David O'Sullivan's Blog, page 30

The beauty of Bob Dylan- Mr. Tamborine Man

25 Jun 1966, Paris, France — American singer and songwriter Bob Dylan on stage in Paris. — Image by © Jacques Haillot/Apis/Sygma/Corbis

Today I would like to bring some lyrics to your attention.

Mr Tamborine Man by Bob Dylan.

I have heard that this song is about a man searching out his drug dealer. The dealer is Mr. Tamborine Man. ‘Playing a song for me’ is selling a drug. “He has no place to go” referring to his freedom to get high.

This is not what I think. I think it is much more than that and at the same time nothing or what ever you want it to be. The power of a great poem is that is up to you to make sense of it.

What I think it means is not a drug users search for a high, but a man seeking more than his normal life, a man seeking spiritual awakening, to travel and see the face God. I think it represents a man, tired of his normal life, seeking to transcend the universe.

A man seeking freedom from the norm, to realize that life, everything we do is abnormal. Why seek money? Why be constrained by fences? Why not let go and see the magic in nature, follow dreams and seek happiness, not goods.

It is also to me, a man seeking the truth, seeking information and trying to search out inspiration to write the next poem.

This indeed should be the anthem for all poets, who, haunted by the beauty of truth lose sleep, look out into the morning when the stars all still in flight, and see that there are a million ideas ready to be plucked and to comfort the cold and lonely.

“To dance beneath the diamond sky with one hand waving free, silhouetted by the sea, circled by the circus sands, with all memory and fate, driven deep beneath the waves, let me forget about today until tomorrow”. -Bob Dylan

As the old epitaph says:

What I spent, I had

what I gave, I have,

What I saved, I lost.

Mr. Tamborine man sums up Dylan’s life.

“Mr. Tambourine Man”

Hey ! Mr Tambourine Man, play a song for me

I’m not sleepy and there is no place I’m going to

Hey ! Mr Tambourine Man, play a song for me

In the jingle jangle morning I’ll come followin’ you.

Though I know that evenin’s empire has returned into sand

Vanished from my hand

Left me blindly here to stand but still not sleeping

My weariness amazes me, I’m branded on my feet

I have no one to meet

And the ancient empty street’s too dead for dreaming.

Hey ! Mr Tambourine Man, play a song for me

I’m not sleepy and there is no place I’m going to

Hey ! Mr Tambourine Man, play a song for me

In the jingle jangle morning I’ll come followin’ you.

Take me on a trip upon your magic swirlin’ ship

My senses have been stripped, my hands can’t feel to grip

My toes too numb to step, wait only for my boot heels

To be wanderin’

I’m ready to go anywhere, I’m ready for to fade

Into my own parade, cast your dancing spell my way

I promise to go under it.

Hey ! Mr Tambourine Man, play a song for me

I’m not sleepy and there is no place I’m going to

Hey ! Mr Tambourine Man, play a song for me

In the jingle jangle morning I’ll come followin’ you.

Though you might hear laughin’, spinnin’ swingin’ madly across the sun

It’s not aimed at anyone, it’s just escapin’ on the run

And but for the sky there are no fences facin’

And if you hear vague traces of skippin’ reels of rhyme

To your tambourine in time, it’s just a ragged clown behind

I wouldn’t pay it any mind, it’s just a shadow you’re

Seein’ that he’s chasing.

Hey ! Mr Tambourine Man, play a song for me

I’m not sleepy and there is no place I’m going to

Hey ! Mr Tambourine Man, play a song for me

In the jingle jangle morning I’ll come followin’ you.

Then take me disappearin’ through the smoke rings of my mind

Down the foggy ruins of time, far past the frozen leaves

The haunted, frightened trees, out to the windy beach

Far from the twisted reach of crazy sorrow

Yes, to dance beneath the diamond sky with one hand waving free

Silhouetted by the sea, circled by the circus sands

With all memory and fate driven deep beneath the waves

Let me forget about today until tomorrow.

Hey ! Mr Tambourine Man, play a song for me

I’m not sleepy and there is no place I’m going to

Hey ! Mr Tambourine Man, play a song for me

In the jingle jangle morning I’ll come followin’ you.

