Nathaniel Sewell's Blog, page 27

Big Blue (hair) – ‘Reverse Laettner’ Groundhog Day

Today, March 31, 2014 – the Texas Sun is shining, the birds are chirping (seriously) and our canine friend, Pink Petunia is tongue waggling after (another) delightful neighborhood walk – but this time in (Austin). Last night, my government funded state school that I actually graduated from – won (another) hard fought victory. Of course, it would seem my business degrees are not worth much per a certain ESPN talking-head, but I will ‘let it go’ into the negative trash heap comment section. And since I use a pen name, or for those who prefer some fancy writin’ a ‘nom de plume’, it would ruin all my built up happy karma (say it with ME until next week, “Namaste”) to lower my writing craft to provide a response because I’d need to use my real name, and point out all the success I’ve had in my life – even though apparently I was educationally handicapped post-graduation, and I was born and bred in Lexington, Kentucky – so my knuckle dragging genetic code has not evolved from our primordial bourbon soup. (I refuse to edit this – I still abide by this response.)

It was quite nerve racking to watch the game, (AGAIN!) even though my emotional response had an absolute zero effect on the outcome. In fact, (from the game before) my wife pointed out half-way through the game I had turned into that blue-haired man that screams, “get off my front lawn” or in my case – screaming at the television as if the conspiratorial referees could hear me from Houston. (But in Austin, I muted the television this time, and watched the game alone – while my wife was dealing with clients.) And I will not recount the game, I’ll refer you to the folks at Kentucky Sports Radio Dot Com, who are my and many others – NY Post (Page Six) moral equivalent.

What I noted last night was the loud fan base. (Not really, I don’t know, I had the TV muted, but it looked loud and the iHeart radioed in WVLK 630 – that I randomly listened to hiding behind closet door – sounded heart stopping.) They were not the quiet blued haired – ‘we got our season tickets handed down to us’, or the ‘we made a huge donation to the university’ game watchers. I know that may seem harsh, but I think those young men on both teams fed off the fans energy. (AGAIN!) It was just cool. But just as I thought I was being Mr. Superior, I looked in the mirror and realized (again this morning) I have ‘blue hair’, (BIG BLUE HAIR). Now, I can color my genetically gifted hair that covers my expansive dome, but what about those mysterious ‘grey to blue grey’ snarls, tangles, that appear inside my nose, or in rather personal regions, or in my ears? I can pluck them out, THAT HURTS – or use the ever popular battery-powered hair zapper, but they keep coming back like ghostly specters from a Steven King novel.

(And this morning, even though I appear to have even more BIG Blue Hair, I don’t seem to care, I’m in Texas, the Sun is out and I am grinning like a kid on Christmas morning. I know because my wife pointed it out as I could not resist from reading the – smack – and I have an evil grin, and I admit, I have a super sized competitive gene that I attempt to hide – BUT NOT THIS MORNING!)

Thankfully, I have re-learned to think about what I say or scream. (Or, to simply watch the game alone, with the TV muted, and the iPhone radio software on for WVLK 630. And I can now exit the communist party re-education camp, for learning NOT to scream at the television … thank you for your mercy Oh Great Leader.)

As each season comes and goes with the constant motion  of the tides, and I luckily get to age, I have to admit that I’m becoming a ‘BIG Blue Hair’ fan. I wrote at the end of Bobby’s Socks that the character, Bobby, smiled because he realized he got to be old. (But after THIS game, I feel a bit younger, as in some how we all got to go back in time – and recapture a few days from being young-ur.)

I think there is magic in this world, and happiness is the awareness to bend down and enjoy the fragrance from a red rose, to smile from a child’s giggle, to realize a game is just a game, and to have the wisdom to know those ‘Big Blue Hairs’ are earned. I think that’s when God whispers to me to enjoy the moment, to stop, listen and pay attention because you might not be here again. (And I cannot believe he made that shot with a giant basketball paw in his face – and as Joe Dean used to say, that was “String Music!” And I have to admit, I think I like the idea of having a ‘Reverse Laettner’ Ground Hog Day. Again, and Again, and Again …)

