Is the past that haunts our dreams and memories, or are they gone, like shadows without light? We look away from the pain we caused to ourselves and others and yet continue to punish ourselves for it. As if the torture was not enough. But those little darlings remain the same. Tiny darlings we call our own with a sudden sense of pride. And are we worthy of the love we once called our own. Those little stings that never go away. Out of the darkness, into the light without thought or reason. We are healed by that ever lasting pain.
And now we follow the dream that never was. But not to fret, it is in the forefront of our emotional core, of who we are. And that sorrow defines us as much as the joy and exhilaration of falling in love.
So they walk hand in hand, as lovers do. For each would perish without the other.
Tears of joy trickle down your face just like those when your heart is broken and the road seems to have end.
to be continued...
Monday, July 20, 2015
Wednesday, July 8, 2015
Sound Off Hollywood…. returns
"It is not a comeback, it is a return!" Norma Desmond, Sunset Boulevard.
Years ago, when rock still reigned, was a little 'zine aptly named Sound Off Hollywood. It was the brainchild of myself and one of the most beautiful, dearest and precious person I have ever known. We covered the local music scene on Sunset Blvd. It was fun, inventive and a little dangerous. Its purpose was based on passion, the love for music. Of course, a lot of that passion was fueled by draft beers and what ever drink was offered. But that was part of the fun, the mystique and times.
Yes, it was popular. Although, prints were somewhat limited, I can boast that copies reached the east coast, Europe and even Russia.
Alas, all good things do come to an end.
Or rather, a sabbatical.
Years can seem to run away from you. Time is both a notorious lover and a cruel master. What was so immediate and utterly brilliant became but a memory. Then distant. Then nostalgic.
But the beauty was still there. Like Pompey, buried for centuries, then discovered in all its regal, spectacular and immaculate beauty.
Awakened from a new perspective, with the pain and sorrows of yesterdays's regret and broken promises. Anew, it wakes to a bold and focused design.
Now, the focus is not of music. It is a voice of the creative arts, whether they may be.
So true it is that distance makes the heart grow fond. That that glorious part of me has been missing from this writer's life for far too long.
And this voice has grown bolder, stronger, more assertive. I had to go underground for some time. To reflect. Even Napoleon's army regrouped when necessary.
It was also a chance for redemption.
Mine.
That said, I shall give these pages more words and images. Just like before. Blessed is technology that makes this so much easier, so more accessible.
Rise from the ashes Sound Off Hollywood. Reborn like a Phoenix.
Only this ain't Harry Potter. This is rock & roll.
As always…
Years ago, when rock still reigned, was a little 'zine aptly named Sound Off Hollywood. It was the brainchild of myself and one of the most beautiful, dearest and precious person I have ever known. We covered the local music scene on Sunset Blvd. It was fun, inventive and a little dangerous. Its purpose was based on passion, the love for music. Of course, a lot of that passion was fueled by draft beers and what ever drink was offered. But that was part of the fun, the mystique and times.
Yes, it was popular. Although, prints were somewhat limited, I can boast that copies reached the east coast, Europe and even Russia.
Alas, all good things do come to an end.
Or rather, a sabbatical.
Years can seem to run away from you. Time is both a notorious lover and a cruel master. What was so immediate and utterly brilliant became but a memory. Then distant. Then nostalgic.
But the beauty was still there. Like Pompey, buried for centuries, then discovered in all its regal, spectacular and immaculate beauty.
Awakened from a new perspective, with the pain and sorrows of yesterdays's regret and broken promises. Anew, it wakes to a bold and focused design.
Now, the focus is not of music. It is a voice of the creative arts, whether they may be.
So true it is that distance makes the heart grow fond. That that glorious part of me has been missing from this writer's life for far too long.
And this voice has grown bolder, stronger, more assertive. I had to go underground for some time. To reflect. Even Napoleon's army regrouped when necessary.
It was also a chance for redemption.
Mine.
That said, I shall give these pages more words and images. Just like before. Blessed is technology that makes this so much easier, so more accessible.
Rise from the ashes Sound Off Hollywood. Reborn like a Phoenix.
Only this ain't Harry Potter. This is rock & roll.
As always…
Tuesday, June 9, 2015
Review for The Halfwits’ Last Hurrah
It is a well-known tenant that drama is easy, and comedy is
hard. Nothing could be further from the truth. But what is so miraculous of
comedy is the effortlessness of the performers that makes us laugh. Laughter is
a particular trait, one that cannot be easily analyzed, but we call all agree
that it is one our best, and in some ways, most noble aspects.
The Halfwit’s Last Hurrah by Four Clowns is a mixture of
satire, slapstick, sight gags, and acrobatics. All performed with the same kind
of grace one would expect from a ballet, only this is exceedingly hysterical.
It is truly comedic. And I dare to say homage to Ernie Kovacs, as the
production has a slight edge and irreverence, yet still contains tight
structure. Not a moment is wasted; the pacing accelerates like a hyperactive roller
coaster.
Give the production team of Jeremy Aluma and Sara Waugh
credit for assembling an engaging and talented cast. Know that each actor
deserves kudos for an electrifying performance. I predict great things for
them. Director David Anthony Anis allows a collaboration of staged theatrics
and natural charisma to dominate the show without it flying into chaos. There
is bizarre genius of the script by Jamie Franta and Don Colliver. It is a
series of acts that cumulates to a great reward.
Currently playing at Hollywood Fringe Festival
1076 Lilian Way LA, CA 90038
get tickets: fourclowns.org
SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL THEATRE!
Thursday, May 14, 2015
In Maddy We Trust
I know idea she could be such a tyrant. That the blood lust existed within her. Incapable of carnage and pain. But I under estimated her. Didn't think the maternal extinct would kick-in. But it did, and with a vengeance that shocked even me. And I have seen the most unkind things.