A picture story

Michael came home to find

His roommate Simon giggled from his hiding spot

a strange smell was coming from the bathroom

and the cake was over done

Michael left the apartment, the street was strange like an old friend

He went to art gallery to see his favorite art

he slept on the train to his girlfriend’s place

he found Judy at home

they made love

When they awoke, they found it had been snowing. The street outside was beautiful.

High school part 2 – The Poem

My high school- Saint Michaels Regional High School, Wagga Wagga, (now closed) used to produced a year book /magazine. Contained within was the best writing the students could produce. It would come from both school work submitted by teachers and work submitted directly to the journal by students.

It was edited by one of the English teachers, a woman who loved To Kill A Mockingbird and ensured that every student in year nine read it. She was a great teacher.

It happened to be year nine when I decided I would contribute a poem to the journal and see if they would include it. I worked on it every night for a week. I cannot remember how it went now, but  I remember it was about robots and I remember the hours of work I put into it.

I submitted but did not hear back. When the magazine came out I grabbed my copy and searched through it. My work was not included. Three of my friends were published, one wrote a poem about a racing car that went something like:

Engines roar

green light, cars race

hugging the road, tires squeal

a car explodes against a barrier

the race is urgent, deadly, defining

number six finishes first.

The crowd roars and swarms toward the hero.

A good poem from a 14 or 15 year old.

Another was about a guy who finds a million dollars or something but the third was something else. It was written by Matthew Romaro. It was of such a high quality our teacher stood at the front of class one day when Romaro was not there and said (i remember her words clearly) “He is such a talented writer, he has the brains, if only he would apply himself.”

Romaro was a poor student. He would ignore the teachers, even embarrass the less gifted teachers, he would skip class, he would scream out animal noises during class. He was a legend because he had once made a teacher cry during class. He was a clown and we loved him.

I still remember his poem and you can read it below.

The teacher saw me going through the pages during class and came up to me.

“David,” she said in a sweet voice, “I know your poem didn’t make it this year.”

I looked up at her with devastated eyes.

“It just didn’t have the quality of the others. It would have made it but there wasn’t the room. I did not expect the poem from Matthew. Did you read it?” She looked over a the empty desk where Matthew usually sat and let out a sigh. “He has such talent.”

I re-read Matthew’s poem. It was incredible, I was intimidated by his literary power. I cursed my childish poem. I spent hours looking at that poem.

Then came the whispers on the playground that Matthew did not write the poem at all, that he had stolen it from a book or that his father who was a university professor had written it for him. I did not believe these rumors completely. There was something extraordinary about Matthew, there was something otherworldly about him, that he could do anything. He could skip school, he could fail tests but when he wanted to, he could produce award winning literature.

The next week his name was read out at a school assembly, he was awarded a merit notice for his work in English class. The only one he had ever received. I was happy for him, I accepted that I was not entitled to a place in the literary books, I had to work harder to earn publication.

Here is his poem:

WHEN THE QUIET THINGS SPEAK

BY MATTHEW ROMARO 1996

When the wind blows

the quiet things speak.

Some whisper, some clang,

Some creak.

Grasses swish.

Treetops sigh.

Flags slap

and snap at the sky.

Wires on poles

whistle and hum.

Ashcans roll.

Windows drum.

When the wind goes —

suddenly

then,

the quiet things

are quiet again.

Years went by and I would return to this poem.

I am uncertain what happened to Matthew but I don’t think he ever again wrote anything of great note.

One afternoon, just before I went away to university to study among other things English literature, I went on the internet. (something not available when I was in high school) and decided to search that poem Matthew submitted, just to make sure it was his. I found this:

WIND SONG

by Lilian Moore 1967

When the wind blows

the quiet things speak.

Some whisper, some clang,

Some creak.

Grasses swish.

Treetops sigh.

Flags slap

and snap at the sky.

Wires on poles

whistle and hum.

Ashcans roll.

Windows drum.

When the wind goes —

suddenly

then,

the quiet things

are quiet again.

I laughed. He had pulled a great prank over all of us. The teachers had all been fooled. I felt a little better about myself too. My poem about robots might not have been too bad for a fourteen year old after all.

My debut novel The Bomber is out 24th of June 2015.

I simply took David Copperfield and put a new cover on it.

A short folktale from Sinsinarta

There was once a man named Ligo who left his village due to the incessant teasing from the local people. He was an ugly man and his brown skin was striped because of a rare skin condition. He had a large flat nose and his eyes were sunken into his head. The young people called him ‘tiger’ because of his appearance.

