Nathaniel Sewell's Blog, page 24

National Dog Day: The Adventures of Pink Petunia – Lesson #1 – A Woman’s Shoes

Hi! I’m Pinky. I’m a guard dog. I’m a fierce hunter! Woof!

Sorry, Pinky is my owner’s nickname for me.  I should let you know up front, I actually own them, but they just don’t know it. I allow them to live in the fantasy world that they are in charge; it’s good for their self-esteem, and it helps me to get what I want. What do I want?

Treats! Treats! Treats! And Belly Rubs …

It’s not their fault that they’re weak minded - telling me they love me. I’m not sure what that means, as I’m a dog. Even though I am amazingly cute, I’m still a member in good standing within the animal kingdom. And in our kingdom we don’t have pets; does the Alligator have a pet Boa constrictor that it snuggles up with in the Everglades? Are cats and dogs now  happily living together? Even though I am super-cute, if I detect a mouse, I’ll kill it, I’ll play with it for my own amusement, and then I’ll eat it. (I don’t need any Saturday morning Elmer Fudd – “Hunting da wabbit” –  instructional videos, I instinctively know what to do.)

It is my instinct to pounce! And after I pounce, I expect a treat. If I detect a repairman in the house, I bark out a warning that Pinky owns the turf. It’s what I do, after all, I’m a guard dog. I’m a fierce hunter! I know, I know, my above photo’s intimidating.

The brown haired one, the author dude to the right with the silly bowtie, the one who wrote this short-story for me because it’s National Dog Day. He tells me that he loves me; he tells me that all the time.

Oh my, what a sap!

I have him under my paw, I cast a simple spell on him. But I will warn you, this story is about the other female, the blond business executive - HER! Secretly, I think she cast some spell over the author dude, too. I notice he gives her treats as well. He’s such an easy mark, I guess pretty girl’s need to stick together ~ regardless of species, right?

But she needs some Pink Petunia re-education. She is the reason for this story because she provided me with an emotionally scarring moment. I have flashbacks of her shoes. But, I have learned to work through my issues. I’ll show you how, it might help other canines.

The author dude encouragingly nodded down at me to continue. I simply wiggled on my backside, spread my paws apart in a full on Playboy pose and showed off all my ‘bits and pieces’. I allowed him to rub my soft belly. I like to have my belly rubbed or scratched, it calms me down. And then I get a treat. And then we repeat the process as often as I like.

See how easy I can cast my spell?

I’m from Central Kentucky, so by law I’d smoke to calm my nerves, if it were not for my paws. And I cannot seem to keep the cigarette lit because my lungs are too small. But that might be a bit too French, right? Besides, it seems I am evolutionary flawed and have to live without opposable thumbs. Oh, if I had opposable thumbs the mischief I could create!

My given name is Pink Petunia. I am a ruby red King Charles Cavalier. I am a pure bred. I am beautiful. Okay, you can feel free to lovingly gaze at our old family photo. The other girl, Margaret May has, as the author dude swears to me, “Pinky, Maggie has left the building, she decided to go hang out with Elvis and Jimmy Hendrix”. I don’t know who those people are, but she was quite the tramp. You see, I’m the lady. But I am quite fierce in the above photo biting down on my chew toy. I was on guard duty that day. And then I got a treat. See how this works?

I should have my own non-realty, realty show don’t you think? Keeping Up With the Pinky? I would take a nude selfie, but I refuse to shave off all of my fur like those other girls. Besides, I can’t operate a mobile phone. And lastly, I don’t have those opposable thumbs on my paws, and I happen to possess a  sort of humility gene, or is it that I refuse to make a complete vapid fool of myself for money gene?

I know, I know, it comes from my DNA, I have the gift to have – dignity.

But I am pretty, it’s not my fault, I have learned to accept my position in the world. And I’ve heard the words over and over, ‘yada, yada, yada’.

“OH, she’s so cute,” a gawker might say. (Gag me with an expensive chew toy! I’m a guard dog. I’m a fierce hunter!)

I know, I know, now just stop it – you’re embarrassing me. Sorry that you cannot tell I’m embarrassed, as I do not blush, because remember, I’m a dog. I am covered with thick fur. But it’s about my genetics, as the author dude over there might say, so – it’s not my fault, so go ahead – just admire my photo – I am used to being stared at.  Do you think I should get some large movie star sunglasses?

