairs and spend the waning hours of the day watching “The Hangover,” and silently muse about how the seemingly unbelievable anecdotes presented in that movie didn’t always seem so unbelievable. Back when we were all incarcerated for nine plus months in “State Pen” PA, and no one lived anyplace else. Silently reminisce… “Remember when…”

…And helplessly return to the U-shaped courtyard outside “The Shrine of Science” where—upon a perfectly pedestrian heating grate inlaid in a perfectly pedestrian walkway—a 21 ½ year old pre-adult sits beneath a steel-grey, central Pennsylvania, winter sky, pondering how directionless and confused his life currently is. As he sips from a warm bottle of Mountain Dew between puffs of a cigarette and watches the first snowflakes from what will eventually amount to a six-inch snow squall alight gently upon the black-iron benches and the leafless trees that dot the courtyard, said pre-adult conceives of a plan: he’ll write an epic poem entitled “Retrospection” in which he’ll look back over the course of his life from a poet’s standpoint in an attempt to gain some clarity and direction. Maybe THEN he’ll have a better idea of where the fuck he’s going. He begins…

“Life is a bloody, ongoing fight… peril is endless and counters the light…”

Said opening lines will eventually grow in to a 10 or 11 stanza, uncompleted epic poem called “Retrospection.” Said 10-11 stanzas will disappear a few weeks later, never to be seen again. Said poet will go on in the next 13 years to graduate college by the skin of his teeth (and 0.7 points in his Ed Psych class), meet and marry the woman of his dreams—the embodiment of his heart, soul and mind—purchase a home with her, begin raising a child with her—the physical embodiment of the his union to the woman of his dreams—and host a first birthday party in which his checkered and LOST past meets his and his fellow inmates from “State Pen’s” stable and FOUND present. “Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me.” From “State Pen” PA to suburbia, friends, it’s all academic. That’s “retrospection.” To be able to look back on where you were, and see how far you’ve come. To know that the confusion felt by that 21 ½ year old seeker sitting pensively within “The Shrine of Science,” imaginatively wondering if the low hum beneath the steel grate he sits upon is a Morlock stronghold or a Gatekeeper of the Beam resolved itself in to quite a nifty little life on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence, i.e. his subjective reality. Being able to see that isn’t simply something personal to the writer. It’s not “art” for the sake of “art.” It’s something that everyone should be able to do. You, me… EVERYONE. And THAT is a comforting thought.

“Have a Nice Day.”

The Dark, Eternal Heart of CouchEvilTrue

The MadchroniclerLeave a comment

My friends! It’s been too, too long. I’m sorry, but my life has taken a hectic turn as-of-late. Are things settling down? No. But I’ve recently determined that the hectic pace of my life is no longer an excuse not too write. Besides, I’ve got way too much sh*t racing through my mind presently to ignore my need to get it down on paper (or in a .wpd file).

I guess that when it comes to writing, I’m a bit of a junkie. Have been, and likely always will be unless I suddenly and unexpectedly loose the mental capacity and stamina to ramble on about topics that have little or no significance outside of my own, and a few others people’s subjective realities (HOLY RUN ON SENTENCE, BATMAN!). Outside of my dependency on caffeine and my continuing struggle to quit smoking (down to three to four smokes a day, people. Almost there!), I have very few addictions save for this one. I guess it could be worse. I tell my wife on a regular basis that she lucked out. Instead of marrying an alcoholic-meth-head-wife-beating-man-whore, she married a guy who thinks he’s interesting and doesn’t know when to shut up.

“Good… trade?”

I guess, though upon reading the title of this Blog post, she’s likely wishing she were married to Walter White (that’d be the alcoholic-meth-head-wife-beating-cancer-stricken-man-whore from AMC’s “Breaking Bad”) and not me. Sorry, honey, but this needs to be done.