Truthfully, I am proud of her. If there were any moment to fall for a woman, this would be it. To declare my eternal love everlasting. That one particular moment in time. So singular. So perfect. So right and beautiful and now.
I am filled with the living spirit. I feel her perfection, her individuality. She is a person. This woman I have known, but still a stranger until now. And these spared minutes, which seem to linger for years. She is this most incredible woman, this body of flesh and blood. Filled by her generous spirit. Awed by her generosity of courage. Humbled by her intelligence. Her beauty fills me with desire. But not of lust. It is of faith. A kind of faith I have only tasted but a few times.
Yes I love her.
But this I cannot share. It is my little secret. A secret that I will carry to the grave. And for me, that is a very long time. Immortality has its rewards and disadvantages.
I tear a piece of my heart for her. My soul torn sunder. And in this fleeting moment that she will surely forget soon enough is enough to swear my allegiance to and for her.
Eternity smiles brightly through the track lights harnessed on stage without a single actor to illuminate the audience. And yet, a single dancer, my love, dances serenely upon the floor, like a ballet that has been rehearsed for the most spectacular performance of all time, to be seen for my eyes only.
The fire continues to burn. She squeezes my hand. I am there for her. Whatever pain she feels, whatever regret or remorse she can give to me.
After all, I love her.
Truthfully, I am proud of her. If there were any moment to fall for a woman, this would be it. To declare my eternal love everlasting. That one particular moment in time. So singular. So perfect. So right and beautiful and now.
I am filled with the living spirit. I feel her perfection, her individuality. She is a person. This woman I have known, but still a stranger until now. And these spared minutes, which seem to linger for years. She is this most incredible woman, this body of flesh and blood. Filled by her generous spirit. Awed by her generosity of courage. Humbled by her intelligence. Her beauty fills me with desire. But not of lust. It is of faith. A kind of faith I have only tasted but a few times.
Yes I love her.
But this I cannot share. It is my little secret. A secret that I will carry to the grave. And for me, that is a very long time. Immortality has its rewards and disadvantages.
I tear a piece of my heart for her. My soul torn sunder. And in this fleeting moment that she will surely forget soon enough is enough to swear my allegiance to and for her.
Eternity smiles brightly through the track lights harnessed on stage without a single actor to illuminate the audience. And yet, a single dancer, my love, dances serenely upon the floor, like a ballet that has been rehearsed for the most spectacular performance of all time, to be seen for my eyes only.
The fire continues to burn. She squeezes my hand. I am there for her. Whatever pain she feels, whatever regret or remorse she can give to me.
After all, I love her.
Monday, March 9, 2015
To call me a lady, a name is all I desire...
“Parasite!”
“ Unclean!”
“Whore!”
I’ve heard worse. At least that hurl those blasphemies have culture, even taste, though it blanched. At least they are educated. I ignore the rest of their shouts and curses. Their petty words and phrases meant to hurt, but I see no scar. And I feel no pain. Fools.
Though I must admit their devotion is extraordinary. Is my existence such a threat? I pose no danger unless provoked, of course.
Which, unfortunately, happened. It wasn’t my fault. I was defending myself as well as protecting another. A woman. She called me sister.
I was her hero. It was man. The violent, vile sort. He was hurting her. I stopped him- permanently. He shall harm no one forevermore. They should be eviscerating his corpse and let the rats have their way.
The talk is that my methods were unprecedented and grievous, so-called professional grew faint at the sight. Blood is blood and does not attempt to conceal its purpose. They said there was a frightful amount pooled where his corpse lie. Alas, it did not run, like a wild current onto the street, into the sewers where it belongs. But I digress.
Hunted am I, a wanderer, summoned by hunger and thirst to satiate this body’s function. But food I cannot taste and water does not soothe me. Am I cursed? Or is this the way of many, yet know it not.
I confess to you, dear reader. Be not harsh of judgment. Think of me as once fallen, now risen, of identity that escapes me.
posted to the Akashic Records
from the Bride
“ Unclean!”
“Whore!”
I’ve heard worse. At least that hurl those blasphemies have culture, even taste, though it blanched. At least they are educated. I ignore the rest of their shouts and curses. Their petty words and phrases meant to hurt, but I see no scar. And I feel no pain. Fools.
Though I must admit their devotion is extraordinary. Is my existence such a threat? I pose no danger unless provoked, of course.
Which, unfortunately, happened. It wasn’t my fault. I was defending myself as well as protecting another. A woman. She called me sister.
I was her hero. It was man. The violent, vile sort. He was hurting her. I stopped him- permanently. He shall harm no one forevermore. They should be eviscerating his corpse and let the rats have their way.
The talk is that my methods were unprecedented and grievous, so-called professional grew faint at the sight. Blood is blood and does not attempt to conceal its purpose. They said there was a frightful amount pooled where his corpse lie. Alas, it did not run, like a wild current onto the street, into the sewers where it belongs. But I digress.
Hunted am I, a wanderer, summoned by hunger and thirst to satiate this body’s function. But food I cannot taste and water does not soothe me. Am I cursed? Or is this the way of many, yet know it not.
I confess to you, dear reader. Be not harsh of judgment. Think of me as once fallen, now risen, of identity that escapes me.
posted to the Akashic Records
from the Bride
Saturday, February 21, 2015
The Angels Among Us
Kindness. It is our saving grace. Its practice gives us the chance of salvation and heaven everlasting. Sometime we need prompts, reminders, circumstances, and even a kick in the rear to wake us from our tendency of being of absorbed in our own delusion.
Art, in all its functions and glory, be it song, story, painting, performance, film has shown and given us angelic presence. The feeling of the divine. A form of pure grace, what we may call love.
There are many examples, of which I shall share. Let us say they are my observations, reporting what the senses communicate to me.