(And yes, I feel so frenetic, I’ve had to re-edit this post several times, forgive me. And still cannot believe he made that shot …)

NS

Big Blue – (hair)

Today, the Sun is shining, the birds are chirping and our canine friend, Pink Petunia is tongue waggling after a delightful neighborhood walk. Last night, my government funded state school that I actually graduated from – won a hard fought victory. Of course, it would seem my business degrees are not worth much per a certain ESPN talking-head, but I will ‘let it go’ into the negative trash heap comment section. And since I use a pen name, or for those who prefer some fancy writin’ a ‘nom de plume’, it would ruin all my built up happy karma to lower my writing craft to provide a response because I’d need to use my real name, and point out all the success I’ve had in my life – even though apparently I was educationally handicapped post-graduation, and I was born and bred in Lexington, Kentucky – so my knuckle dragging genetic code has not evolved from our primordial bourbon soup.

It was quite nerve racking to watch the game, even though my emotional response had an absolute zero effect on the outcome. In fact, my wife pointed out half-way through the game I had turned into that blue-haired man that screams, “get off my front lawn” or in my case – screaming at the television as if the conspiratorial referees could hear me from Houston. And I will not recount the game, I’ll refer you to the folks at Kentucky Sports Radio Dot Com, who are my and many others – NY Post (Page Six) moral equivalent.

What I noted last night was the loud fan base. They were not the quiet blued haired – ‘we got our season tickets handed down to us’, or the ‘we made a huge donation to the university’ game watchers. I know that may seem harsh, but I think those young men on both teams fed off the fans energy. It was just cool. But just as I thought I was being Mr. Superior, I looked in the mirror and realized I have ‘blue hair’. Now I can color my genetically gifted hair that covers my expansive dome, but what about those mysterious ‘grey to blue grey’ snarls, tangles, that appear inside my nose, or in rather personal regions, or in my ears? I can pluck them out, THAT HURTS – or use the ever popular battery-powered hair zapper, but they keep coming back like ghostly specters from a Steven King novel.

I don’t know if the team will win another game, but I guess they helped me re-learn to think about what I say or scream. I guess if I were trapped in a communist country, it would be ‘re-education process time’.  As each season comes and goes with the constant motion of the tides, and I luckily get to age, I have to admit that I’m becoming a ‘blue hair’. I wrote at the end of Bobby’s Socks that the character, Bobby, smiled because he realized he got to be old.

I think there is magic in this world, and happiness is the awareness to bend down and enjoy the fragrance from a red rose, to smile from a child’s giggle, to realize a game is just a game, and to have the wisdom to know those ‘blue hairs’ are earned. I think that’s when God whispers to me to enjoy the moment, to stop, listen and pay attention because you might not be here again.

NS

Sometimes, magic happens!

Sunday, I watched my college basketball team – compete. Before, I watched them – compete – in truth, I had resolved in my tiny brain that they were going to lose. I mean, all the talking-head ‘experts’ thought the other team would win. It did not matter that my short, pasty-white self would not in anyway effect the outcome. It did not matter that the modern taping device, the DVR – would allow me to fast forward through the endless erectile dysfunction, newest hypersonic auto, and low-calorie beer commercials. And I know one thing; I hope never to be the face of some dread disease.

But it was the best way to trick my brain to simply press the red record button, shrug and skate off to a food truck festival and then engorge my body with all sorts of culinary magic. I will not comment about my inability to tolerate spicy South Western food because it’s embarrassing, and with all the thick hair I was genetically gifted, hot, spicy food tends to – POOF – my currently brownish mange into a lovely televangelist bouffant.  Alas, I would be rich by now if I had chosen a more religiously dramatic career path. But my grandfather was a real pastor, so I know better – he would not have approved, and would have guaranteed that upon my demise I would have a whole new appreciation for being hot, and spicy being poked at by a pitch fork throughout eternity.

My point, I think the easy way in life is to not have any expectations, or, simply accept that you are going to lose, so why even try, right? I mean, it is a guaranteed result and besides it will eliminate any needless stress. Think about it, you get to be the Winnie-the-Pooh character, Eeyore – for 24-hours a day. It would allow you to go to sleep at night and not worry that the planets orbit might stray off from the Goldilocks Zone and get just a bit too close to the Sun, and then we’d all be incinerated. “Oh, golly, we’re all goin’ to die, I guess- oh well.”