Right now, I know you feel the need to hug me, scratch my belly and to brush my luxurious fur, and then maybe take me for a spa day at my favorite groomer? I know all the groomers look forward to my visits, and they compete to have an audience with me. They get to clip my paws, luxuriously bathe and shampoo me, and then they gently brush my fur as they blow it dry at a luke-warm temperature setting. I simply stare at them; I smile, pant my tongue a bit, and wag my tail to let them know they have pleased me. If not, I YELP!

Now, try not to stare into my dark brown eyes. Go ahead; don’t be afraid, I’ll easily absorb your thoughts. Gotcha! Yes, I have already sensed I’ve seduced you. How do I know I absorbed you into my web of intrigue?

As you read this, even though you don’t even own a pet, or you are a sub-human that likes cats – (I don’t understand you cat people, cats are evil spawn). Regardless, now you have the strong desire to find me a treat, right? Yes you do, be honest with yourself, you cannot possibly resist me. It is the first step in your Pinky re-education process to admit it.

Now go get me a treat. Ha! I tricked you! I’m not even there. However, for your information, I prefer asparagus, bacon, but I’ll settle for chips, string cheese or anything you or anyone nearby might be eating. And then you can take me for a casual walk, don’t worry; I’ll lead you about the neighborhood and introduce you to all the hot-babes.

I am the queen of our castle here in Houston. Woof! I don’t mean that sort of ‘queen’, although I have noted a few interesting people from our daily constitutional walks within our busy urban setting. I think the author dude has learned the risk management technique to avoid. Regardless, I am quite regal. I was bred to be regal, thus the King Charles. Investigate the below photo of my ancestor’s taking care of business!

But back to the point to this story …

I do grudgingly have to admit, I do have a few minor limitations within my kingdom. It was the business executive woman I mentioned earlier, the other female with blond hair who ‘shouted’ at me. It was a lesson I learned that motivated me to share my angst. The author dude encouraged me to share, and to face my issues. He thought I might help other dogs, we both agreed there was no help for cats or cat people, they’re all just strange. And they’re all doomed.

It was an innocent mistake; after I had devoured my breakfast, the author dude had complimented how beautiful I was, which I already new, but I didn’t mind the reminder. He then (yawn) told me he loved his Pinky. I know, I know, I have such a difficult life; after all, it’s not my fault, its genetics. As I remembered it, that day he had scratched my belly, (as usual), I smiled and panted my tongue in approval. But after another asparagus treat, I then felt the need for a well-earned nap. A girl needs her beauty rest.

Sorry, from the memory, I have to cover my eyes with my perfectly manicured front paws; the flashback still causes me distress. But I think I should share the experience. It might help other canines, in particular the bigger dogs, they tend to be – s-l-o-w and they tend not to realize that not all girls want to have their behinds sniffed at, it’s inappropriate behavior. And they should realize it’s all about foreplay, but give a dog a bone? And you have another dog.

I was simply seeking a quiet place to rest that day as I tend to snore.

IMG_0411

So, I happened to discover a wondrous spot inside the blond one’s closet. Unfortunately, I had a few items that I had to rearrange to create an ideal spot for me to recline. And it took a great deal of effort, clutching what she called shoes with my teeth. She wears these dainty things. I am quite fortunate. I have paws and I walk on all four of them. Well, the first shoe I had to remove was surprisingly lite, and I noted my teeth quickly sank into the soft leather.  I simply flicked it away. And so forth, and so on … I snarled as I vanquished them. And I did decide that a few that were particularly colorful, with really soft leather, were great chew toys to help me relax!

That day, sorry, I have to pause again to collect myself. Ah yes, thank you author dude for the comforting belly rub. And thank you for that treat.

Okay, so I had hoped to create a perfect retreat, an exclusive spot hidden within the closet darkness, covered with a silk and soft cotton bed. Sorry, I have to go drink some water from my exclusive water bowl. It is a pink bowl, get it? Sorry, I need to manage my thoughts.

Well, here goes, I was snuggled into a silky clump, sleeping, and I was quite comfortable just snoring away dreaming about spa days, belly rubs and treats. “PINK!” That sound was my first memory. My second, memory was another loud short, as in my name – “Pinnnkkkyyyy!”

At first, I attempted not to notice her. I thought I was safely hidden within the darkness. But I suddenly sensed after being snatched from my nirvana I was flying into a bright light. The next thing I knew I was locked inside my hut.

