Nathaniel Sewell's Blog, page 18

Chapter 2 – The Moon Under WaterThose Crazy GirlsIt h...

Chapter 2 – The Moon Under Water

Those Crazy Girls

It had been a forgettable workday; and I had struggled through my late afternoon workout. The constant early October heat had radiated me along my jogging path, it reminded me I was a living, breathing, human-being now well past fifty-earth-orbits. I had had to stop on the hexagonal shaped sidewalk, with my hands gripping my knees dripping sweat beads down on history. After I cooled off, I showered by standing motionless under the warm spray wondering if exercising was merely extending the inevitable. It was just past the cocktail hour at mid-week as the sun’s reflection blanketed St. Petersburg in a temporary warm auburn haze. Hugged by a calm breeze I walked alone under laurel oaks, coconut palm trees and past a large hotel construction project, down the street toward The Moon and then along an uneven brick alleyway that was paralleled to the main roads that the city fathers had smoothed over with blacktop. I typically avoided those clean roads that were lined with fancy shops for art, or clothes, or busy restaurants with guests dining outside under umbrellas. I had enjoyed my solitude. Earlier in the day an all to typical tropical storm had popped open and the black battle clouds had treated the roads and alleys the same; with the deluge cycling down the streets toward the harbor, or quickly disappearing within the sandy soil that was supported by sections with dense St. Augustine grass. The only hint that a storm had passed by were the coffee-with-cream puddles were left behind within the concave sections where the alleyway bricks had descended from natural decay.

St. Petersburg had been built to last. It was covered with enough hidden alleyways from neighborhood to neighborhood that even a London taxi driver would consider it deep knowledge to successively navigate. As I had walked and biked Old Northeast, I realized those alleyways were the town’s soul; its hidden truths, where modern progress abutted up against granite curbs and baked in place old world history within Augusta Blocks, or Baltimore Blocks, or bricks from the Southern Clay Manufacturing Company. The neighborhood alleyways and brick streets were protected by a healthy tree canopy; the bricks had different shades for reds, or oranges, or browns, they had imperfect repairs, but they non-judgmentally meandered behind expensive homes, or modest apartment dwellings, or in front of the preserved 1920’s bungalows. The streets were wrinkled, flawed, but they were defiant as the blacktopped downtown streets ceased at the old neighborhood entryways, but for the areas were the concrete, or blacktop glue, had hopped past and invaded sections under new zoning law protections. But if you inspected those older blacktopped roads that were deteriorating, the bricks were still there, just temporarily hidden underneath like ugly 1970’s shag carpet over quarter-saw oak flooring.
It was along the downtown bricked alleyways, held together by sand, time, and developer disinterest that it was the location where the restaurants waiters, cooks and worker-bees hid to take their breaks. They smoked cigarettes; they leaned against the pungent metal trash bins and expressed their angst. After awhile, they seemed to recognize me, and they’d acknowledge my relative existence as I passed by them toward The Moon.
“Your usual, dear,” Edwina asked. She was the youngest bartender, a bit larger than Jane or Kate, but with a decidedly direct personality behind fashionable thick black eyeglass frames. And she refused to suffer fools, but after you proved worthy, she had a strong kindness streak.