Subsequent to the untimely demise of my lawnmower a few weeks ago and my purchase of a brand-new, self-propelled Toro Recycler 6500, a certain someone who once went by the surname “’M,’ Prophet/NotProphet of COUCHEVILTRUE” postulated—upon seeing my OLD lawnmower standing silently by the curb of my house—that leaving it for Marple/Newtown Waste Disposal was a BAD idea. Had I learned nothing from my experiences with the dark, eternal heart of CouchEvilTrue almost five, odd (and yes, they HAVE been odd, friends) years ago? What if, he postulated, said dark, eternal heart of CouchEvilTrue had somehow vacated the lifeless body of its once-host upon its destruction, and floated around in the ether for a few weeks before choosing a NEW host: that of the lawnmower that my father-in-law purchased for Nicole and I as a housewarming gift in April of 2006? After all, my history with said lawnmower was anything but rosy. I’d cite examples (and will, eventually), but before doing so, perhaps I should take a few moments to sum-up, for any newcomers, the sad, sordid history of CouchEvilTrue.

Those familiar with said history, feel free to skip the next few paragraphs.

THE SAD, SORDID HISTORY OF COUCHEVILTRUE

In 2006, when Nicole and I purchased the house that we currently reside in with our daughter, Cara, and our two furry, feline children Pandora and Roxy, there was a furious debate over a number of electronic and non-electronic formats about what should be done with my old couch, henceforth simply called COUCH. You see, COUCH and I had a history that went back to my first, post-college apartment in Jenkintown (Incarnation Two: Pat and Kim London and our live-in, Tom Noonan). Said COUCH disappeared from April of 2000 through November of the same, a period of time otherwise known as my “Vagabond Phase.” Thereafter, it reappeared in the living room of my apartment in Northeast Philadelphia with… um, Tom Noonan (damn, Tom, we’ve actually “lived” together three times? How f*cked up is that?) before following me to my apartment in Drexel Hill, otherwise known as its final resting place.

Said COUCH was, simply put, the one piece of furniture that I owned. Its estimated age at the time of its demise was 35 years in this reality, potentially more depending on which school of thought you adhered to back in COUCH’S formative years of existence (1998-2006):

SCHOOL ONE: COUCH was simply another piece of overused furniture, passed down through the generations that reeked of alcohol, cigarettes, Jim’s Cheese Steaks, New England Pizza’s Buffalo Wings and incontinent landlords. The prospect of bringing something so vile and foul in to a new house was about as appetizing as the thought of some of the actions perpetrated upon its surface, a surface that was, in appearance and texture, a hybrid of corduroy pants and a welcome mat. Said school of thought believed that it should be disposed of as all old, meaningful furniture should be—with sledgehammers and circular saws—and left in pieces by the dumpster at Talltrees Village in Drexel Hill, never to be seen again.

SCHOOL TWO: COUCH was more than another piece of overused furniture, long passed its prime. COUCH was the embodiment of evil: the physical manifestation of a deity that called itself “CouchEvilTrue,” a deity older than the universe or universes that had, for whatever reason, chosen to instill its essence or “black heart of ichor” (depending on who you asked) in COUCH. Those who adhered to SCHOOL TWO believed that not destroying, not abandoning, but KILLING COUCH would result in, among other things: the Flyers and Sixers having the worst seasons in their long and storied histories, my wife cheating on me with a man that looked like Mister Clean, me turning in to a Tequila-aholic and getting fired from my job, my wife divorcing me, me totaling my car and ending up as a stumbling, muttering wino, eternally stalking the dark and shadowy alleys of South Philadelphia (you can probably imagine which school of thought I belonged to). Rather than dispose of it, these “believers” in the oily tendrils of CouchEvilTrue (“Oyez, oyez”) advised me to carry it upon my back—my own, personal Ring of Power—throughout my life. Were I to dispose of it, they reasoned, I would be forever damned to misery.