It always starts with a feeling.
Of liberation. Of freedom. Of pure potentiality.
Art, in all its functions and glory, be it song, story, painting, performance, film has shown and given us angelic presence. The feeling of the divine. A form of pure grace, what we may call love.
There are many examples, of which I shall share. Let us say they are my observations, reporting what the senses communicate to me.
It always starts with a feeling.
Of liberation. Of freedom. Of pure potentiality.
Wednesday, February 11, 2015
Old Debts
A jealous regret goes overboard. His rage and anger curse all who bound him to a watery fate. The grave welcomed him with open arms as he was considered the devil's spawn. But he had other designs. Woe to be to whomever unraveled his intentions.
Years drifted by without pause or care. Until...
When he was discovered. The same place, but a little worse for wear. And as for all the warnings, they were long since forgotten. Save for a medallion, of Celtic origin, scripted with the cause and cure.
Driven by gold's fever, it was hastily snatched.
Death to be who unleashes the beast, woe to be the brethren of those who slain him. Be it by line of blood or consent, they will die. And suffer in the same grim way he was so drowned.
Enter the hero, whose continual prayers for redemption may go unchecked, but not unnoticed. He is called to the funeral of his brother, the one who unwittingly unleashed the monster. Our hero, by name of Jake, is, was Chicago's most notorious contract assassin. It has been said neither bullet, blade nor blunt can harm he. Or so goes the legend.
And now he lays to rest his little brother, the last of his clan, save for Madison, his teenage niece. And now Jake, doing the admirable thing, cares for her.
The monster, call him Shannon O'Dowd is exacting is particular brand of revenge. The body count grows. Detective Diana Lancaster has her own particular paranormal talent investigates. She sees beyond what the boys in forensics proclaim and prove.
What are called the Neglected, they prefer abandoned. All heap sob stories onto Diana, who complies with conditioned British resolve and with her own particular brand of sardonic wit.
And then there is Jake. It is not the abandoned who follow him, but rather those who unceremoniously crossed over by Jake's munitions.
Needless to say, he is a fly in some rivals' ointment. To them, Jake has outstayed his welcome, to others, a lasting testament to an old regime.
But Shannon O'Dowd will be not be denied his blood thirst, his form of reckoning. The murders continue, more grisly than before.
The monster is immune to destruction save from the power of faith. The decay of the old gods made provisions that only a man of faith can bring down the cursed. Followed by releasing the fire serpent, a old legend that has been lost in the chronicles of time.
And this begins our series...
Years drifted by without pause or care. Until...
When he was discovered. The same place, but a little worse for wear. And as for all the warnings, they were long since forgotten. Save for a medallion, of Celtic origin, scripted with the cause and cure.
Driven by gold's fever, it was hastily snatched.
Death to be who unleashes the beast, woe to be the brethren of those who slain him. Be it by line of blood or consent, they will die. And suffer in the same grim way he was so drowned.
Enter the hero, whose continual prayers for redemption may go unchecked, but not unnoticed. He is called to the funeral of his brother, the one who unwittingly unleashed the monster. Our hero, by name of Jake, is, was Chicago's most notorious contract assassin. It has been said neither bullet, blade nor blunt can harm he. Or so goes the legend.
And now he lays to rest his little brother, the last of his clan, save for Madison, his teenage niece. And now Jake, doing the admirable thing, cares for her.
The monster, call him Shannon O'Dowd is exacting is particular brand of revenge. The body count grows. Detective Diana Lancaster has her own particular paranormal talent investigates. She sees beyond what the boys in forensics proclaim and prove.
What are called the Neglected, they prefer abandoned. All heap sob stories onto Diana, who complies with conditioned British resolve and with her own particular brand of sardonic wit.
And then there is Jake. It is not the abandoned who follow him, but rather those who unceremoniously crossed over by Jake's munitions.
Needless to say, he is a fly in some rivals' ointment. To them, Jake has outstayed his welcome, to others, a lasting testament to an old regime.
But Shannon O'Dowd will be not be denied his blood thirst, his form of reckoning. The murders continue, more grisly than before.
The monster is immune to destruction save from the power of faith. The decay of the old gods made provisions that only a man of faith can bring down the cursed. Followed by releasing the fire serpent, a old legend that has been lost in the chronicles of time.
And this begins our series...
Monday, February 9, 2015
Twilight of the Gods or Purgatory's Lament
The sulphur is what you notice first. It burns you throat and lungs. Some retch. Others feign fainting. As if by some miraculous chance they wake up somewhere else. They don't. Prayers won't save them. Too late for that now. And it won't be heard anyway. Any and all last reproaches, pleas and cries are but folly. It is not scorned, but ignored. For the other side is too terrible to consider. But it is what awaits. The eternal doom of their own choosing. Poor bastards.
The wailing never ceases, as it is endured. The screams pierce what remains of the flesh, beseeching the God they called their own, as now, the devil calls them home.
The wailing never ceases, as it is endured. The screams pierce what remains of the flesh, beseeching the God they called their own, as now, the devil calls them home.
Tuesday, February 3, 2015
I sing but my voice is silent
There was darkness, and it sustained me. I knew of light, but that was another lifetime ago. There is beautiful solidarity with darkness. It is comforting. It never relinquishes control. Let's call it the eternal womb. And I was loved here. At least I was safe.
But the light invaded what was my protection. Like a perverse lover, it intruded my body. There was electricity, the white-blue fire that cascaded all around me, through me, in me. At first it was terrifying. I didn't want to leave. I was being evicted from my home with rude force and bitter action. I resisted. I tried. I pleaded for the darkness to stay, to protect me! But she was mute. The hot lightening wouldn't cease. It continued to liberate me from my lovely home.