“Thank you,” I said. I acknowledged the couple to my right.
“You look a little like, Andy Dufresne,” she said. She had an androgynous appearance, but a perky countenance. She sat next to another heavier-set woman near the bar’s center section. “It’s the hair, yeah, it’s the hair.”
“Hm, sorry,” I said. I sipped my Guinness. “Not sure I know Andy?”
“Careful with these two,” Edwina said. She tapped over at one of them. “Top off your drinks?”
“OH, you are the devil,” she said. But she quickly downed here clear liquid cocktail. “If you insist…”
The closer female, a bit older with salt and pepper hair cut just above her shoulders, gripped my left arm.
“I’m Annie,” Annie said. She nodded to her right. “My wife’s name, Constance.”
“Hey there,” I said. “Call me, Rob.”
“Rob,” Annie said. She closely examined my face. “I don’t know why, but I like you.”
“Would it have anything to do, blame it on the alcohol?” I said. I grinned. “I have that effect on woman, but I don’t think I’m on your team, or am I?”
“Good point, we both like girls,” Constance said. She hugged Annie. “You have kind eyes, a calm vibe, have a girl?”
“She’s being honest,” Annie said. “She lacks a filter, but I love her just that way.”
“He’s good,” Edwina said. She smirked. “You crazy girls hungry?”
“We love the Moon,” Constance said. She opened her arms, and held up her hands. “Everybody gets treated the same.”
“We’re just drinking,” Annie said. Edwina moved away.
We sat quietly for a few minutes admiring the busy bar scene. The television had zero volume as it displayed a hard fought rugby match, beneath, Edwina opened a chilled wine cabinet and retrieved a bottle with red wine, pulled out the cork, and filled a cabernet glass.
“You crazy girls sound foreign,” I said. “Where’s home, home?”
“Ohio,” Annie said. “We had to escape, Constance got a job, I followed, I inspect fire alarms.”
“You do not,” I said. I laughed. “I’m kidding, I thought I heard Ohio, or Michigan, how long?”
They both looked at each other as if to calculate time. Annie pointed up at Constance with thick fingers, a gold necklace dangled from her neck.
“Twenty-two years,” Annie said. “Yep.”
“That’s about right,” Constance said. She gripped the bar with both hands. “God, time gets past, but we’ve been happy here.”
“You ain’t from here either,” Annie said.
I sipped the Guinness, I leaned back and stared up at the coffered ceiling centered by brown ceiling fans and surrounded by British West Indies themed decorations.
“Kentucky, Florida, Alabama, Missouri,” I said. I shrugged. “A bit in New Jersey, really New York, and Texas, and now I’m here, at the Moon.”
“You’re like a Johnny Cash song,” Constance said. She nudged at me. “You’ve been every where man…”
“You’re welcome here, Rob,” Annie said. She patted me on the shoulder. “But remember, The Burg, you have to slow down to notice it, the old buildings, like up there, those stain glassed windows.”
I turned my shoulders as I followed her fingers pointing upwards. There above the double doors were a line of rectangular stain glassed windows depicting sailing scenes.
“I didn’t even notice,” I said.
“See,” Annie said. “That’s St. Pete, it ain’t like Tampa.”
“We don’t belong in Tampa,” Constance said. She shook her head, and glanced over at me. “Different world across those bridges.”
As I looked away from the stained glass windows, I noticed a decorative fireplace across the far wall for the dining section, and along the walls, decorations that could have been absconded from the 1939 movie set for Gunga Din.
“I guess you’re right,” I said. “I should pay better attention.”
“It just the Burg vibe,” Annie said. “If you stay long enough, you’ll get it, we love it here.”
“It’s not where you live, Rob,” Constance said. “It’s do you feel welcome.”

End

NS

The Moon Under Water – The flawed 1st draft

I decided I’d share my current writing project as I create the novel: The Moon Under Water.

 I know the below has flaws, it will morphe, but I write for the love of the craft.

So, I’m simply sharing in hopes the reader enjoys my artistic process, but also, perhaps inspire someone else to share their art. 

A little back story, in truth I’m riffing from my favoriate restaurant / bar in downtown St. Petersburg. And, also, the title comes from a George Orwell essay.  If you read the essay, I think you’ll note some similarities in the story. 

Below I’ve shared the first chapter. I’ll share each chapter which are a series of vignettes – I realized there are WAY to many characters to create a typical novel – I simply didn’t want to waste them.  And I’ve already created the ending, so I know where I’m taking the reader on a journey.

The Moon Under Water

As I leaned against an ancient banyan tree, I gazed across the lonely horizon at the deep channel traffic crossing lower Tampa Bay. I wondered how a massive steal barge leaving a frothy dead wake behind was kept afloat on choppy seas as it navigated to eventually pass underneath the tall arched Sunshine Skyway Bridge before it would venture out onto the vast blue Gulf of Mexico. Closer in I had watched a white fiberglass fishing boat cruise into the rectangular shaped harbor buttressed with a sturdy concrete sea wall as the plump captain navigated it past Spa Beach, a sliver of land near the original Million Dollar Pier; it was dimpled with gossiping palm trees, covered with soft sand, and the exact spot where during the roaring 20’s set a solarium where they believed, at the time, nude sunbathing and a Lucky Strike promoted good health. The fishermen docked the boat into a long marina slip that was shaded by a group of sabal palms. They were greeted by a curious great white egret with a dagger like beak. They pointed down at curved dorsal fins that emerged and disappeared past their boat and between mooring balls above the calm emerald green waters. They were likely bottled nosed dolphins that swam back out within the salt waters as the tide receded. I nodded. They were dolphins for sure, because the native Florida bull sharks had sharper edged dorsal fins. But the aggressive bull sharks could have easily been nearby me hiding beneath within the murky shallows; as they constantly hunted for stingrays, bony fish, dolphins, and even other bull sharks. I looked up into the milky sky that was quickly being blocked by gathering gray clouds. I noticed just above me within the brown tree limbs and green elliptical shaped leaves a lone dark winged mockingbird seemed interested in me. But it remained silent as tourists and locals strolled past me; it appeared to intently stare down at me with its pale yellow eyes. And then I smelled the pungent odor for approaching rain, the temperature had cooled, and then a familiar rumble under my flip-flops encouraged me to seek shelter. As I moved away I was reminded how birds, wild animals, sensed the future before humans. We humans are a foolish species, we take foolish chances. It was still possible that year for one of Mother Nature’s giant storms to menace the peninsula. I was pretty sure the nearby salmon painted Vinoy Hotel would have survived. It was a Mediterranean revival styled resort that sprawled along the old red bricked 5th Avenue NE; it had been built after the 1921 Tarpon Springs hurricane and had miraculously avoided the wrecking ball in the 1984.