Now, I like my hut, it’s dark and comfortable, but my delicate sensibilities were accosted from the speed that moved me into the hut. It was traumatizing.

I did not understand what the issue was – as she shouted at me, “Pinky, those are my shoes! No, No, No …” And she wagged her perfectly manicured finger at me. I have not a clue who these other people were, a ‘Jimmy Chew’, a ‘Manolo Bla-bla’, something or other, there were some other human names, but I’ve never met these humans, sorry, I did not understand.  I was suddenly stuck in a fashion seminar about this seasons or was it last season, limited editions and shoes that cannot possibly be replaced.

Sorry, I have to stop, pant for a bit, maybe get some more water to help work through the nightmare. And yes thank you for that chip, the texture helps to calm my frayed nerves.

Okay, I’m feeling better now, forgive me as I pant a bit. With my paw up in the air, I really do appreciate you listening to my nightmare. It comes in second to the nightmarish moments I have to go to visit my doctor, and her poking and prodding at my good nature.

But I’ll discuss those repressed memories another time. I do know, as the author dude told me, I had “Pinky, you crossed the Rubicon”. I have not a clue what he meant. He tends to talk in riddles, but after all, I have him under my spell, he loves me, right?

My first lesson for all pets, stay away from a woman’s shoes. I learned that day that I’ll never go back into her closet, it’s simply not up to my expectations, and it is full of landmines. These women have an unnatural affection for ‘shoes’. Whatever! Woof! I would give two snaps with my paws, but, it’s that opposable thumb problem that I noted earlier.

Besides, it all got worked out, because I know she loves me as well. Because I gave her my most powerful stare, it was the defenseless little me stare. 

Well, after a few minutes, she calmed down, picked me up and started to brush my fur. She told me she loved me, (Sap!) and then, she gave me a treat. Ah yes, she looked into my eyes, and she gave in, she gave me several treats.

And all was well in my kingdom.

NS

 

 

Evil

I have felt the embrace from pure evil. It waited. It lurked. It was not a warm embrace, but a starkly cold whisper that chilled my spirit. It rarely appeared as a whole, preferring to nibble at the soul’s edges until there was nothing left for it to feed. The bones had been bleached white. It whispered final instructions, and then disappeared. But then the sun came up.

Without the bright light from the choice to seek love and happiness, darkness grows; it grows, it billows charred black smoke within the invisible heart and eventually the metastasis crowds-out self-worth, and leaves behind an empty shell, a carcass with a certain numbness that devours all the nearby light like a constantly feeding black hole.

But then from the event horizon a spark, a candle lit for a mortal soul. A warm flame stands tall from the black wax tip as the reflected colors push back against darkness. And the sun rises. As the eternal struggle marches forward, the battle can be won before the fight. The fuel to feed the flame is the simple prayer for peace. It is a child’s innocent giggle. It is the friendship hug. It is holding a trembling hand. It is the silence from listening. It is the encouraging, “I believe in you”.  And as the flame grows from more fuel, then quickly the blaze spreads to cast a vision for the union of smiling souls, all possessed with a humble certainty that chases evil back into its dead hole.

But evil waits for the fatherless child. It whispers a false narrative. It is patient. And it lurks just beyond the light spectrum but held at bay from an ever vigilant eternal flame.

NS

Under A Kind Willow Tree

I wrote this poem a long time ago imaging an older man sleeping on a couch. It is a Sunday afternoon, winter and from a time when the Sunday newspaper was full of news, opinion and the like that you looked forward to reading from beginning to end, and typically had your fingertips glossed with dark ink.


I had a friend express that it was a useful poem for them to explain how they felt. It is my attempt to explain ‘what is going on’ behind the eyeballs of someone who has been abused, bullied from childhood, and why it can be tough for them to fall asleep. As an aside, I used to fall asleep in class because I rarely slept through the night. I had to learn to memorize everything because lack of rest does cause concentration issues. And why it can be difficult to express to another person, or a teacher, that your dreams are not their dreams.


It is my contemplation that each of us must face our life tragedies, and to allow ourselves to seek peace and happiness. The Willow trees, the fish and the plants are symbols that hook to a deeper meaning. I know this is not a classical rhythmic poem, however, I think the cadence and the story are what matter the most.