He went into the jungle, down where the river runs thick and hot. He hoped to be found by the tigers who lived down there and eaten.

After a few days following tracks he discovered a tiger living in a den by the river. Ligo hid in the rocks over looking the tigers den and after a few hours the tiger emerged. Ligo was struck with terror and regretted his decision. He did not want to be killed now and in his fear he began to cry. The tiger halted and looked about, smelling the air with deep breaths. He saw Ligo and stared at him a long time. Ligo, still crying, closed his eyes and waited his fate. The tiger however laughed and said,

“Man, why have you come to my den? Are you sick of life or are you hunting me or perhaps both? Speak.”

Having never seen a talking tiger before. Ligo gasped.

“Speak!” the tiger demanded in a voice so awful, Ligo was half dead with fear already.

“I have come to be killed,” he stammered.

The tiger laughed.

“It is easily done, but first tell me why you want to die?”

Logo stood up slowly and lifted his shirt and showed the tiger his striped skin. “My village have disowned me and call me ugly. They say my father was a tiger,”

The tiger nodded and leaped upon the rocks, landing next to Ligo who fell to his knees and raised his hands.

The tiger sniffed him and looked at his skin closely. “Are you ready to die?” the tiger asked.

“No, I thought I was but I had not considered how terrible it is.”

“Then I can give you a second chance. I want you to guard my den. I will be away until sunset, stay here and admit no one until I return and I will spare your life. Inside my den there is a hunters spear. Take it and use it in your duty.”

Ligo agreed and climbed down the rocks. He found the spear and took a position outside the den. The tiger nodded goodbye and left him.

After only a short time a huge black monster, shaped like a giant dog but with huge red eyes and teeth like whale bones came up the path, it was dragging the tiger along by it’s head. The tiger was limp and appeared to be dead. The monster came close to the den and dropped the large cat, who moved a little and looked about.

“So is this your den?” the monster growled.

“Yes,” the tiger moaned.

“And you have three fresh deer carcasses inside?”

“I have, they are yours.”

Ligo moved behind a tree, he was terrified of being discovered.

“You were foolish to think you could beat me,” the monster continued. “I will not spare your life.” the monster raised it’s paw and was about to deliver a dreadful blow upon the cat when Ligo, possessed by an unknown vigor, rushed from his hiding place and stabbed the spear deep into the monster’s chest.

The monster screamed and fell over, dead.

The tiger looked at Ligo in surprise.

“Thank you,” the tiger said. “You have killed a very terrible demon.”

The monster lay dead at Ligo’s feet. It’s bright red eyes began to fade to black.

“If you will nurse me to health, I will grant you a wish.”

Ligo took care of the huge beast until it was again in perfect health.

The tiger turned to him. “what do you wish?” he asked.

“I would like to popular and accepted in my village.”

“I cannot control the people in your village, but I can offer you a better life. Take the demons skin for armor and make a dagger of one of his teeth. Cut off his tale and turn it into a club. You will be invincible with these weapons. I will come to the village and I will allow you to drive me away. They will see this and reveal themselves to you.”

Ligo, although confused by the tiger’s words, did as he was told and returned home dressed in the demon’s fur carrying his weapons. For a moment the people were silent, but soon one of the bolder boys began to taunt him and throw stones at him.

“You’re the bastard son of a tiger’s whore!” the boy screamed.

Ligo saw the faces of the village turn to mock him.

A roar, like thunder ripped through the trees and the tiger landed upon the boy who had been throwing stones and ripped him in two. The villages were struck with terror, they began to scream and run about.

Ligo raised his club and rushed at the tiger, the tiger seeing the terrible weapon turned and fled.

The villagers were silent, a look of fear had replaced the looks of disgust. They were too terrified to speak to him and they fainted or ran into the trees when he approached them. Ligo felt as alone as he ever had. Taking a supply of food he set out into the jungle, deciding to see what else the world could offer him.

——————–==============—————————–=================

Check out my novel THE BOMBER on amazon

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00VQHFI9E/ref=cm_sw_r_tw_dp_O4vDvb1D1BSJQ

or on goodreads

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/24910237-the-bomber

Favorite memory

My favorite memory

is when you woke me up at four a.m.

just to get me to read King Lear to you

and you smiled in the soft light

of the e-reader

as I read

and fell asleep.