St. Petersburg was a moist mid-September hot; the afternoon storms were welcomed by locals. A good breeze with a temporary heavy rain with window pane shaking thunder seemed to cleanse the area. As if the city had been pressure washed by God for thirty minutes, and for an hour everyone went to their quiet place and calmed-down, and then the bright sun would reappear as life emerged like blooming orange blossoms as if nothing weather related had occurred. If you’ve lived at the latitude long enough, you would know The Higher Power doesn’t turn the heat down until the hurricane season had ceased at the end of November. Like a misunderstood Rothko painting, for a specific reason, a nautical hurricane warning flag was a bright red square with a black square at the center. Those violent storms were rare enough to mark time, and were bestowed with first names like Andrew, Rita or, even an innocent sounding one, Katrina. It had been over a decade since Charlie had menaced St. Petersburg, and those new to the area that lived inside the gleaming high-rises had little knowledge what a hurricane warning really meant. It was an unspoken code for anyone native to the area, they respected the storms, and they judged every structure based on the singular thought experiment wondering if they could survive inside the man-made structure during a hurricane landfall. I shrugged it all off, as the weather was a predicable as my ex-wife. I walked back across busy two-lanes Beach Drive, as the warm rain had begun. I moved between parked cars, past lost families, and under the maroon colored canopies that protected the restaurants dinner guests, and sweating car valets, and then up the thick stairs covered in intricate tile work past the teenage hostess who ignored me.

“Well, man,” he said. He tapped his hand on the well-worn bar. “I bet you need a Guinness?”

“Absolutely,” I said. As I appreciated the the one modern convenience all Floridians appreciated, air-conditioning. “But Alan, why are you bar tending?”

“I’m not,” Alan said. He smirked back over at me. “I snuck back to plug in Susie’s phone, having an early dinner with Welsh friends.”

“Oh,” I said. As I walked across the ebony wooden floor boards. “I see…”

“Not likely,” Alan said. He wore rectangular wire rimmed glasses and appeared physically fit for a man north of seventy years, he scanned underneath the bar and grabbed a Guinness glass. “We’re Welsh.”

“Hey, Rob,” Kate said. She was a middle-aged red-head originally from working-class Boston. “Not splittin’ tips with the likes of him, never mind him, I know how to pour Guinness, it’s a process.”

“Ah, well lad, I gave it my all,” Alan said. He laughed, he shrugged as he handed over the tulip shaped glass to Kate. “Have to get back to Susie.”

“Godspeed,” I said. “Don’t keep her waiting, prevents divorces.”

I sat on a rickety wooden stool without a back rest near the front double-doors, next to a square pillar with a dark brown lacquered finish at the sharp corner where the bar’s marble top turned west. Above me were a line of rarely used glass beer mugs stenciled with rugby club logos hung on sturdy hooks. I glanced to my left and back out the windows as the crowd quickly cycled past the thick front columns before a wide porch along a path set between occupied tables and chairs.

It was easy to spot the tourists, a local would never stop to read the restaurants menu. As the rain drops increased their pace, a few hearty souls foraged inside and cautiously approached the bar area. Kate encouraged them to venture over to the bar.

The Moon was not like the rest of Beach Drive. It was different, it was an old school different within a downtown garden district for what was known in the day as, Sunshine City.

It was a modest one story stucco building perched six feet above street level, painted off-white with a gray metal roof, set on a rectangular piece of land that local real estate developers would now have bargained away with their collective souls to obtain. But in the 1990’s it had been the site for an abandoned assisted living facility the bank had been desperate to unload.

“You know,” I said. I watched the Guinness’s nitrogen filled light brown bubbles turn black. “St Pete’s a town, it’s not a city, it’s not a normal downtown, like Chicago or New York, or your home, Bass-tin.”