My lungs heaved and gasped. Air, so strange and odd filling me with breath. Muscles, my muscles, sinews, fibers, tendons revolted against this lightening. What was happening? And why? But this body...of mine, was becoming...alive.
And the darkness was no more. Light, brazen, crass, megalomaniac light surround me and pounded me like many small cruel hammers.
There was a shout of joy. Or rather, of exclamation.
"Live my love, live!" the male voice said. Shouted really. Screamed. He was ecstatic.
I expelled water from my lungs and started to shake.
Then I screamed. "Rah!" "Rah!" "RAHHHHH!!!!"
That frightened him. I knew that right off. I couldn't even see yet and he was startled and afraid of what he had done.
But once the bandages were off, he became mine. But I am always his.
He didn't know what to do. Poor fool. Play with nature and the laws of the universe, throw in some scientific mischief and a personal vendetta and this is what you get. Me.
I am alive. Quite conscious. Aware. A living, breathing, thinking organism. But more than that, I am a woman. I am me.
He seemed elated. I know what he did was wrong and against the Creator's wishes, but it is his charm, and our little secret.
He hides me sometimes. He says that I'm not ready. He loves me I think. I'm not sure if I love him back. I'm not sure of a lot of things. But I do know this. I don't know how I know, but it's like these thoughts that aren't really mine whisper to me, in my voice, but it's from another mouth. Familiar because we share the same words. I call her Susan, but she likes Suzie.
I'm still figuring this thing out. And I have lots of questions which I don't think he will answer. But no matter. I will find out or discover eventually.
I'm not going anywhere.
words scribbled on the Akashic records
signed, the Bride
But the light invaded what was my protection. Like a perverse lover, it intruded my body. There was electricity, the white-blue fire that cascaded all around me, through me, in me. At first it was terrifying. I didn't want to leave. I was being evicted from my home with rude force and bitter action. I resisted. I tried. I pleaded for the darkness to stay, to protect me! But she was mute. The hot lightening wouldn't cease. It continued to liberate me from my lovely home.
My lungs heaved and gasped. Air, so strange and odd filling me with breath. Muscles, my muscles, sinews, fibers, tendons revolted against this lightening. What was happening? And why? But this body...of mine, was becoming...alive.
And the darkness was no more. Light, brazen, crass, megalomaniac light surround me and pounded me like many small cruel hammers.
There was a shout of joy. Or rather, of exclamation.
"Live my love, live!" the male voice said. Shouted really. Screamed. He was ecstatic.
I expelled water from my lungs and started to shake.
Then I screamed. "Rah!" "Rah!" "RAHHHHH!!!!"
That frightened him. I knew that right off. I couldn't even see yet and he was startled and afraid of what he had done.
But once the bandages were off, he became mine. But I am always his.
He didn't know what to do. Poor fool. Play with nature and the laws of the universe, throw in some scientific mischief and a personal vendetta and this is what you get. Me.
I am alive. Quite conscious. Aware. A living, breathing, thinking organism. But more than that, I am a woman. I am me.
He seemed elated. I know what he did was wrong and against the Creator's wishes, but it is his charm, and our little secret.
He hides me sometimes. He says that I'm not ready. He loves me I think. I'm not sure if I love him back. I'm not sure of a lot of things. But I do know this. I don't know how I know, but it's like these thoughts that aren't really mine whisper to me, in my voice, but it's from another mouth. Familiar because we share the same words. I call her Susan, but she likes Suzie.
I'm still figuring this thing out. And I have lots of questions which I don't think he will answer. But no matter. I will find out or discover eventually.
I'm not going anywhere.
words scribbled on the Akashic records
signed, the Bride
Blood on my Hands
This is mythos. An alternative reality they say. But you didn't hear it from me.
So you think that ghosts and fairies, ghouls, monsters, sirens, werewolves, the bloodied undead, zombies with a conscious, relic saints and devout sinners and lost angels don't exist. Yet I have evidence otherwise. Do you really trust your faith, or you parrot what you have been told by others. Do believe in what cannot be proven by the scientific community? Are you will to take an extraordinary chance, bet against all odds, go for broke, throw the dice one more time?
That's it! I knew you could. Why? Because you hunger, like we all do for something more. Something wicked and sublime, yet touching, even uplifting. A taste of supreme pleasure without guilt, a bit exotic, but comforting and familiar. We want it all. In small doses. Too much enthralls the senses and overwhelms our judgement. Let's keep it in check, shall we?
You would be surprised to discover that this very world is within reach. Closer than you think. Just a click away.
Our hero, Jake Stewart is vying for forgiveness from the almighty, as he ferry's the unwanted and unclean to an uncertain fate. Let the Furies decide. He is without cause, but for the grace of God, that would be himself escorted to the shores of the otherworld, the wretched dregs of the afterlife.
They do not go willingly. But Jake has a power, gifted by an ancient god, that overpowers even the most putrid and stained.
He straddles two worlds. It is tightrope where the slightest slip lands one in purgatory. And there is no escape.
But not all is lost or dire. He has friends and allies in our world. The three dimensional one we take for granted.
One is Diana Lancaster. Of Chicago finest. She has the innate ability to peer into the otherworld. Or rather, it uses her as a conduit. The departed, both recent and delayed come to her for council and release. It is gift that she has not completely come to grips with. She tolerates their intrusion. And the talent exceeds her understanding. She is called the Gatekeeper. She likens it to a conductor on a train asking for one's ticket. This trip, of course, is one way.
Another is Madison Stewart, Jake's niece. Maddy is more talented than she knows. The lead singer of Forsaken Sanctuary, finds fans and groupies of all ages. They love to hear her emote what they most want to feel. Her voice also invokes entities and creatures not of this earth. They also flock to Maddy to hear her sing. Dare I say she is a Muse incarnated? And such beauty is bound to such a young and tender young woman.