—————————————————–


Hugs and Kisses, Kisses and Hugs,
A far away wintertime Sunday afternoon, Underneath typeset ink,
A faint snore from a gray haired, Grownup … little boy,
As his sanity unwinds along a red leather couch,
Curled over his sock feet his protective Golden Retriever sleeps,

Warmth from the hearth blazes, As his childhood memories,
Crackle, Spark, Pop, And dark fragile memory shards,
Float, Fly, Hang-glide, From within his minds-eye,

A sunshine waterfall of frothy golden beams,  
Cascade, To pierce through his souls black windows,
A pattern trapped within a Kaleidoscope of reflections,
To illuminate a broken heart prison, To entrance him - TO DARE HIM,
To sleep … To dream … To be a little boy – again,
To when he was, Innocent, Perfect and Pristine,
              
And the little boy emerges, From behind the foamy mists of his perceptions, To face humiliation … To face sorrow … To face shame,
          
Ragged his blue jeans, skinned at the knees,
Barefoot, he clutches a wooden fishing pole,
Dangling, dirty, a lonely pale spirit,
Over the cool running water, Of his shallow life stream, 

As he fishes his mind, The newspaper pup tent disappears,
A fresh cotton blanket hugs him, An understanding hand brushes back his hair, A kiss on the forehead, unconditional love,
“Love always,” whispered from Heaven above,

Problems, A mans work, Written nomenclature gobbledygook,
Vaporize, As he drifts … he helplessly drifts, Within the tempest current of dark matter, On his homemade raft … lashed together, 
With scenes of his childhood disaster,

And the barefoot little boy’s bare feet splash into his existence creek, Stocked with, Pebbles, Goldfish and Water Dogs,
Balanced with stones and rocks, Smoothed over by the wisdom earned from tragic experience,

The little boy patiently fishes, His remembrance depths, 
He hooks, On his invisible Moirae thread, A transcendental Goldfish,
Curious why, The Pisces welcomed his catch,

The little boy giggles with joy, Pink skin, Tender as cotton, 
Smooth as Chinese silk, Safe, Clean, Without the cloak of regret,

He lives here … He fishes here, Inside this slumbering head,
 
But,

Sadness slithers from the sallow depths, The forked tongue serpent,
Dagger bites the little boy’s flesh, Within his hands the fish turns necrotic - Amethyst Black as he quickly drops his nightmare, 

Awake within his dream, He screams … He tosses … He twists,
Enraged, Naked, Raped of his dignity, Dead, Toxic Sea food,
Molted scales pollute his reality past, Degradation, A Flash!
A little boy seduced, Pulverized innocence, Evil tricks,
The little boy’s heart frozen in time, His burnt skin, 
Forever glazed with an acid fire,

A little boy’s silent scream, Behind the eyes of him,

Terrified for mercy he forges his bare body, 
Back across the celestial stream,
Diving through liquid time, To where the little boy hides,
He camps here … Isolated - Alone, 
“Please leave me alone!” He begs to know one … but the Willow tree,
                  
Under the canopy shade of the kind Willow tree,
Where he can laugh, laugh … 
Play, be as a little boy should be, To be Free,

Hold fast my little forever frozen friend,
For gentle is God’s breath whispers, To glide, twist, sooth, seek,
Through the Willow forests leaves and branches,
As the pure white cloud enraptures the little boy, 
And the kind Willow trees … all accept the little boy,
And the kind Willow trees … all protect the little boy,
Cloaking him from the Black Raven clouds of cruel fate,

He kneels at the muddy bank, translucent his tears, 
His lost innocence long lost, 
Flood the shallow depths of his life stream, 
As plentiful Koi, feast to nibble away his pain,
A green leaf limb brushes back his reflection,
To wash, To cleanse … this childhood victim, 

And near the kind Willows tree trunk, For the little boy to sleep,
A safe, soft, Daisy, Sunflower, Lotus peddle bed,
He begs the kind Willow tree, 
For mercy, For peace, For forgiveness,
He whispers, “Please stop the nightmarish images …”

And under a Sanguine Moon,
Safe from the shadows of childhood death,
The quiet … grownup … gray haired little boy, Sleeps …
Camped all through the night, Near the hearths cooling embers,
With dreams of magic, Of fire flies, Of roasted marshmallows,
Of flying fish, Of pirate ships, And of adventures yet to be,
Hidden within the protective canopy of the kind Willow trees mercy,
And as the grownup little boy slept,
                      The kind Willow trees wept.