“For sure, but its, Ba-ston, you sounded like a gay redneck,” Kate said. She wiped away a prior patrons mess. “You need to work on the accent.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Sorry, I was over my head…”

“Funny, inside we get mostly regulars, like you, outside we get the tourists,” Kate said. She put her hands on her narrow hips. “Thank god for them, I think this bar is to dark for them.”

“Yeah, the darkness, just past the front doors scares them,” I said. “But that’s what I like about it, old ceiling fans, couple of silent tv’s up there behind the bar, and Guinness on draft, it’s a proper bar, a public house George Orwell would have loved.”

“To funny,” Kate said. “But I hope we have good season, I need to make some money.”

“You will,” I said. “They’ll be back for the season, month or so, like the tides, and remind us how important they are from wherever they made their money.”

“Hope so,” Kate said. She waved over at some new patrons. “Be right there, about burned through my savings from last year, it’s expensive to get old.”

“Yeah, it does,” I said. I sipped the dark beer. “At least you get a richer group these days, the Burg is no longer only known as, God’s Waiting Room.”

“That’s what I’ve been told,” Kate said. She waved over at the new bar guests. “Be right there.”

“They appear thirsty,” I said.

“For sure, hey hun, mind cashing me out? I’m off to my other job, “ Kate said. “I think the rains have chased the rest of them off, any ways, Jane’s here.”

“Sure,” I said. I pulled out my debit card. “They’ll be back, rainy seasons almost over.”

“Please god,” Kate said. She tapped me on the forearm.

“Thank you, you’re the one that always takes care of me.”

“Ah, you’re my priestess confessor,” I said. I shrugged as I sipped the beer and contemplated the menu. “And I grew up a Protestant.”

Kate grinned at me as she moved over toward the cash register, and started to chat-up the young couple. Another bartender, Jane, strolled up to across from me.

“Hey, love,” Jane said. She was tall, and an unusually thin middle-aged woman. She shook my hand. “You can confess to me, want to make an order?”

“Thanks, Jane, you got them?” Kate said. She blew me a kiss as she walked toward the back kitchen doors. “Gotta run.”

“No worries,” Jane said. “Thanks, Kate.”

“This place is bizarre, I’m good for now, maybe a half Fish and Chips, later,” I said. I winked at Jane. I nodded toward the front doors. “You never know what’s coming in here.”

“Yeah, maybe after your second Guinness?” Jane said. She gave me an inquisitive look. “The Moon’s its own spaceship, nothing like it here, I never know what’s coming through those doors, either.”

“I guess that’s what a proper bar offers,” I said. “A safe place for the weird, for the lonely to hide.”

“For sure,” Jane said. She crossed her arms and leaned back. “Just ask Edwina, or Kate, but I think Saturday nights, that’s when they all come out.”

Behind the Eyeballs

 

Behind the Eyeballs

I have a few simple thoughts to share, and simple recommendations reflecting on the sad news.

First, let me share a quick story…

As I strolled from under the hot Florida sun and into the low-key hair salon, the normally happy, Devil-may-care woman with bright red hair walked up to me.

She hugged me.

I thought that was kinda cool, as she was quite attractive.

“I can’t read your first novel,” she said. She started to cry. “I have an 8 year old son, I couldn’t read past the first chapter without thinking about him. It made me angry.”

“No worries,” I said. I grinned as I hugged her back. “Perhaps read the epilogue first, so you know the story ends on a hopeful note.”

Of course, my first novel was titled, Bobby’s Socks.

It was about child sex abuse and the epi genetic link to suicide. (I know…)

It was not a pleasant story to write, I cried much of the time as I wrote it.

And it was not, to use a fancy word, cathartic for me.

Actually, it hurt me, both physically and emotionally.

But, what I got back from the publishing experience was human expressions of love from my friends, and people who had read the story.

In truth, my only hope from publishing the story was to help someone deal with their life, to help someone I’ll never meet in person – realize they are not alone…

And then a funny thing happened, after the publishing experience, I felt the freedom to allow my artistic nature to bloom.

Now, I talk all of the time.

I know from personal experience what it takes to internally remind yourself, every day, to just keep breathing, because – you never know?

I think that simple question, kept me alive.

When I was in my youth, I never told anyone what I was thinking – ever.

I know now, by keeping quiet, I had put my life in jeopardy.

Silence does not equate to internal strength.

It takes courage to show the world your scars.

I suspect many reading this would have had the same struggles, the same self-harm thoughts.

I think it’s all part of being human, experiencing trauma, and wondering what’s the point.

You never know what’s going on behind someone’s eyeballs, they be famous, or not, they be a teenager, or a middle-aged person.