So, a few hours later, I came back home lost in a carbohydrate-narcoleptic haze, and for some reason I decided to accept the basketball fates over taking a well-deserved nap.  Instead, I pressed the remote control right pointing arrow ‘play’ button. But a funny thing happened on the way to fast forwarding through the same commercials over, and over again and my certain disappointment, a bunch of 18 and 19 year old young men – competed – and they won the game – barely. I think the key word is – compete. I think you have to learn to compete in life and not worry about the outcome, to embrace the joy of feeling competition – your heart thumps, your face flushed a lovely crimson as you scream at the mindless one way modern convenience – “THAT’S NOT A FOUL! THIS IS A CONSPIRACY!”, or “WHY GOD?! WHY?” (As if the universal higher power cares about two evenly matched teams in a made for TV athletic docudrama geared to market – stuff – and as each second ticks off the clock as if Jack Bauer is trying to untangle the nuclear device under the arena, your heart becomes entangled in this epic drama, only to be interrupted at under 16, 12, 8 and 4 minute automatic commercial time-outs – as you pray your DVR does not catch-up with the live action.) WHEW!

I think you will note, to me, it does not matter which team I cheered for hiding behind the couch to only spy murky sections of the game. It did not matter that I grabbed a delicate part of my anatomy, pointed my left forefinger at Jupiter, and repeated the ABC’s backwards three times.  I felt the emotion that only comes from competition, the feeling that you are alive. For me, there is nothing like writing novels, or writing down my thoughts and sharing them with the world. And yes, I accept I might get ‘hammered by a tomahawk dunk’, but you know something, you never know, you never know unless you compete and try, because sometimes, believe it or not, magic happens.

NS

Where have you gone, Martha Quinn?

Well, the good news is as we all collectively orbit the Sun, we are now along the relative position for Spring, and I would not dare let this opportunity pass to express that clearly Prosperina has emerged from her time in Hades with her husband, Pluto.

I know these Greek and Roman myths can be a bit confusing, and pesky to understand, but today I feel a certain kinship with Prosperina. Now in my novel, Fishing for Light, Ms. Prosperina is a nasty, shape-shifting Chimera that intends to take over humanity by in part, messing with your coffee. I recommend you consider that point the next time you are standing in line at 8 in the evening at your local coffee emporium. I will let you Google, ‘chimera’. But it comes from both mythology and genetics, I know, I know, but get a sense of humor and play along, okay?

I have a new appreciation for the term, or label, ‘hearty mid-westerner’. As in, I am in awe at how they tolerate the gray, dull Winter days that pass by at the ‘speed of snail mail darkness’. While we lived in St. Louis, I am proud to write, I did not develop an ‘eye-tick’ like the Chief Inspector from the Pink Panther series. And I would have given anything to be attacked by a hiding Kato, to feel my warm pulse race, and then travel back in time riding in the Green Hornet. But alas, it was quiet enough in our neighborhood, Clayton, to hear each unique snow flake fall to add inches to the ubiquitous white powder, and as I made myself exercise outside – with each frozen step, as I sucked in the cold air, I heard the ice crunch under my formally warm feet, and then I’d start listening in my mind to The Talking Heads in a continuous loop:

“You may find yourself in another part of the world,

You may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile,

You may find yourself in a beautiful house with a beautiful wife,

You may ask yourself, well, how did I get here?

Letting the days go by, let the water hold me down,

Letting the days go by, water flowing underground,

Into the blue again after the money’s gone ,

Once in a lifetime, water flowing underground”

Thankfully, I do have a beautiful wife, but I did not start to gyrate like David Byrne from The Talking Heads original video, yes, go back in time with me to a forgotten time when MTV meant MUSIC TELEVISION, and it was not an insipid, stupid, childish waste of my time television, but emerging music, that was a place I first saw and heard a group named, U2.  And by the way, where have you gone, Martha Quinn?