Talk, Don’t Be a Chicken Hawk

One of my favorites songs, of all time, was What About Now by Robbie Robertson.

There’s gonna be a change of season, mmm-hmmm

Indian summer look around and it’s gone

Why you wanna save the best for last

We grow up so slowly and grow old so fast

The song is still a reminder for me that I should live in the now. I cannot change the past, I can plan for the future, but I live in the present tense. And my hopes and dreams are but fantasies unless I take action to mold them into reality.

As in, “Someday, I’m going to write a novel!”

And how many times has someone responded, “Hmm-mmmm, sure you are…”

Right?

Well, I pulled up my big-boy pants, and I wrote a novel, Bobby’s Socks. It was about child sex abuse and suicide. “Yuck!” (I think that was the customary response.)

In part, the story was about the epigenetic science that discovered how the trauma from child sex abuse marks your genetic code. It switches on the wrong gene instructions. At the time, the brilliant scientists described it as a sort of ‘suicide gene’.

The story emerged from 2008, after I read an article in Science Daily about child sex abuse and suicide. I got angry, and I told my wife, RD, “I know what that feels like, I could tell a story about this!” Thankfully, she loves me unconditionally, she encouraged me to write the story, and after A LOT of editing, she nudged me to send it out to be published.

It was a painful process, but it was my decision. I had to accept the response. And she warned me people might not say anything, as in ‘crickets’, silence, “is this thing on?”- because they will not know what to say, or better, what to ask. But I thought about the statistics behind the issue, and then I told her, “If I save some unseen child’s life, well, I guess it will be worth it.”

As an aside, PBS provided a current article about the subject. It is vitally important information. Here is a link that you can copy and paste: http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/nova/next/bod...

Unfortunately, I, like so many others, understand what it feels like to go the ‘edge’. I’m lucky, I didn’t look down. It is not pleasant to think about, or read about someone taking their life. It becomes even more difficult if you have had a friend leave this life by their own hand.

I had a friend that happened to work for me, she had read the manuscript for Bobby’s Socks. We had talked about our ‘dark sides’. I greatly valued her opinion. In fact, all of us at the start-up business thought she had the world at her feet. It was just a matter of time before she conquered the planet, and we could all say we knew her before she became the great – this or that. And yet, she got into an argument, and she made a permanent decision.

To this day, I simply wonder why? But the experience taught me a valuable lesson, I allow myself to cry. I allow myself to feel the pain from loss, or frustration, but then I decide to take action and I let the negative feeling go away. It is part of the reason I try not to judge people, because I don’t know what they have experienced. I don’t know what it’s like to wear their socks.

I guess wisdom does emerge with age. As the Polish expression says, “not my circus, not my monkeys”. I think an active thought is to realize I have my own problems, and the other side of the equation, that I think that we could all learn from, “it’s none of my business, unless you want to share, I’ll listen.” But I also don’t put up with a constant, pity-party, if you want to improve your lot in life, you have to keep trying, and failing, but get back up, and keep trying. I know the Chinese proverb, but you get where I’m going …

My point, I spent the early part of my life not telling anyone what I thought. Or, I made an effort to act like I did not care about someone, because, for some odd reason - I did not understand the beauty that life provides when you can tell someone or show someone, “I love you.”

If it helps, say “I love you” in the mirror each morning, or when you get into a tough spot, it works for me. I think that’s why prayer can be powerful tool, but it has to be a brutally honest prayer – that’s the scary part for most folks roaming the earth’s crust. Because, if you are honest with yourself, you might not like the response. But that’s also the secret, if you can learn to accept yourself, honest with yourself, whatever the life challenge, you can manage to work through it, and come out the other side a better person.

I think our society numbs away true feelings, but raw feelings fertilize sunflowers.

Instead of us focusing on the obvious, why not focus on the solution? I think there is a force within each of us that waits for us to find it, if you will, a light within our living cells. But we have to seek it.

I’ll call it a ‘happiness gene’. To me, the first step of the internal journey toward self discovery is to talk, and by talking we might trigger on that ‘happiness gene’. And oh what a cool sock hop we could have…

For example, to talk about what I was really thinking was by far the scariest experience I have ever felt and had. In fact, the reason I used a pen name to write, Bobby’s Socks, was my excuse to protect my nephews and nieces from knowing their uncle had ‘deep dark issues’. In fact, it was my chicken-hawk method to sneak out into the literary world. But that’s the point, I think everybody has – ‘deep dark issues’, and there is no hiding in this modern world full of hidden cameras, and that mobile device that tracks our movements – cell tower to cell tower.