A few lessons I learned after Bobby’s Socks was published.

People from all walks of life feel empowered to tell me their story.

When someone tells me their story, I remain quiet, and I keep eye contact with them – to encourage them to talk.

I am humbled – each and every time.

I know I cannot fix them, they have to fix themselves.

I encourage them to consider seeking professional help.

I have a simple recommendation:

If someone invites you past their emotional front guard gate, take off your shoes, and respect where they live.

It might surprise you, who that person is – because it might be your husband, or wife, or a child, or your closest friend.

A few quiet moments listening – might save a life.

And, if you’re feeling down, make yourself smile, even a fake smile works – and for me, I wear colorful socks with happy heart symbols on them.

NS

Share a pillow with me

I’m alone with my pillow,

Through the window above me a gray morning emerged,

I blinked,

I heard the birds in a nearby tree,

The ceiling fan whirled counter-clockwise circles as a cool breeze rained,

The best moments in life are a quiet,

The best moments in life are a stillness,

The best moments in life are an innocent warmth,

A pillow should be baby soft, but stronger than steel,

A pillow should be your loyal friend with you in total darkness,

A pillow should share your happiest moments, and wick away your tears,

I’m alone with my pillow,

I blinked,

My pillow knows me,

My pillow waits for me,

My pillow accepts me,

Perhaps, someday, I’ll share my pillow,

But for now, I’m alone with my pillow,

I’m alone with my best friend.

NS

 

 

 

 

 

 

Soap Bubbles

Ever sat back and watched a child blow soap bubbles?

I remember as a child holding the plastic wand with a circle at the end.

My grandmother would hold my hand with her hand and she encouraged me to dip the circle into the dish soap, water and cornstarch solution. I remember the liquid seemed odd, with an odd odor.

And then after my grandmother showed me how, she showed me how to blow through the circle.

And like magic, perfect, round bubbles would appear on the circles other side.

They seemed almost invisible against the blue sky, and they sparkled at the tangent with the sun’s reflection.

But as quickly as they appeared, they disappeared.

And then my grandmother had encouraged me to make more, and, more, and soon I had begun to chase them in an attempt to catch them.

But the harder I tried to catch them, the quicker they dissolved.

But then I learned from my grandmother, if I held out my hand and waited, a soap-bubble would eventually land on my palm.

It would safely rest on my unblemished palm for a quiet moment, I would stare at the translucent globe in wonderment as we would become friends just before the inevitable.

I suspect there was some sort of Zen like lesson trapped within those moments.

As I strolled past The Vinoy this afternoon, I had crossed the busy street and over into North Straub Park.

I looked up into a clear blue sky through a cluster of oak tree limbs, it was above 80 degree Fahrenheit.

And then I was graced with the moment a child under his parents watchful gaze chased a curious black-haired dog across the grass; and then they stopped me in my tracks as they crisscrossed the concrete path; simultaneously to my right, were a smiling Asian couple surrounded by friends taking post-wedding vow pictures beneath an ancient bougainvilleas  covered in magenta blooms.

I grinned. I nodded at the parents. And I was content that my workout was behind me.

For me, those are moments God whispers to me, to simply stop, and hold out my hand.

NS

 

The Palm Tree

The Palm Tree

She stands alone,

She ages slowly, patiently, in the sandy soil near the sea,

She’s different from the other trees,

She’ll not easily share her age,

She appears slender, and sinewy under the white clouds,

She’s hard to the touch, but soft inside,

She tolerates the hot sun, and offers modest shade,

But do not be fooled by her fragile appearance,

She’ll defy the angry dark seasonal storms,

He’ll not scare her,

He’ll blow his hard winds,

He’ll pelt her with salt rain,

He’ll crack thunder in the black sky,

He’ll fling lightning bolts to shake her earth,

But he’ll barely touch her,

She’ll beguile him,

She’ll barely notice he passed by,

Her elusive nature hides her singular shelter,

And she’ll remain beautiful well after the author that noticed her.

NS

 

 

 

 

 

 

An old lady on a plane

I write these screeds for practice, writing is a muscle, so below, I’m merely working out with that muscle.

I think this is about a 3 or 4 minute read. I entitled this one, An old lady on a plane.

##

An old lady on a plane

Perhaps it’s the annual seasonal change as the earth orbits the sun, the springtime renewal with the Christian traditions this weekend recounting the moment we take pause to remember that Jesus got back-up, and defied death.

If Jesus doesn’t get back up off the mat (excuse the boxing reference) – what’s the point?

Better put, without hope – we have nothing – hope is a forward thinking concept. If you get knocked down, simply, get back up.