We all seek answers to questions alike.
We desire mystery and the unknown.
We want our secrets kept, but others shared.
And there is usually a little stain within us all.
A little blood on our hands.
With all the washing and scrubbing won't come out.
But let us not like our famous Scottish lady, drives us to madness, but rather to illumination.
So you think that ghosts and fairies, ghouls, monsters, sirens, werewolves, the bloodied undead, zombies with a conscious, relic saints and devout sinners and lost angels don't exist. Yet I have evidence otherwise. Do you really trust your faith, or you parrot what you have been told by others. Do believe in what cannot be proven by the scientific community? Are you will to take an extraordinary chance, bet against all odds, go for broke, throw the dice one more time?
That's it! I knew you could. Why? Because you hunger, like we all do for something more. Something wicked and sublime, yet touching, even uplifting. A taste of supreme pleasure without guilt, a bit exotic, but comforting and familiar. We want it all. In small doses. Too much enthralls the senses and overwhelms our judgement. Let's keep it in check, shall we?
You would be surprised to discover that this very world is within reach. Closer than you think. Just a click away.
Our hero, Jake Stewart is vying for forgiveness from the almighty, as he ferry's the unwanted and unclean to an uncertain fate. Let the Furies decide. He is without cause, but for the grace of God, that would be himself escorted to the shores of the otherworld, the wretched dregs of the afterlife.
They do not go willingly. But Jake has a power, gifted by an ancient god, that overpowers even the most putrid and stained.
He straddles two worlds. It is tightrope where the slightest slip lands one in purgatory. And there is no escape.
But not all is lost or dire. He has friends and allies in our world. The three dimensional one we take for granted.
One is Diana Lancaster. Of Chicago finest. She has the innate ability to peer into the otherworld. Or rather, it uses her as a conduit. The departed, both recent and delayed come to her for council and release. It is gift that she has not completely come to grips with. She tolerates their intrusion. And the talent exceeds her understanding. She is called the Gatekeeper. She likens it to a conductor on a train asking for one's ticket. This trip, of course, is one way.
Another is Madison Stewart, Jake's niece. Maddy is more talented than she knows. The lead singer of Forsaken Sanctuary, finds fans and groupies of all ages. They love to hear her emote what they most want to feel. Her voice also invokes entities and creatures not of this earth. They also flock to Maddy to hear her sing. Dare I say she is a Muse incarnated? And such beauty is bound to such a young and tender young woman.
We all seek answers to questions alike.
We desire mystery and the unknown.
We want our secrets kept, but others shared.
And there is usually a little stain within us all.
A little blood on our hands.
With all the washing and scrubbing won't come out.
But let us not like our famous Scottish lady, drives us to madness, but rather to illumination.
Thursday, January 29, 2015
And they call me wicked
from the reported memoirs of Shannon O'Dowd
You think I'm a monster. You have no idea what a monster is. Yeah, I have a bone to pick, righteous anger, divine vengeance. Betcha you would feel the same if you were thrown overboard with 90 pounds of cement hugging your heels.
No, I'm not sore, just want to settle a score. Imagine holding your breath as long as you possibly can until cold dark water starts filling your lungs. Panic sets in. Your body wants to live, but deep down, you know you only have a few minutes tops. Not much fun seeing the grim reaper making his move. And then it's all black. And the black goes on for what seems an infinite time. There ain't no light at the end of a tunnel or angels with open arms. It is dark, freezing and frightening as all hell.
And all over a woman.
So I kill one and the bosses go beserk. Hypocrites. They've whacked plenty themselves. Guess this one hit them where it hurts. I was reminding them how precious life really is. So easy to forget that. She wasn't anything special or divine. Just another gal who wanted to be a Hollywood star. Yeah, she had the goods, but not the desire. Daddy spoiled her, there wasn't anything behind the eyes. I was doing her a favor. It got a little out of hand. Those things happen.
And of course, that didn't please the North siders too much. O'Connell gave the go-ahead without even scratching his ass. And this is from the man who said I showed promise. That I carved up his enemies like a splayed trout made no difference. That I filled his pocketbook with thousands didn't cause him to pause. I can only imagine what he said, the fat bastard.
So here I am, in a new world, a new time, and the old neighborhood isn't even there. The streets still are, and I know this town like the back of my hand.
I'm not a patient man. No biding my time. I shall be ruthless and terrible. Unleash a most brutal fury. There isn't any innocent blood. The sins of the father shall stain their brethren. And no power of man can stop me. This is justice defined. Again, I shall remind everyone how precious life can be.
It's about time.
You think I'm a monster. You have no idea what a monster is. Yeah, I have a bone to pick, righteous anger, divine vengeance. Betcha you would feel the same if you were thrown overboard with 90 pounds of cement hugging your heels.
No, I'm not sore, just want to settle a score. Imagine holding your breath as long as you possibly can until cold dark water starts filling your lungs. Panic sets in. Your body wants to live, but deep down, you know you only have a few minutes tops. Not much fun seeing the grim reaper making his move. And then it's all black. And the black goes on for what seems an infinite time. There ain't no light at the end of a tunnel or angels with open arms. It is dark, freezing and frightening as all hell.
And all over a woman.
So I kill one and the bosses go beserk. Hypocrites. They've whacked plenty themselves. Guess this one hit them where it hurts. I was reminding them how precious life really is. So easy to forget that. She wasn't anything special or divine. Just another gal who wanted to be a Hollywood star. Yeah, she had the goods, but not the desire. Daddy spoiled her, there wasn't anything behind the eyes. I was doing her a favor. It got a little out of hand. Those things happen.
And of course, that didn't please the North siders too much. O'Connell gave the go-ahead without even scratching his ass. And this is from the man who said I showed promise. That I carved up his enemies like a splayed trout made no difference. That I filled his pocketbook with thousands didn't cause him to pause. I can only imagine what he said, the fat bastard.
