Saturday, December 8, 2012

Paper for Creative Non-Fiction Class

To Die: An Essay of Death and the Mind and Things
“To die, to sleep -
To sleep, perchance to dream - ay, there's the rub,
For in this sleep of death what dreams may come...”
–William Shakespeare, Hamlet

“We are the naturalists, the collector of specimens.” I’m paraphrasing Aldous Huxley’s words.  To him, the human mind was our last remaining “Darkest Africa”. Sixty years after Huxley wrote “Heaven and Hell” things have not changed much. We are still scratching around in the dark, still looking for the door handle to the inner recesses of the mind. I’m there alongside the rest; I am the collector of specimens within this realm of the subconscious. No, not the subconscious; deeper still; as Huxley puts it, “The Antipodes of the Mind”.
In “Heaven and Hell” Huxley proposes that Heaven is within our own minds. I cannot agree or disagree with him. However, if he is right or wrong, the search may yield fruit regardless. And so, I go into the mind hoping for God or Heaven or both and preparing for some dram of enlightenment even if God or Heaven is not to be found.
 There is a point in a man’s life when he thinks of death and of what lies beyond the doorway. It is at this time when life takes a back seat, when the bags are packed and he contemplates the journey ahead, into the unknown. I’m sure I’m not dying, not anytime soon, I thought. But who can say, really? Life is so fragile; this bag of meat and bones is so… “mortal” that we can never be certain when it will expire.

Tuesday, December 4, 2012

It's Not Yet Over

I can finally put quotation marks around "Dreams in Ebony" because, though I missed my 50,000 word goal (NANOWRIMO) I did reach 44,000 and I consider that a good size novel. And being a novel, as the rule dictates, I can now " " it.
"Dreams in Ebony" Excerpt: Gentle Thoughts

I want to say something important but every time I write all that comes out is filth. I suppose that’s because my life is full of it. I have thought many times to quit this novel, to delete it, to throw it out and forget about it, but I can’t. I know there is something here.
This is the scene and this is where it starts and this is where it ends and everything in between is rubbish and I hate myself for wallowing in it.
  I don’t want to say something important, I want to say something profound but what is profound? I could tell a story and you wouldn’t realize I’m telling you a completely different story than the obvious one.

Sunday, November 18, 2012

Girls of "Dreams in Ebony"


Tara was new and red and solid. She wasn’t petite; she was substantial. She was athletic and voluptuous. She had an overbite and a sweet smile, a condemning frown, and I saw her scream in anger once and she reminded me of a howler monkey with sharp canines, upper teeth jutting out. Her face was brushed with light freckles and her skin was pale; her face was square with rounded corners and framed in a corkscrew mane of sun-dried tomatoes. Her waist was narrow and her hips full and her breasts fuller and she had full, toned thighs and average feet full of bones and ligaments that seemed too proud to walk on the humble earth. She wrapped them in designer high-heel sandals made by Gucci.
Tara preferred wearing lavender tank-tops that showed her freckly shoulder blades and freckly cleavage and her un-pierced navel. Around that, she had a smooth layer of healthy fat covering muscles and organs and ending right above a pair of six-pocket jeans made in Bangladesh that hugged her deadly sex; a uterus wrapped in denim.