The debate between the two schools grew over the space of a few months, and morphed in to “The Collected Couch Chronicles,” an almost 100 page treatise on what should/should not be done to or with COUCH. Said treatise was a compilation of various emails, Evites and other “E” words that circulated between a dozen plus members of my subjective reality, eventually culminating in the destruction of COUCH and a haunting final proclamation from “’M,’ Prophet/NotProphet of COUCHEVILTRUE”:

He mourned, alone, in a corner of the basement. To his eyes, moss, mildew, water dripped down the crags of the wall. Stroking a hand through his matted hair, eyes rolling around his sockets, fixing one place then another without comprehending the first. Breath whistling past teeth which had come undone and hung now like boxes placed randomly on basement shelves, he mourned. All his thoughts were bent towards one object. An object lost. All his hopes were fixed on it. His desires. An object lost. Rocking now, back and forth without heed, plucks a spider from the wall, stuffs it past his cracked and broken lips. “I’ll have it again, I will, they’ll see. I’ll have it again, my…. PRECIOUS!!!” You have been warned.

So ended the saga of COUCH, or CouchEvilTrue (depending on your chosen school of thought)… or so we believed.

THE SAD, SORDID HISTORY OF MY LAWNMOWER, AKA “THE BANE OF DOCTOR FRANK-EN-STEIN’S EXISTENCE”

Nicole and I received many housewarming gifts upon purchasing our first house in Broomall. Trinkets, appliances: our families and friends were incredibly generous. Among these gifts was perhaps THE most generous but controversial item that I can claim ownership of SINCE COUCH: my lawnmower. The first time I attempted to mow the lawn of our new house, I caught my finger on the starter cord and came within about a half an inch of slicing it off. 10 stitches later and an ignominious trip to Bryn Mawr Hospital riding shotgun in my father-in-law’s truck—my bloody finger protected by a bag of ice and a make-shift bandage of blue painters tape and Bounty—I was mended, though too this day, I still have little or no feeling in that finger (Bring a pin! Stick my finger! Watch me bleed but feel no pain! FUN AT PARTIES!). I developed quite an aversion to mowing my lawn, an aversion that it took me weeks to overcome. By the time I successfully mowed my lawn in late May of 2006 (a full six weeks after the finger incident), it was virtually beyond help. Crabgrass and Dandelion covered, it didn’t even begin to recover until this spring. Yet I labored with the blasted thing, regardless, year in and year out, toiling away to make my lawn look as presentable as possible given the circumstances.

What circumstances? A blade that jammed on an inch of grass regardless of having it set at the highest height. A 15-20 minute sequence involved with starting it that involved priming and pumping what I can only classify as the “GO” lever. In its latter life (the last two years), an acrid cloud of white smoke that belched out of the engine every time I made a turn and poisoned my immediate neighbors (said smoke could be marketed as a suburban chemical weapon). A handle held in place by an ill-fitting bolt and washer (the original bolt and washer having disappeared sometime in 2007) that I would need to stop and re-tighten an average of three times per mowing (four for my backyard). In essence, it was the Frank-en-stein’s Monster of lawnmowers, and God help me, it was MINE. Until this past spring when…

…When I finally purchased a NEW lawnmower, the aforementioned Toro Recycler 6500, complete with a self-propulsion system, “cruise control” (I can take my hand off what I can only classify as the “GO” lever and it… KEEPS… GOING!) and a detachable mulch bag that I can remove without turning off the mower! It requires no priming, and has a larger gas tank than my original mower. In short, it’s the Cadillac of Toros. And my lawn has never looked better. All memories of that original bastard child of Mother Nature and Mister Green Thumb were subsequently forgotten as I wheeled the blasted piece of garbage out to my curb on a Sunday afternoon. There the f*cking thing sat, waiting for a mercy that only God or a Waste Disposal Management Crew could give it. I left for work the Monday after I placed it there, stopping briefly to spit on it from the driver’s side of my car before pulling away…

…Only to return home that night and discover the blasted beast still sitting by the curb.

I was shocked in to silence, and sat staring at it for a moment from the driver’s side of my car. Since 2006, Marple/Newtown Waste Disposal had removed everything from dead animals to old furniture from my curb, due largely in part to the $50.00 stipend we give them every Christmas. My wife just informed me that we didn’t tip them this past Christmas (2009), which could rationally explain why they didn’t remove the unsightly piece of lawn care machinery that sat taunting me by the curb as the sun set on yet another GLORIOUS Monday in my subjective reality. But where’s the fun in rationality?