So here I am, in a new world, a new time, and the old neighborhood isn't even there. The streets still are, and I know this town like the back of my hand.
I'm not a patient man. No biding my time. I shall be ruthless and terrible. Unleash a most brutal fury. There isn't any innocent blood. The sins of the father shall stain their brethren. And no power of man can stop me. This is justice defined. Again, I shall remind everyone how precious life can be.
It's about time.
Wednesday, January 28, 2015
Music is my Life!
Madison Stewart
vocalist for Forsaken Sanctuary
Goth/Trance fusion
Yes, we rock!
I'm usually not one to complain, but- I am finding it extremely difficult to accept what has happened recently. I miss my dad. Even though he was a real cheap bastard, he was sweet. Sometimes he would get these really amazing flowers for me. I have no idea how he got them and where, but they always made my day.
It was terrible that I had to identify his body at the morgue. Stupid bitch of a mom, "Couldn't handle it." Whatever. The way he looked, I still have nightmares. Nobody should go through that.
So glad uncle Jake is here. Haven't seen him in years. I love him, but he's like the most strangest man I have ever known. I hardly know anything about him. Alison, may the angels be with her, said that he is a hit-man for the mob. Yeah, right. And I'm Lorde. She said he makes people disappear. I don't see it. He seems so normal to me. But then, he saved me from the Shannon O'Dowd. I don't remember much about it now. It was like a really weird dream.
But he does take care of me. It's funny to watch him try to be a dad, like he has no idea about teenagers or music or fashion. It's almost like he's from another time period. But he does try. He took me to this diner that no one I know has heard of for lunch. Get this- there's no menus. And yet the waitress brings me this fabulous plate of blueberry pancakes with hot maple syrup. It's exactly what I've been jonzing for. That was way cool.
My band, Forsaken Sanctuary gigs out the local circuit on a regular basis. We're gearing for a label deal. Bestie Taylor thinks we are so close. I hope so. Be nice to finally make it.
Lately I've notice we are collecting an odd sort of new fans. They aren't the usual Goth kids or sway-dancers. Have no idea where they come from. Some of them are older too. Like you'd think they should be taking care of the grandkids. Strange clothes too. And not more like a fashion risk than a fashion statement.
Whatever.
Maddy
vocalist for Forsaken Sanctuary
Goth/Trance fusion
Yes, we rock!
I'm usually not one to complain, but- I am finding it extremely difficult to accept what has happened recently. I miss my dad. Even though he was a real cheap bastard, he was sweet. Sometimes he would get these really amazing flowers for me. I have no idea how he got them and where, but they always made my day.
It was terrible that I had to identify his body at the morgue. Stupid bitch of a mom, "Couldn't handle it." Whatever. The way he looked, I still have nightmares. Nobody should go through that.
So glad uncle Jake is here. Haven't seen him in years. I love him, but he's like the most strangest man I have ever known. I hardly know anything about him. Alison, may the angels be with her, said that he is a hit-man for the mob. Yeah, right. And I'm Lorde. She said he makes people disappear. I don't see it. He seems so normal to me. But then, he saved me from the Shannon O'Dowd. I don't remember much about it now. It was like a really weird dream.
But he does take care of me. It's funny to watch him try to be a dad, like he has no idea about teenagers or music or fashion. It's almost like he's from another time period. But he does try. He took me to this diner that no one I know has heard of for lunch. Get this- there's no menus. And yet the waitress brings me this fabulous plate of blueberry pancakes with hot maple syrup. It's exactly what I've been jonzing for. That was way cool.
My band, Forsaken Sanctuary gigs out the local circuit on a regular basis. We're gearing for a label deal. Bestie Taylor thinks we are so close. I hope so. Be nice to finally make it.
Lately I've notice we are collecting an odd sort of new fans. They aren't the usual Goth kids or sway-dancers. Have no idea where they come from. Some of them are older too. Like you'd think they should be taking care of the grandkids. Strange clothes too. And not more like a fashion risk than a fashion statement.
Whatever.
Maddy
Tuesday, January 27, 2015
The Veil between the worlds is thinner than you think!
Diana Lancaster
Detective - Chicago Paranormal Division
Don't let the title fool you.
I can see between worlds. Really, I can. You may think that this is a very special gift. It is, it can be. But I dread when the veil dissipates and one stares at emptiness. The emptiness of a murderer's soul. The absolute lack of regret or sense of any wrong-doing. They act as if they smashed a bug when actually, they butchered a family. Little children.
Some say they are evil. They have not seen evil. I have. And it can swallow your existence whole if you are not diligent.
Let us set the ground rules. Ghosts are not some hapless person stuck between worlds. It is much more complicated. The tragic ones don't even know they are dead. Why should they? They weren't truly alive when they inhabited this three dimensional world that we experience. Others, whose souls are stained by viciousness and hate are enjoying the indignity of God's wrath. Sometimes a residue remains that is most unpleasant. But I jump ahead of myself.
Most of the entities I have dealt with suffered such a quick and sudden departure that they are unsure where they are. Comical as it may sound, there is some deed or knowledge that they must release before they can move on. What is really pitiful is that in most instances they don't know what that is.
And they come to me.
I didn't ask for this. I never wanted it. But to be perfectly honest, I wouldn't know what to do otherwise. As miserable as it can be, they remind me of the delicate beauty of life. And yet we squander it as if were a cheap pastry.
Some are silent. Some don't know when to shut the hell up. Their voices, a bit altered, heavy, drunken, laden with guilt and regret.
And I, this peculiar English woman points the way for them.
No, I haven't seen the light that is often spoken of. It is what I don't see. Their absence indicates that they journeyed to the hereafter. And left me alone.