High School

When I was thirteen I made it onto the all stars debating team. I was not good enough to be one of the four debaters, instead I was in a back up role. What they called the trust. If one of the debaters was sick I would step in, but my main role was to look up things in the dictionary and help write debates. I was on the bench.

The team was traveling to a nearby city to debate another school. I lived in Wagga Wagga, (a very small city) and we were going to Albury, (a comparably sized city) to debate their best team. We piled into the tiny bus and headed away.

The head of the debate team was someone I held in great respect. I thought he was astonishingly intelligent. I knew he was terrible at sports, I knew he was not popular with girls but, where I knew Shakespeare was a literary god, he knew and had read the actual plays, where I was aware of the world of Charles Dickens, he knew the characters intimately. It was like I was a boy in a blacking factory peering out into the cold London street of literature through a foggy pane, while he was in the globe theatre itself writing and performing the plays.

He was sixteen years old, he was over six feet tall, he commanded the debate team with a sure and decisive hand. If we were to win the debate it would be down to him.

We sat up the back of the bus, we owned the highway. The leader, I will call him Tom, began to speak.

“Lets play a game,” he said. “I will ask questions and see if you guys can get them right. First question to you Michael.”

Michael was a nice guy, same age as me. He is now a surgeon.

“What year heralded the beginning of the French Revolution?” Tom asked.

Michael thought for a moment. “1789?” he said.

“Yep.” Tom went through the players and they all answered correctly. He came to me.

“Easy one for you,” he said, “What is the capital of France?”

I knew the answer, but I was so nervous I could not get it. I just could not get the word out.

“Don’t you know?” he asked, leering at me with disdain.

“Uhh,” was all I could say.

“Anyone?” He finally said.

“Paris,” they all shouted.

Tom looked at me in disgust.

The actual debate did not go too well for me either. In the class room where it was held the teacher asked us why there were five of us.

“He’s the trust,” we answered her.

“No, we don’t do that here, that’s cheating.”

I answered quickly, “I’ll just sit and watch then.”

“No you won’t!” she bellowed. “You’ll sit outside, keep quiet and don’t wander off anywhere.”

So for the debate I sat outside and waited. Anger welling up inside me. One time I moved away and she came rushing out and telling me to stay where I was, sitting on the ground.

When the debate was finished I was so angry I did not even ask how it went. I think we lost. That teacher was a real son of a bitch.

A few months later, before Tom graduated to Senior high, we held a writers group after school where all the kids wanting to be writers came together to talk about our work.

It was held in Mr. Hall’s English classroom. (Mr. Hall being the greatest English teacher at our school).

After the last bell, we rushed down to a corner store next to the school, loaded our pockets with  candy and sugary lollies, and came back to class.

Tom called every one around and took out a huge folder.

“This is my novel,” he said, “It is almost finished.”

He opened the folder and there were hundreds of pages of writing, thousands and thousands of words, a real novel. No one could have guessed he had such a treasure. Where we were writing poems about motorbikes and army men he had written a real book.

He let us read the first lines. The penmanship was neat easy to read. It began something like:

“On the planet Grossmorss something moved about the craters. It oozed like slime, but was hard enough to move huge rocks aside like pebbles. Captain Tom Draft sat at the controls of the Space-Eagle trying to charge the batteries for lift off when he heard a noise like tearing metal coming form the base of the ship…”

“That’s enough,” he said and slapped the folder shut.

“That was great Tom,” I said.

He looked at me, I could not tell if he recognized me or not.

“I want to be a writer one day,” I said.

“What do you want to write, verse or prose?”

I was unsure, “books,” I said.

“I don’t think any one would read your stuff,” he declared. “If you ever write a book it will never be as good as this.” he slapped his hand on his folder.

Those words still haunt me. I think he is still writing, I know he is an English teacher now. I keep expecting to see his name announced in the new releases, I still expect to see his book about Captain Tom Draft in the book stores and it worries me that it will be a better book than mine.

THE BOMBER is out 24th of June with Pen Name Publishing.

The main character is not Capt. Tom Draft but someone somewhat similar.

Spider and Lucy Jordan Month of The Bomber day 5

Spider

Today while walking in my garden

a spiders web blocked my path.