Dejected, I slowly rolled the mower up the coarse and cracked blacktop of my driveway, stopping ever-briefly at my car to push the OPEN button on my automatic garage door opener, and sighed as the garage door only opened half way. Forced now to not only keep the mower, but duck under the half-opened garage door and potentially snap my spine in the process, I bit back a sob. It was then—as I wheeled the mower in to its customary place between a stack of empty boxes and my garbage cans—that I remembered “M’s” prophecy from the previous afternoon.

Did I, thereafter, reluctantly face the realization that the dark, eternal heart of CouchEvilTrue cannot be killed? Did I, thereafter, feel the need to call the “believers” in SCHOOL TWO and concede that I was wrong? Is this Blog entry nothing more than my concession, a concession that I am reminded of every time I walk in to my garage and see my own, personal Frank-en-stein’s Monster sitting silently… TAUNTINGLY…

I did not. In truth, I haven’t spoken or written of this until tonight. If SCHOOL TWO is correct in their assessment that the dark, eternal heart of CouchEvilTrue now resides within the clogged fuel-line of my old lawnmower, then I have nothing to fear. Said beast has not moved from its spot in my garage since. In truth, part of me—the part that has oft been maimed by the red (RED! It’s RED!) demon-spawn of Suburbia—fears even touching it. I will not destroy it, lest I risk the POSSIBILITY (mind you, I’m simply calling it a “possibility,” not a “definitive”) that it is, in fact, the current host of an evil far older than the oldest of evils in this or any reality. Older even than Cheez Whiz: a tantalizing condiment, the mere thought of which causes shooting pains to travel through my left arm. “Oyez, oyez.” Mmm. Processed cheese product. Good on a steak sandwich, but better mixed with salsa.

But I keep my experiences with my original lawnmower in perspective, despite the fact that it no longer has any functional relevancy in my weekly lawn-care regiment. “Believers”: I will concede that it is conceivable that the four odd (and yes, they HAVE BEEN odd) years that I battled with said mower for lawn supremacy were nothing more than a penance for my decision to KILL COUCH in the Spring and Summer of 2006. I will concede that the dark, eternal and EVER-PRESENT heart of CouchEvilTrue has potentially spent the last four years avenging itself upon me and my lawn, and were I to dispose of my old lawnmower, said evil would float around in the ether for a few hours, days or weeks before possessing my new seed spreader and causing it to take one or more of my toes as a blood sacrifice. I will concede that the prospect of simply offering my old lawnmower to the Marple/Newtown Waste Disposal Department is about as conceivable as not having to spend a thousand bucks a month on day care for my daughter, Cara, especially if Nicole and I can no longer afford to offer them a stipend every Christmas. I will concede these points and will leave the damnable creature right. Where. It. IS. But…

If the black heart of ichor that was, is, and remains CouchEvilTrue still exists in my subjective reality; if it’s oily tendrils reach out, even now, from the confines of its prison within my garage, then by association, all of you—both “believers” and non—are in danger. If you are reading this, then you exist within my own, personal subjective reality, and YOU ARE IN DANGER. Despite your posturing to the contrary four years ago, each of you—even the most staunch Prophets/NotProphets of CouchEvilTrue—took sledgehammer or power tool in hand and howled in ecstasy while you dismantled what one “believer” called “The Velveteen Couch.” Even you “M”: you supplied a sledgehammer. Just because its evil influence hasn’t touched your lives yet does not mean that it won’t. Perhaps it is the inherent goodness that exists within me—a NON-alcoholic-NON-druggie-NON-wife-beating-NON-man-whore that likes to ramble incessantly about topics that only he seems to care about but believes staunchly in the providence of God and the Toro Recycler 6500 (AKA “The Escalade of Lawnmowers”)—that is keeping this ancient evil at bay. Or perhaps it is the inherent goodness in my wife, Nicole; or our newborn child, Cara. But I ask you as friends… my good friends… to help me come up with a means by which to eradicate this dastardly force from our lives once and for all. We need a plan, else the dark, eternal heart of CouchEvilTrue may forever shadow our lives and enshroud our fates.

If what “M” said was true, then this may only be the beginning.

“Oyez, oyez.”

Join with me. I have Cheez Whiz!