EVEN NIGHTMARES OF HISTORIC PROPORTIONS

Dreams, even nightmares, carry us far beyond rational thinking and on into realms of deeper perception. Along those free-flowing lines, Big Inca versus a New Pony Express Rider is a trip atop raw forces percolating through high-stakes financial and political power plays here in America and abroad.

In the novel’s three-year course, daily encoded messages between Bill in the field and his boss in corporate HQ – plus two colleagues who flit in and flit out – sketch a covert gamble centered on restoring historic but decrepit riverfront mills for secret technological manufacturing.

So what do you do for a living? And how does it make a difference?

At least Bill’s not flipping hamburgers. Or selling video games.

He could be grateful. At least until Big Inca starts flexing muscle, in the background.

And then it’s a race for his life.

The Inca have a brutal history to be reckoned with, after all. As Bill discovers, history’s far from finished. Pay attention when the Third World comes calling.

Inca 1~*~

The novel is available here.

FRESH OUT OF COLLEGE

Bill’s just a generalist fresh out of college when he’s tapped by an international conglomerate to scope out some historic riverside mills and the down-at-the-heels town that surrounds them. A job’s just a job after all, isn’t it? Even when he’s expected to work under cover? Isn’t it what any good anthropologist would do?

As his reports find favor at corporate headquarters, he’s instructed in the machinations to covertly buy up the decrepit millyard under the pretext of restoration. In the process, Bill slowly recognizes his real mission is far more complex, challenging, perhaps even sinister – and lucrative – than he’d entertained. It’s a mindboggling brew.

Even before moody Big Inca shows up in the background.

Inca 1~*~

The novel is available here.

OF GALAXIES AND CRICKETS

As I said at the time …

To what extent can we break free of prose narrative cloaked in verse form? (What the critic Paul Chowder calls “slow prose.”) Sing and shout! Chant! Evoke incantation! It’s always comforting to know of others who feel the same way! Keep it up! The night is friendly, indeed.

~*~

Sometimes, even the galaxy seems to drum along with the crickets.

INC. TO INCA

In a global economy, even a backwater town’s at risk.

To go from Inc. as in Incorporated to Big Inca is just a small leap in the miasma of international corporate espionage and conspiracy – especially when a frontline player has to run for his life.

Take it from Bill … in the mill.

Inca 1~*~

The novel is available here.

 

 

BEWARE OF BIG INCA

The New World – North American and South – comes clashing in the down-at-the-heels mill town of yrubBury when Bill sets out on his first job out of college.

He could easily be a Pony Express rider venturing out onto the frontier – or a lonely station master, saddling the next horse and holding it ready.

This time the frontier has one foot in the past, a time of water power and European immigration of labor. And rather than the Great Plains, his route runs through urban blight.

As Bill discovers, history’s never finished. Especially when Big Inca starts lurking.

Inca 1~*~

 The novel is available here.

REGARDING THE DLQ

Jaya, in Promise, isn’t the only character in my fiction to address a concept I’ve dubbed the DLQ, or Dedicated Laborious Quest. But she does, I’ll argue, come closest to aspiring to an artistic expression for its encounters.

The DLQ, as I envision it, is the long-range discipline of spiritual pursuit, one that can be found in any number of variations in any number of religious, artistic, social activist, or even athletic lines of action. It’s a blending of heart and head, body and soul, awareness and discovery – the poet Gary Snyder refers to something similar as the Real Work, for instance, or maybe simply “daily practice” will touch on it as well.

One of Jaya’s concerns is a search for a fitting vehicle to embody the experience. Essays are too prosaic. Poetry? Sometimes. Drawings or paintings? To a degree. Maps of a kind? Getting closer, I’d hope.

Even so, I’ve wanted to leave the ultimate form she uses open to the imagination.

And then, more recently, I came across something that comes closest. An exhibition of Shaker art and artifacts at the Farnsworth Museum in Rockport, Maine, introduced me to what are called Gift Songs or Gift Drawings or Gift Paintings, which take their name from the faithful artist’s position as a medium receiving the song or design from a deceased member of the sect (that is, given) to be conveyed to another, living member of the sect (also, as given). To be appreciated, these must be seen in the original, full size, since much of the detail gets lost in reproduction. Sometimes the words are in a secret, private language and alphabet. Sometimes they blend. The lines flow, turn upside down, sideways. The works are sprinkled with artwork as well as words. Are they magical? Or simply mysterious?

Whichever, they spring from a tradition and discipline and practice to utter something deep in the heavenly desire and earthly community of a particular recipient.

I can tell you Jaya would have been most impressed. Definitely.

Promise~*~

To turn to my novel, click here.

 

YOU’RE ALLOWED TO MISS A SELF-IMPOSED DEADLINE

It’s mildly amusing to see how many of my fellow bloggers apologize when they haven’t posted anything for several days. Or weeks. Or months.

I want to cry out to them, “Don’t worry!” And then, “No need to apologize!” After all, there’s no shortage of material on the Web or even here in our WordPress networks. Nobody’s paying you to write, there are no hard deadlines you’re required to meet, you’re not being graded. The whole point is to have fun and then, if time allows, share your experiences and insights. In reality, few of us are keeping track of who’s posting daily … we just enjoy reading good stuff when it’s there, especially when it’s coming from a circle whose company we enjoy.

That, I should emphasize, is the crucial detail: post when you have something to say, not just to fill space.

Unlike many of you, I have a whole lifetime of writing to fall back on, but as you already know, the Red Barn is a different kind of blog, one with its own mission. And accept my thanks for stopping by when you visit. Especially those of you who leave comments, where I never know what to expect.

Now, what’s on the menu for tomorrow? We’ll see. Maybe I need to step out and check the garden.

 

ALONG WITH THOSE ARTISTS WE KNOW

As I said at the time …

For too long, there’s been a huge gap between the blockbuster superstars and the rest of the practitioners, many of them far more innovative or penetrating.

Paris for American ex-pat writers? Again, I smile. By the time you and I came along, the destination was Seattle or San Francisco or Greenwich Village. Or some mountainous terrain, for those of us who couldn’t afford anything better. (Or thought so.) And then Minneapolis and, of all places, San Antonio. As it turns out, New Hampshire has far more than its share of authors, probably because of its proximity to both Manhattan and Boston, in addition to its tax structure – so again, I’m in a decent spot.

Especially compared to many of the others.

BRUISED DESERT

Three hundred sunny days a year in a fertile land may seem like Paradise.

But it’s surrounded by desert.

~*~

Desert turns everything to bone. That, or to stone. Even the scattered tufts of cheat grass and the isolated clusters of flowers turn into straw skeletons. Social conventions, too, dry away. In pursuing clarity, which parched spreads possess abundantly, I also enter an order of madness. Paradoxically, to preserve my sanity in dealing with people, it becomes periodically necessary for me to revisit this incomprehensible delirium. Settle back on this my bedrock, readjust to my own frame. Here, then, I return afresh to spaces within and without. Wait. Listen. In this place, wind is a clearing, spiraling on itself. Then, when this twisting reverses, screwing into bony alkaline soil, we give praise. At times, I even see my own heart clearly. As I come to know my way around more securely, I lift a cup of clear spring water and pour it on bleached parchment at my feet. Selah. The next day a bouquet of tiny flowers rises like fingers bent by wind. Always somewhere, wind.

 ~*~

For a free copy of my newest novel, click here.

Kokopelli 1