After all, what was left in Pandora’s Box?

As my business colleagues will attest, I have an almost supernatural ability to get the front seat on most Southwest Airline flights.

And it’s not just because of my A status, it’s because I typically only have a small carry on bag, and I don’t mind sitting next to people that needed assistance to board the plane.

I have watched with glee as the other passengers move past them, and yes, they are what might be described as infirm – really old, or otherwise physically defective.

In truth, I find them interesting. And I get mildly claustrophobic – so being up front helps me manage, me.

Perhaps it’s my introverted nature, but if I don’t think someone interesting, I’ll not make an investment with my time. I’m comfortable being quiet for hours at a time – just ask my ex-wife.

(Unless forced – as in sitting next to chatty-Patty from the Midwest with her classic haircut and pictures of her Hurd, or Mr. Important – blah, blah, blah, we sell rubberized stuff and I’m really rich.)

Well, on a flight to Chicago I sat in the front seat near an old lady.

She was seated next to the window, and what I thought interesting about her was that she was completely bundled up in her winter coat with a cotton scull cap. And, it was about 80 degrees Fahrenheit outside at Tampa International Airport.

After I had sat down and the other passengers were passing by me deeper into the cabin, she turned to look over at me.

She had a pretty smile, and I suspected in her prime she had been Halle Berry like attractive, and likely had caused mortal men to go weak in the knees.

She was a pretty lady.

I suspected she was a lot older than I’d have guessed. But then, I know what that feels like.

We had idle chit-chat and then she told me she had been visiting Tampa for sister’s celebration of life service. I nodded. She asked me questions about me. I told her the truth.

After the plane took off into the cloudy sky, I had adjusted the air vent nozzle above her. She grinned and thanked me. And then the old lady feel asleep. She appeared at peace.

But the flight to Chicago was violent.

The first tip-off that the flight might get bumpy – the flight attendants remain seated.

The plane took off from Tampa, and they didn’t get unstrapped from their jump seats until the plane had navigated past Louisville.

Along the journey, I was certain at any moment the plane’s wings were about to snap off, and then the fuselage would javelin us into a corn field.

But each time I glanced over at the old lady, she remained deep asleep.

After we mercifully landed, she awoke and smiled over at me. She wished me well. I touched her arm as I stood up to get my bag, and I wished her all the best.

I liked her.

Her brown eyes had a hopeful gaze. I hope I get to be really old with a hopeful gaze like her’s.

As I walked inside Midway International Airport, feeling cold, I thought it was a funny thing what you remember at odd times.

I had had a friend ask me about my novels.

He was curious what was my favorite book. They are all my favorites.

But, for some strange reason after thinking about the old lady, I remembered a few paragraphs from the ending of my 2nd novel, Fishing for Light.

When I’m asked what that novel was about, I tell them all sorts of excuses. DNA this person, DNA from that person, etc. – but, what the book was really about deals with seeking the existence of God.

I had wondered, well, if God is, God is the light of the world – where would one go to find that light?

I made the story a satire as the subject matter was rather serious.

Like my new friend, the old lady, I wanted my character Edward to have a hopeful view at the stories end.

I’ll not express what happened, but let’s say Edward had a run-in with Ms. Prosperina, and Professor Quan protected him.

I’ll let anyone that reads this section to tell me if I got it right, but these are the last 3 paragraphs from Fishing for Light:

“Edward awoke with a feather pillow under his head. A multi-colored blanket draped across his mortal shell. Gazing up, he realized he was in Ardee’s bedroom. And it was as if he was watching a movie, as her smooth plaster ceiling blazed with an endless kaleidoscope of shiny stars and distant planets. The vast celestial radiance beckoned him to float from the soft bed and into the colorful DNA pattern of deep space and glide beyond infinity at the speed of light. He reached his hand toward the intense light, he blinked his eyes and adjusted to the hazy gloom. He wobbled up, as if standing within deep space, as if immersed within a gyrating Milky Way particle shower from the moon’s reflected light off the sun. A foggy perception reverberated within his consciousness that he had been out that night, but he was not drunk from wine, nor did he remember being at any particular place, at any particular time, for any particular reason, he simply knew he existed.

Lost in a cosmic sea, Edward sensed the Iris Nebula watched him from afar, attracting him with powerful magnetic currents to seek unknown destinations. To swim within a tidal wave crashing against and endless sandy shore, as if his foamy bare essence was naked to a blue moon.