As for my talking, it was even scarier to call my friends, one in particular from my teen years, and let them know I had written  a novel. Typically, they all thought it was going to be a novel that was funny and satirical. After all, I’m a fun guy, right? But then I told them it was about child sex abuse and suicide. Of course, their first responses were – silence.

But then a funny thing happened on the road to expressing my inner Mark Twain, when I got to that life intersection, it was the moment I truly felt – FREE. Because instead of being judged, I got lots and lots and lots of happy hearted hugs. And I finally understood that they loved me, for being, me. And so, if you want to know what I think, put on a pair of happy heart socks, smile and go out there, feel the warmth from the summer sun and talk.

NS

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Blood Test Detects Risk of Suicide

http://www.foxnews.com/health/2014/07...

I think Epigenetic science is continuing to uncover hidden markers within our genetic code that will help those that need help. I just finished a 2 hour radio interview and in part we discussed the linked story.  I wrote about a blood test in the novel, Bobby’s Socks.

It is bitter sweet to share an excerpt from Bobby’s Socks.  The below excerpt was written several years ago, at the time there was no ‘blood test’ to detect a human beings tendency toward suicide. Bobby’s Socks was written based on the hard work that was discovered at McGill University, and I noted in a previous post from a PBS story. At the time they were using brain samples from the Quebec Suicide Brain Bank.

Bobby’s Socks – Chapter 19 – page 157

“Well, I guess it’s show and tell time,” Dr. Richie said. She fumbled with her glasses.

“I like my socks,” Robert said. “I guess fate spun me some colorful ones.” He smiled over at Dr. Richie, but she had a serious, intent expression.

“Sorry, Bobby,” Dr. Richie said.

“Sorry?” Robert asked.

“Where do I start?” Dr. Richie took in a deep, thoughtful breath. She exhaled through her puckered lips.

“Am I crazy?” Robert said.

“No. Okay, so I got all your test results back.” She opened the folder. “You’re physically in okay shape, though you need to lose some weight. Your liver enzymes are high, so you really, really need to cut back on your drinking, if not quite all together.”

“I know, I expected you might say that,” Robert said.

“I really like you, Bobby. You’re a truly nice fellow. I have note had the opportunity to have meaningful talk therapy for quite some time. We don’t have the time to just talk with our patients these days. It’s about money and all. Clinically, I’ve gotten a great deal of insight from our visits. So thank you …”

“Most girls don’t like nice,” Robert said.

“Until they get a bit older and date a few jerks,” Dr. Richie said.

“I’ve been a jerk a few times.”

“Stop. Let me get through this,” Dr. Richie said.

Robert glanced over at Dr. Richie. She scowled and clenched her jaw.

“Not good,” Robert said.

“No, not good,” Dr. Richie said.  She shook her head.

“All right, stop pussyfootin’ and get with it,” Robert said.

“Sometimes science discovers new tests, and I really wonder if they are good, or it they open up a Pandora’s Box, as it were.” She slid her glasses back up her nose. “We did some DNA testing with your blood and tried our a new Epigenetic test that , unfortunately, came back positive. We did the test five times - same result.”

Robert squirmed in the cushioned chair. “Positive for what?”

“If you think about it, I don’t think you’ll be shocked,” Dr. Richie said. She blinked her eyelids rapidly. “Within  your DNA structure, within your stress response genes, we found what we think is a suicide gene. It has a much more scientific name, but for our conversations, that is ultimately what it causes.”

————————–End

NS

 

 

536 S. Hope Street, Los Angeles, CA 90071

536 S. Hope Street, Los Angeles, California 90071 was the address my grandfather, Sewell, lived at in Los Angeles, California in 1926. My grandfather, a Kentucky boy, met my grandmother, Hazel, a Kansas girl, for the first time after he had turned left, and walked to the corner of 5th Street and Hope Street, Los Angeles, California in 1926.

Unfortunately, you cannot make the same evening stroll because the little house he lived in no longer exists, and the L.A. County Library has taken over the space between then, and now. If you Google map the address, if you turn left, as he had, it provides the library’s side entrance to gaze at to imagine a forgotten time and place.