But just as Prosperina emerged from Hades during the Spring, we have emerged to find our feet standing in the sunshine of Houston. This time LAST year, I had gazed out from my home office window at the specter of TEN INCHES of snow on the first day of Spring. Yes, I wrote, TEN INCHES, or 10 inches, or 1o”! And that was NEW, NEW SNOW, not the stuff that had already frozen shut my every orifice. I recommend you think, Jack Nicholson at the end of The Shining type look that I had in St. Louis. And where did you go in that movie, Scatman Crothers? And yes, I do miss my favorite cartoon, Hong Kong Phooey, “number one super guy”.

BUT, today, I gazed out from our temporary abode at green grass, palm trees and all else visible that was bathed in the beauty of Sun Light! And yes, this pasty-white, middle-aged dude will be doing something that children across these United States used to do back in the old days, I’m going to take my dog, Pink Pentunia with me, and we are going outside and – play!

NS

Did Satire die, and no one told me?

I am curious it the genre, satire, has died? I am bummed, I was not told this fact. And if so, I think it is a sad state of affairs when an odd, wacky story with a deeper meaning, no longer has any cache, and alas, we are collectively left with entertainment that is simply ‘bubblegum for the mind’.
Therefore, I lift my coffee mug in the air, and express my hearty thanks as funny thought experiments sail away into the poetic mists, and we are left with the common comment that defines our modern age.
“Wha- I don’t get it?” She asked as she glanced up at me from texting with her hand held tracking device with the use of opposable thumbs.
And I simply respond, “Oh, never mind …” As I gazed up into the heavens curious if I was about to be zapped by a laser flash from a random, unmanned drone that had determined that my life time achievement number had just come up, and ordered it to eliminate the target and ‘thin the herd’ or was the end of me even, ‘heard’?

In closing, I shall share a definition from an age old resource, a dictionary.

“sat·ire

/ˈsætaɪər/ Show Spelled [sat-ahyuhr] Show IPA

noun
1.
the use of irony, sarcasm, ridicule, or the like, in exposing, denouncing, or deriding vice, folly, etc.

2.
a literary composition, in verse or prose, in which human folly and vice are held up to scorn, derision, or ridicule.

3.
a literary genre comprising such compositions.





Origin: 1500–10;  < Latin satira,  variant of satura  medley, perhaps feminine derivative of satur  sated (see saturate)

Related forms

non·sat·ire, noun
Can be confused: 1. burlesque, caricature, cartoon, parody, satire (see synonym study at burlesque)(see synonym study at the current entry) ; 2. satire, satyr.
Synonyms 1. See irony1 . 2, 3. burlesque, caricature, parody, travesty. Satire, lampoon refer to literary forms in which vices or follies are ridiculed. Satire the general term, often emphasizes the weakness more than the weak person, and usually implies moral judgment and corrective purpose: Swift’s satire of human pettiness and bestiality. Lampoon refers to a form of satire, often political or personal, characterized by the malice or virulence of its attack: lampoons of the leading political figures”

NS

 

Nude Photos

Well then, I guess we have learned today that the truism, ‘sex sells’, is in fact, true.

I know, you had to find out! But there is nothing to be embarrassed about, it is within our primal genetic structure that we have to ‘look’, or just be ‘curious’, right?  At least, for most of us, our knuckles do not drag in the dirt, or do they?

I think my next novel will need to be a full on, crude as I can create it – satirical romp. But the key will be the book title …  my first thought for a title are, ‘Pasty White’, or, ‘Dude, Nobody Wants to See That!’ or, ‘It’s Not My Fault, It’s Genetic’.

Of course, if you have any recommendations, let me know.

NS

 

My Worst Writing Fear

I got the question, ‘What is your worst writing fear?’

As a storyteller, I don’t worry about making grammatical errors because I know, as sure as the Earth will continue to orbit the Sun, it will happen. And I know I’ll make every effort with the help from editors, who are much smarter than ‘I’, to weed out those nasty incantations that cause me to hide in naked literary shame.

I don’t worry about the length of a novel because the story should naturally unfold at its own pace. Or that I break some sacrosanct rule that the high priest of writing has cast down to us, we the tiny brained mortal who has the audacity to think they can create a meaningful story. And I don’t worry about writing an ugly scene showing how human beings can disgustingly treat their fellow man and then justify their actions using religion or political expediency.