Alone in thought. Alone to let the runaways of the spirit world visit me and haunt others. Alone to hear the still voices whisper to me in anguish. Alone to smell the odd fragrances that sometimes proceed them. Alone to see how they were taken from us.
My special little gift to the world.
I am not complaining, merely stating.
It's a job, someone must do it.
Luck of the draw they say. All that and incorporating my particular talent with Chicago's finest.
At least I'm not boring.
I know what life is and am not letting go.
Diana L.
P.S. Say what you will, but half of you would trade with me in an instant if you could see what I've seen.
Detective - Chicago Paranormal Division
Don't let the title fool you.
I can see between worlds. Really, I can. You may think that this is a very special gift. It is, it can be. But I dread when the veil dissipates and one stares at emptiness. The emptiness of a murderer's soul. The absolute lack of regret or sense of any wrong-doing. They act as if they smashed a bug when actually, they butchered a family. Little children.
Some say they are evil. They have not seen evil. I have. And it can swallow your existence whole if you are not diligent.
Let us set the ground rules. Ghosts are not some hapless person stuck between worlds. It is much more complicated. The tragic ones don't even know they are dead. Why should they? They weren't truly alive when they inhabited this three dimensional world that we experience. Others, whose souls are stained by viciousness and hate are enjoying the indignity of God's wrath. Sometimes a residue remains that is most unpleasant. But I jump ahead of myself.
Most of the entities I have dealt with suffered such a quick and sudden departure that they are unsure where they are. Comical as it may sound, there is some deed or knowledge that they must release before they can move on. What is really pitiful is that in most instances they don't know what that is.
And they come to me.
I didn't ask for this. I never wanted it. But to be perfectly honest, I wouldn't know what to do otherwise. As miserable as it can be, they remind me of the delicate beauty of life. And yet we squander it as if were a cheap pastry.
Some are silent. Some don't know when to shut the hell up. Their voices, a bit altered, heavy, drunken, laden with guilt and regret.
And I, this peculiar English woman points the way for them.
No, I haven't seen the light that is often spoken of. It is what I don't see. Their absence indicates that they journeyed to the hereafter. And left me alone.
Alone in thought. Alone to let the runaways of the spirit world visit me and haunt others. Alone to hear the still voices whisper to me in anguish. Alone to smell the odd fragrances that sometimes proceed them. Alone to see how they were taken from us.
My special little gift to the world.
I am not complaining, merely stating.
It's a job, someone must do it.
Luck of the draw they say. All that and incorporating my particular talent with Chicago's finest.
At least I'm not boring.
I know what life is and am not letting go.
Diana L.
P.S. Say what you will, but half of you would trade with me in an instant if you could see what I've seen.
Monday, January 26, 2015
The character's Flaw is the character's drive towards redemption
Jake Stewart, retired contract assassin.
Am I flawed? Can't say that I am. Hey, we all have skeletons in the closet. Suppose I have more than most. But flaw- nah. I've seen worse. And most of them are underground now. Consider me a constigency plan. Sort of Plan B when those in charge can't figure out Plan A. Most of the time, Plan B is the easy way out. Why should I complain, it keeps me employed. Now I've heard rumors of me being the angel of death and all that, which is a load of crock, but it serves its purpose. Having a title or rather, a reputation that proceeds me is very useful. First of all, it keeps the crack-pots out. And the crazies at bay.
What is so interesting is that things- are not what they seem. Especially now.
I prayed for hours on end for forgiveness. And now this. Whoever says God doesn't have a sense of humor is a flat out liar.
Ironic to say the least that I am the one who now transports the dead to their final destination. Those of the wicked and most unkind shackled to meet Fate's fury and God's wrath.
Glad it ain't my time yet. And either am I complaining. This is heavy duty job and I keep a smile on my face. As I see it, better them than me. Consider it my get out of hell free card.
All is a day's work.
And yes, God loves me.
Jake
an excerpt from Blood on my Hands
Am I flawed? Can't say that I am. Hey, we all have skeletons in the closet. Suppose I have more than most. But flaw- nah. I've seen worse. And most of them are underground now. Consider me a constigency plan. Sort of Plan B when those in charge can't figure out Plan A. Most of the time, Plan B is the easy way out. Why should I complain, it keeps me employed. Now I've heard rumors of me being the angel of death and all that, which is a load of crock, but it serves its purpose. Having a title or rather, a reputation that proceeds me is very useful. First of all, it keeps the crack-pots out. And the crazies at bay.
What is so interesting is that things- are not what they seem. Especially now.
I prayed for hours on end for forgiveness. And now this. Whoever says God doesn't have a sense of humor is a flat out liar.
Ironic to say the least that I am the one who now transports the dead to their final destination. Those of the wicked and most unkind shackled to meet Fate's fury and God's wrath.
Glad it ain't my time yet. And either am I complaining. This is heavy duty job and I keep a smile on my face. As I see it, better them than me. Consider it my get out of hell free card.
All is a day's work.
And yes, God loves me.
Jake
an excerpt from Blood on my Hands
The character's flaw is their way to redemption
Jake Stewart
Retired contract assassin
You know what love requires?
Sacrifice.
You know what my job demands?
Commitment.
So you ask me of my flaw. I don't have any. No need for them. I'm damaged goods as it is. Figured that is enough on my plate. But God isn't without a sense of humor. Anyone telling you different is deluding themselves.
My profession is highly specialized. It is much easier to see myself as transporter. I deliver those who have had the misfortune of doing something revolting, stupid or chaotic. Most of the time it has to do with business (losing the boss money) others it was personal (usually follows under the category of a particularly hateful act). They called me the angel of death, a title I was, quite honestly, quite proud of. My reputation proceeded me. It garnered me a respect that I may have not earned, but if it strikes fear into the black hearts of my enemies, or 'clients' all the better. Of course, I raised the ante on some rather viciousness against my foes. But I leave that for another time.