How could I possibly know this?

This is the part that makes writing fiction A LOT of fun. I actually do have my grandfather’s diary. As the pasted photo will attest, within, on the first page, there is a square, thumb sized picture of him from December 24, 1926. He was barely 21, his eyes full of life, gazing out into a universe that he could not possibly have imagined. I know the exact location and date he met my grandmother because on the very next page within the diary, he had written a diary entry with the exact day, the location and that he met a girl named, Hazel.

Can you imagine knowing and reading the date and location your grandparents had met,  in your grandfather’s handwriting? And let’s not even go into an existential discussion about the photo and time and place stuff … it would be boring.

I’m 50 pages into my next writing project, it is entitled, 5th & Hope. It tells the story of a highly successful, unhappy, middle-aged man finding his grandfather’s diaries, and then his wife deciding they needed to retrace his grandparent’s journey.

Remember learning about, Manifest Destiny and Horace Greeley advising, “Go west young man …”?

But then, in 1931, they married in a modest home in Pomona, California, and they drove back east to the heart of Kentucky in a Model A Ford. They drove across the United States along Route 66, before the Eisenhower Interstate System, shopping malls, fast food emporiums, and navigating without the benefit of a Global Positioning System.

And my grandmother left behind her entire family, a cartoon mouse, Mickey, a sign on the side of Mount Lee, ‘Hollywoodland’, she only knew my grandfather, and that she loved him unconditionally.

How do I know that little golden nugget?

Sewell told me the afternoon I drove him home after her funeral. I was sixteen, I can remember our conversation as if I were watching a home movie. But that’s why I love to blend fact into fiction,  and writing a novel as if your grandfather talks to you from rice paper thin pages.

I wonder where it will take me? (By the way, I do know the ending …)

NS

 

 

PBS Article – Abuse Casts a Long Shadow

http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/nova/next/bod...

This is a great article that highlights the nasty nature behind childhood trauma. It is the science behind the novel I wrote, Bobby’s Socks and the adapted screen play that I am currently dreaming about getting funded. BUT, if you don’t dream big, then don’t get out of bed.

At these moments in my life I have always had a basic philosophy that drives me forward, “Work Hard, Play Hard”. If you have a dream and take no action, then that dream is a fantasy, however, if you take that dream into reality, then you have magic.

NS

Epigenetic science behind Bobby’s Socks

If anyone is curious about the science behind Bobby’s Socks, I think the article linked from McGill University might be a worthy read. From Bobby’s Socks, the strands of yarn to create the socks was the metaphor for DNA. The picture of the helical strand triggered me to title the novel, Bobby’s Socks.

If we carry the idea further, each pair of socks are different as in each human beings genetic code is slightly different from another. And that is why the title is in the possessive, as in, those are Bobby’s. But those socks could easily be, Hanna’s Socks, Rebecca’s Socks, or your socks.

Of course, the highlighted scientists within the article are the real hero’s that have spent decades of their lives seeking answers to complex questions. I don’t think it’s to far afield to express that their work saves lives.

http://publications.mcgill.ca/headway...

NS

 

Kickstarter – We are Live!

https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/...

I need your help, I am asking for your contribution to our mission and vision to make Bobby’s Socks into a film. If we get the film made, we will follow through with our workbooks, and our sock company!

If you like what we are doing, contribute, if you cannot afford to contribute, tell a friend who might be able to help us.

Thank you,

Robert

Pen Name – Nathaniel Sewell

Bobby’s Socks – Film

My producer friend in Hollywood, who happened to get his MBA with my wife, thought Bobby’s Socks would set up as a solid cause oriented film.  I know he has significant experience, financial skills and understands the film making process. I spent a great deal of time adapting the story into a script, and I think it works.

Of course, the only issues that remained were my willingness to take a deep breath and help him generate the financial resources to advance our project, the Bobby’s Socks film. We are about to fire up our Kickstarter campaign. After a lot of study, thinking, I decided to eat my pride and go for it. The video I have attached is intended to be a ‘little bit’ funny, and hokier than normal to encourage someone to watch the entire presentation.

I will let you know when the Kickstarter site goes live, it will be relatively soon. I hope you enjoy my US Presidents impressions, I have been told the Reagan one was solid entertainment.  I actually toned them down so it would not take away from our message. I guess I’m all in, and there is no going back.

Best,

NS