Later, dawn began to emerge above the visible horizon. Golden sun light beams began to overcome the dark night. Edward listened to the stillness, he sensed his lungs fill with oxygen, the thump of his heartbeat. Unique ideas, perceptions, and wonderful new inventions cycled through his mind. Careful not to disturb Ardee, he attempted to walk off his electrified brain illuminating a constant waterfall of a generations hopes and dreams.”

#

If you are my friend, I can only wish that you have love in your heart, and a hopeful view.

NS

A Woman’s Wisdom

A Woman’s Wisdom

As my friend from South Africa with his accompanied rich accent might express, “hey mate, nothing like having a pint, cheers”.

My translation from the expression means, sometimes it’s a blessing for me to go to a quiet public spot, get lost in non-political casual conversation, and drink my chosen beverage as the sun sets and the Vinoy harbor disappears within the darkness.

My preferred adult-beverage is Guinness, and I like to enjoy a ‘pint’, (which I learned from Wikipedia is roughly an eighth of a gallon), at my favorite spot, The Moon Under Water.

For over 20 years it has quietly fronted on busy Beach Drive, as the tall condominium jungle has emerged, and across from two ancient Banyan trees.

Due southeast from it sets the salmon painted Vinoy resort and park, and in the distance the Tampa Bay shipping channel.

I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone there why I like the restaurants name, but it’s not the story they share about being Shanghai’d on the back of the menu.

It’s because The Moon Under Water was a George Orwell essay describing his ideal ‘public house’.

If you read the essay, the take away from the essay was that the ideal ‘public house’ – it would have an ‘atmosphere’.

The Moon has an ‘atmosphere’, an atmosphere that I favor.

It has a British West Indies themed darkness past the front doors and it has for the most part, aged-well. It smells calm, it’s not noisy. And the bars nicks, cuts and wrinkles along the reddish-brown surface have only improved its patina.

Since I graduated from the class of 1984, I have a fondness for Mr. Orwell’s writing craft.

In part, my second novel, Fishing for Light was my homage to him, and to Voltaire’s satirical novella, ‘Candide, or The Optimist’.

Unfortunately, my writing attempts have not sold well, but I can take solace with the knowledge that at least I tried.

I respect anyone that tries and either succeeds or fails.

It’s easy to be a critique, it’s easy to be negative.

For a variety of reasons, this past week I had had a confluence of emotions roaming within my mind.

My brain split between confusion and reality.

I know I’m really good at things like business, or perhaps writing, but I’m not good with letting human-beings get past my emotional guard-gate. (I think emotionally awkward might best describe me.)

Actually, I think every living creature feels exactly the same way, I felt, and how I feel this morning cloaked in my favorite white cotton house coat, sipping black coffee between writing and editing this screed.

But as I’ve aged, I’ve learned it’s a gift to feel anything, to feel happy, or to feel sad, or to feel confused.

I think the world is full of human-vampires that prey upon our feelings. Their goal is to kill off love and compassion by numbing the senses.

If you want to test my theory, simply turn on the television, surf the inter-web, or closely observe social media.

Last night, at The Moon, I was enjoying a full-pint as I sat next to my friend who would advise you she’s Welsh, not English, with a crafty wink hidden by a kind complexion and genuine grey hair.

We had discussed life, love and then social media.

“It’s all so negative, Robert,” she said. She sighed. “I don’t need negative in my life.”

I think here statement possesses an eternity of wisdom.

Her comment reminded me about jogging through a nearby neighborhood one hot afternoon, and I had noticed several houses that I liked.

For an odd reason, I imagined living within one those houses.

And it occurred to me a home should be like a snow globe, a safe atmosphere either large or small, where all the negative things in the world can only watch you from the outside and wonder why we are all so happy.

The collective wisdom to understand, the negatives only get in if you let them inside.

The world might try to shake up our snow globe, but the soft snow would protect us from harm like a gentle hug from a friend that our lives matter.

And at my imagined front door there would be a simple sentence.

“We have only two things to share, love and laughter.”

NS

Little Boy – my new project

Well, I decided to devote my writing efforts to complete a novella I’ve entitled, Little Boy.

The basic premise comes from as we age what 10 questions would someone ask about ‘the nature of things’?

I’ve always wondered about that phrase, ‘the nature of things’. Why do we like certain people? Why do we age? Why do some people die young, but others seemingly live in fiditem…

I think I’ll add some drawings – and I’m trying to take a drawing class – I just need to find the time.

Below is the initial opening draft, and yes, I’ve already written the ending.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Little Boy

An unblemished boy was hidden deep within his dream as he walked bare footed without fear along the moist green grass. His path traversed deeper into the forest, the floor marked with colorful fresh dandelions, daffodils and daisies. He squinted his eyes as it was the darkness just before the dawn, but the wind was blanket warm with just enough gray light cast between the new growth for him to see his future.