It isn't for the weak or faint of heart. Speaking of which I do have one. Contrary to popular belief, I'm not a monster. I do have feelings per se, but they are bottled up. Tucked away, hidden, and I dare not even try to open that shattered Pandora's box.
I prayed for years for the chance of forgiveness, and now am given this. Like I said, God does laugh. We just don't hear it, and if we do, the joke is on us, and that can be very impractical.
They call me the Ferryman, but the title is very misleading. Consider the source. They are not your typical bunch. But I digress and divulge too much. Let us just say that I transport the damned and most unkind to the furious Fates and God's wrath.
It is a bargain I am somewhat willing to do with great conviction. For for the grace of heaven's everlasting forgiveness, that could me taken to the other side. And let the Furies decide with their own brand of zealotry.
Ironic isn't it that this is my labor now, my eternal burden. But I go to work with a smile on my face. Better that than to suffer hell's harsh and frozen void.
Jake
P.S. Yes, God does love me.
Retired contract assassin
You know what love requires?
Sacrifice.
You know what my job demands?
Commitment.
So you ask me of my flaw. I don't have any. No need for them. I'm damaged goods as it is. Figured that is enough on my plate. But God isn't without a sense of humor. Anyone telling you different is deluding themselves.
My profession is highly specialized. It is much easier to see myself as transporter. I deliver those who have had the misfortune of doing something revolting, stupid or chaotic. Most of the time it has to do with business (losing the boss money) others it was personal (usually follows under the category of a particularly hateful act). They called me the angel of death, a title I was, quite honestly, quite proud of. My reputation proceeded me. It garnered me a respect that I may have not earned, but if it strikes fear into the black hearts of my enemies, or 'clients' all the better. Of course, I raised the ante on some rather viciousness against my foes. But I leave that for another time.
It isn't for the weak or faint of heart. Speaking of which I do have one. Contrary to popular belief, I'm not a monster. I do have feelings per se, but they are bottled up. Tucked away, hidden, and I dare not even try to open that shattered Pandora's box.
I prayed for years for the chance of forgiveness, and now am given this. Like I said, God does laugh. We just don't hear it, and if we do, the joke is on us, and that can be very impractical.
They call me the Ferryman, but the title is very misleading. Consider the source. They are not your typical bunch. But I digress and divulge too much. Let us just say that I transport the damned and most unkind to the furious Fates and God's wrath.
It is a bargain I am somewhat willing to do with great conviction. For for the grace of heaven's everlasting forgiveness, that could me taken to the other side. And let the Furies decide with their own brand of zealotry.
Ironic isn't it that this is my labor now, my eternal burden. But I go to work with a smile on my face. Better that than to suffer hell's harsh and frozen void.
Jake
P.S. Yes, God does love me.
Tuesday, January 20, 2015
2015 A bright, bold and beautiful year.
2015 already?
Yes. Another year. The fabric of time, science and belief all confined into a unit of perception. We follow our heart's desire and can be tricked into alternative roads and diverging routes. Straying the path of faith leads us into strange and terrible worlds. But it is these worlds that lend us knowledge that strengthens our growth. Although it can appear perilous, it is most welcome to our inner wants and needs. And if we conquer the demon fears and are victorious, we are heroes forever.
A new perspective. This is a new year, so the event warrants it.
What is it that I want to be, do and have?
Without getting too personal, I say to you, dear reader, this:
my pilot script, Blood on my Hands, optioned.
a new career, that is a real job/vocation, not a j-o-b.
more money in my pockets (and the bank), more fun, adventure and romance, and and a new place to live.
And for the first time in my life, travel. Really travel. Someplace new and exciting. I can go solo or enjoy it with someone.
Been a solo act for too long. Maybe it's time. But I divulge too much and digress.
Suffice to say number one is the script optioned, and a real career, writing.
So I set my cards on the table, or the gauntlet. You can use whatever reference you want.
And to keep my promises!
Dear reader, I do apologize for my lack of diligence or follow-through. Please forgive me. I have squandered too much already of the time that we are blessed with.
But no more.
Call this my lesson in courage. That I reveal myself as I have never before. The truth they say, is within.
So let us continue this road-trip together.
Until next time, adieu
P.S. Yes, I am definitely going to be a regular.
Yes. Another year. The fabric of time, science and belief all confined into a unit of perception. We follow our heart's desire and can be tricked into alternative roads and diverging routes. Straying the path of faith leads us into strange and terrible worlds. But it is these worlds that lend us knowledge that strengthens our growth. Although it can appear perilous, it is most welcome to our inner wants and needs. And if we conquer the demon fears and are victorious, we are heroes forever.
A new perspective. This is a new year, so the event warrants it.
What is it that I want to be, do and have?
Without getting too personal, I say to you, dear reader, this:
my pilot script, Blood on my Hands, optioned.
a new career, that is a real job/vocation, not a j-o-b.
more money in my pockets (and the bank), more fun, adventure and romance, and and a new place to live.
And for the first time in my life, travel. Really travel. Someplace new and exciting. I can go solo or enjoy it with someone.
Been a solo act for too long. Maybe it's time. But I divulge too much and digress.
Suffice to say number one is the script optioned, and a real career, writing.
So I set my cards on the table, or the gauntlet. You can use whatever reference you want.
And to keep my promises!
Dear reader, I do apologize for my lack of diligence or follow-through. Please forgive me. I have squandered too much already of the time that we are blessed with.
But no more.
Call this my lesson in courage. That I reveal myself as I have never before. The truth they say, is within.
So let us continue this road-trip together.
Until next time, adieu
P.S. Yes, I am definitely going to be a regular.
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