I stepped around it.

Why disturb the little master?

————————————–

I wrote the small piece today after I actually took a walk in the garden. The plants, still wet with rain drops from the night before, glistened in the morning sun, and a beautiful earthy aroma rose from the soil. I came to a part where the path is very narrow and a spider’s web crossed there. The wed was tiny and delicate, it too glistened with rain and a minute spider sat royally in the centre. He or she was so tiny I did not have the heart to knock the web down and make it  do the work again so I stepped over it.

————————————–

I wanted to share the lyrics to ‘The Ballad of Lucy Jordan.’ It is the story of a middle class woman in a comfortable world who goes mad. During the day she cannot handle her boring life and its inane options and has a mental breakdown. She laments that she, at 37 years old would not ride through Pairs in a sports car. After her breakdown she climbs to the roof, until an ambulance arrives to take her to a mental hospital. Finally after being helped off the roof the men take her away where she believes she is riding through the streets of Paris.

When I was younger I believed that she leaped from the roof, died and in death, dreamed she was driving through Paris. After considering the words It is not the ultimate sad story of madness and death as I originally believed, but a story of a woman who is driven mad by her lifestyle and is taken away for help.

The Ballad of Lucy Jordan

The morning sun touched lightly on

The eyes of Lucy Jordan

In a white suburban bedroom

In a white suburban town

And she lay there ‘neath the covers

Dreaming of a thousand lovers

‘Til the world turned to orange

And the room went spinning round

At the age of 37

She realized she’d never ride

Through Paris in a sports car

With the warm wind in her hair

So she let the phone keep ringing

As she sat there softly singing

Pretty nursery rhymes she’d memorized

In her Daddy’s easy chair

Her husband he’s off to work

And the kids are off to school

And there were oh so many ways

For her to spend her days

She could clean the house for hours

Or rearrange the flowers

Or run naked through the shady street

Screaming all the way

At the age of 37

She realized she’d never ride

Through Paris in a sports car

With the warm wind in her hair

So she let the phone keep ringing

As she sat there softly singing

Pretty nursery rhymes she’d memorized

In her Daddy’s easy chair

The evening sun touched gently on

The eyes of Lucy Jordan

On the rooftop where she climbed

When all the laughter grew too loud

And she bowed and curtsied to the man

Who reached and offered her his hand

And he led her down to the long white car that waited past the crowd.

At the age of 37

She knew she’d found forever

As she rode along through Paris

With the warm wind in her hair

THE BOMBER out June 24th 2015

MONTH OF THE BOMBER DAY FOUR

On Finding My Fern Dead From Frost And Exposure.

I left her out in the sun,

the weather was warm, her soil moist,

But I forgot her

and midnight’s garden is different to day’s.

The temperature dropped

and froze.

Gentle, gentle soft fronds of green,

changed to grey and brown,

curling dead fingers.

The ice like an old man’s beard

hung from her pretty face,

once green now black.

She did not recover,

but shrank into her glazed red pot.

Dead.

No more spring breezes

that so excited her into growth

would ever dance through

her life loving leaves again.

———————————————

June is the month of The Bomber, my debut novel. It will be released on the 24th. Please ask your local book seller or your favorite online book store for more information.

THE BOMBER JUNE 24th

DAVID O’SULLIVAN

MONTH OF THE BOMBER DAY THREE writing the bomber

The Bomber, my debut novel which will be released on June 24th, took me the best part of year to complete. It is about a soldier, returning home and struggling to fit in to society. He is driven to acts of revenge by a murderer and once revenge is achieved he has to live with the terrible reality of his crime. Loneliness, anger and fear are central to the main characters motivation.

The idea of The Bomber came to me one day as I drove down a highway through the centre of a small city. Next to the road, a billboard sign read,  -“Welcome home our brave soldier, returned from war in Iraq. We are proud.” There was a name on the sign and it was a person I knew. I went to see him and we discussed things and he told me about life in the army, about life in the middle east as he found it and about some of the things he faced. I asked him questions which, while they did not annoy him, I could see he found them naive, I could see that because I had not experienced the things he had, I could never understand. So I stayed quiet and listened. That was the best way to allow him to described what he had experienced. It came out slowly, it came out vividly. He was living in a small apartment at the time, across from a Pizza Hut and we went and grabbed a pizza and played video games. He went to a party that night which I did not go to and when I came to see him the next day I saw that he had consumed a lot of alcohol and hew was unwell, regardless of how he felt, we went swimming in the river across town and then walked back.