Even though he was a little boy, and it was his first journey into his dream, he sensed he was being watched from behind the limbs and leaves. Beneath the branches he noticed there were no dead leaves near the soaring tree trunks that were hugged by an innocent moist moss. It glistened with new life as he walked forward and it flowed over the rocks before it stopped at a streams edge and it surrounded an active rocky waterfall.

After awhile he stood on the muddy brown bank near the clear stream that ambled between the hillsides covered with dense growth toward a pale yellow light.

It was stocked with plentiful gold fish and green turtles, and the stones were smooth to his touch. He stepped into the cool water and he waded across to the other side to separate himself from those that watched him. He had learned from experience to always be aware and to avoid danger. But as he emerged from the water, he realized his white cotton pajamas were not wet. He was as dry as the moment he had gotten into bed. He stared back across the stream at the darkness behind the trees. And he noticed the grass path was now gone, and then he heard childish laughter.

“Who are you?” the Boy said. The forest was now quiet, but for the soft breeze that blew past the tree branches. “I cannot see you, but I know your over there.”

After awhile, from within the darkness a voice.

“It is your dream,” the Voice said. The Voice sighed. “You must choose forever more, you have many paths, you have many dreams, but you can never go back.”

The boy stepped back. He bit his lower lip. He stared back toward from where the path had been, but now it was overgrown with a wall of tall trees. To his left the stream coursed toward pale yellow light.

“I don’t understand,” the Boy said. He crossed his arms.

“Close your eyes, as your eyes are already closed,” the Voice said. “Now dream within your dream what you want us to be, and then tell us what you see.”

The boy looked down at his bare feet. He closed his eyes, and then he opened them. And as he watched the other side, a playful golden retriever sprang out from the darkness, as white doves landed along the tree branches.

“I want a doggy,” the Boy said. He grinned over at the dog. And the dog seemed to smile back at him as it wagged its tail. “But I can’t have one.”

“I’m not just a dog,” the Golden Retriever said. It curiously looked over at the boy. “I’m your friend. I’ll always be your friend.”

“But I don’t know you,” the Boy said. “You can talk?”

“Yes you do, you’ve always known me. I can do anything you want me to do,” the Golden Retriever said. It scratched at the green turf, and the turf scar was quickly healed. “See, this is your dream. Because you dreamed for me, there are more friends here, you just need to dream us alive, like you dreamed for me, and the fish, the turtles, the birds and everything you see in your minds eye.”

NS

KIRKUS REVIEW – 5th&Hope

KIRKUS REVIEW

A road-trip novel traces a man’s spiritual journey as he follows the path of his grandparents across the country.

Bobby—a hyperwealthy investor living on the central coast of California with his wife, Rebecca—travels back to his Kentucky home for his mother’s funeral. There, Rebecca discovers the diaries of Bobby’s maternal grandfather, Stephen. Bobby doesn’t want to look at the diaries, but Rebecca begins to read them and discovers the story of how Stephen and his wife, Hazel, met in the late 1920s in Los Angeles, married, and then moved back across the country to be missionaries. Rebecca forces her husband to plan a visit to Los Angeles to see Stephen’s old home, and they pack up Bobby’s vintage 1929 Pierce Arrow to make the drive. There, they meet up with Amy, a young historian, who takes an intense interest in Stephen’s diaries. She comes up with a little tour for Bobby and Rebecca. Bobby, impelled by some unknown inspiration, decides that he and Rebecca must continue to retrace his grandfather’s trek across Route 66 and hires Amy to be their guide. They follow Stephen’s travels through the American Southwest, the Midwest, and finally to Kentucky, finishing at his chapel. The trip engages Bobby in a way he never thought possible, making him rethink his faith and behavior. But it also dredges up some painful memories and occasionally the worse side of his personality—the so-called “Evil Bob.” Sewell (Fishing for Light, 2013, etc.) adeptly builds a makeshift family out of Bobby, Rebecca, and Amy, each with his or her own foibles and strengths, and the three characters have a pleasing development throughout the story. The decision to portray Bobby as obscenely wealthy delivers contrasts for the narrative and easy money for the trip but also makes an already somewhat unlikable character difficult to relate to. In addition, the dialogue does not always ring true, especially with younger characters, who sometimes spout millennial clichés. Plotwise, the odyssey relies on a feeling of personal connection to the past that can be hard to universalize; the author is sometimes able to make this feeling vivid while other moments fall flat.

A cross-country trip through Americana with small delights throughout and a few bumps in the road.