We had been friends in high school and there was something different about him, something that would mean we would forever be distant from each other. I haven’t seen my friend for a few years now but it was that feeling, that he was not the same and the war had changed him that I wanted my main character to reflect. So The Bomber has been in my mind for a long time and I am glad to finally see it appear in book form.

MONTH OF THE BOMBER DAY TWO THE BANK

I stood in line at the bank today, it was a long line, twenty five people waiting to see three tellers. In front of me was a mother and daughter, then a large man with dreadlocks and beyond him a number of normal people on their lunch break.

Behind me was a short man, overweight, middle aged, wearing black cargo pants, torn at various places and a black shirt. A bank clerk came out of a side door and walked along the line, asking people what their business was and offering them alternatives to seeing a teller. He offered the woman in front of me the use of a computer to do some online banking but not one of the people took up his offer, all of them saying they would rather wait.

He came to me;

“What would you like to do today?” he asked.

“I need a bank cheque.”

“You’ll have to wait for a teller.”

“Thank you,” I said and smiled and he smiled. It was nice.

He went to the man behind me.

“What do you need to do today?” he asked.

“I need receipts,” the man behind me said.

“You can come over to the computer on the wall here sir and print those receipts out,” the man offered kindly, with a soft non-confrontational voice.

“No!” the man yelled, “I want to see a real human, I don’t want a bloody computer, I came in to see someone,”

Shocked by the man, the bank clerk tried to calm the situation down.”

“Yes sir, no problems.” The clerk continued to speak to people further along the line.

“What you can do,” the man in black began, “Is put more people on, more tellers would help, you should put on more staff.”

“It’s lunch break sir, they have gone to lunch.”

“You don’t need to put all the people out to lunch at once do you? Surely lunch time is the bank’s busiest time, you should have more staff on.”

“There are three tellers on…”

“There should be more,” the man was yelling now, “Screw the bank profits, forget the shareholders, you should put more tellers on.”

The clerk, a little shaken by the man’s aggressive attitude, ducked through the line and disappeared through a door in the other side of the building.

“He’s ducked off,” the man began. A teenage girl in front of me was giggling and almost leaping about in joy, excited at the event. She covered her mouth and spun around looking at the man.

I laughed.

“This guy agrees,” the man said pointing at me as I turned. “You agree don’t you?”

“Yes,” I said, “when I think of banks I think of a boot stamping on a person’s face forever.” (paraphrasing George Orwell.)

“Exactly, they should have more staff working, not running around yapping at you. I don’t let anyone stand over me, I give them what for. I don’t step down for anyone.”

“What’s your background?” I asked.

“I’m Australian,” he said.

“Okay.”

“What do you do?” he asked.

“This, that and the other.” I answered turning away.

“Well let me see, R.M. Williams boots, nice trousers, a little frayed here…” He pointed at a spot where I had scraped against something.

“Look at you,” I said a little angry at him. He was loud and I felt he was starting to pick on me. “You’ve holes in your pants, look at them. You should get a job and buy yourself new pants.”

“Why should I!” he yelled, “Why should I?”

“I don’t care, but don’t pick on what I’m wearing.”

At this he calmed down.

“You’re too serious, people are too serious these days.”

We stood quietly as the line continued. Then he said;

“You know these banks and all their profit, and the supermarkets and all the big businesses, they collect sales tax. They hold it for thirty days in their accounts and make all the interest off it. They pocket the interest off our money.”

I understood this and I agreed. “Yes, they are flat out making money all the time. The big businesses run the country.”

“Exactly, I tell people this all the time and they don’t understand.”

He was standing next to me now, like we were friends in a conspiracy or comrades in a revolution.

“Privatization will ruin the citizen,” he said. “The government sell off our assets, to make themselves money today, but tomorrow we are paying higher prices to private companies who don’t care or feel any need to answer to us. All our essential services are gone, out of our reach.”

I agreed. We were thick together now.

He reached into his pocket and retrieved an old badge. It had the image of Lenin on a red background.

The man was a socialist and I liked him.

My novel The Bomber will be released on June 24th 2015.

Please order a copy through your favorite actual or online bookstore today