I don’t worry about creating a stereotypical character that might swerve into being a cliché. And I don’t worry about writing a sex scene between a hot babe and a hairy, height-challenged dude while being filmed by three fat little pigs smoking cigars. However, what I write has to have a point and is not written to just shock the reader’s senses, because I respect the reader. But as you can tell, I really don’t much care what anybody else thinks, or says, or opines about my writing. I think to really write, to really devote your life to creating meaningful, art, as an artist you should be fearless. If writing is to evolve, the writer has to take risks. BUT, save for that one person, there is one person that I DO worry about, and I fear what that person thinks about from behind their eyeballs – the reader. I respect and fear only the reader because they have taken time from their life to read what I have created.

My worst, worst writing fear is that the reader will stop, reading. If my number one goal is to keep the reader reading, then I know all my effort should focus on writing that is well crafted, entertains, and informs. It is an odd tight rope that we have to navigate. If the story is almost pornographic that would seem to cater to our base impulses, but then again, some guy named, Vladimir Nabokov wrote – Lolita. Or another guy wrote using the ‘N-word’, that guy was named, Mark Twain. I think we all know there are numerous other examples of writers sharing an entertaining story that pushes our collective readerships – buttons. Right? Otherwise governments and school boards would have nothing left to do.

So my worst fear is that I stop the reader from reading something true, authentic and unfiltered. That I did not share with them my inner most thoughts, and take them on a short journey into a world they might not understand. Or a world that they secretly might want to investigate, but they just need to have the available literary transport to take them there. So, in the end, what I fear the most is a ‘shrug’ from the reader. If that happens, I know I have failed.

NS

 

Could the world really end at General Beauregard’s 24-hour fried chicken restaurant?

How do you take your coffee?

Ms. Prosperina is a genetic monster trying to take over the world by spiking the coffee at her Starry Eyed Coffee Hut chain … and she’ll stop at nothing.

It’s up to her unwitting creator, the geneticist Professor Quan, to stop her. In an attempt to correct his mistake, Professor Quan creates a network of people with the power of true love genetically coded within them. They alone might resist Ms Prosperina’s attempt to change the course of humanity.

Everything hangs in the balance when Eddie, altered at birth by Quan’s genetic mutation powder, fails to follow his pre-ordained destiny. The trauma of his father’s death has left Eddie drifting through a meaningless life and has caused him to stray from Quan’s master plan.

Will Quan succeed in helping Eddie regain the light behind his eyes and will they succeed in foiling Ms Prosperina’s evil plans?

Could the world really end at General Beauregard’s 24-hour fried chicken restaurant?

NS

 

Be You

“Trust your instinct to the end, though you can render no reason.” ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

I think the hardest aspect with any life is being true to that inner voice. T0 me, that is how God talks to – me. In reality, I suspect that is how God talks to each of us. The trick is to listen. I have not always listened. Because I know there is a price to be paid. If you do listen, it might not be the answer you want. For example, I never thought I’d write about child sexual abuse and the epigenetic link to suicide. But I gave up trying to control, what cannot be controlled. I went for ‘it’.

I wrote Bobby’s Socks, and then I had to consider publishing it. I will remind you, be very, very careful what you wish for because it might come true. I sent the manuscript to two small print publishers, I got an offer in two weeks. After I published the novel, as you might imagine, I got all sorts of interesting questions. But my instincts told me to focus on the solution, not to focus on the past. I think that answer has made all the difference.

I think there is a power beyond us, a power that we cannot explain or control. If you hear a quiet hint, I suspect that is your instinct nudging you to be – you.

NS

Roll Blue Tide

I’ve never published a book of my poems, I am not sure people read poetry – unless you are trapped in an academic setting. But I wrote the below poem a few days ago, and what triggered me to write this poem emerged from my high school days, and our football team, the Henry Clay ‘Blue Devils’. I was merely an observer for the Friday night games, and donated my sixteen year old body during the practice week. But even so, I was on the team.

Well, the team won every game, 14 – 0, and we won the state football championship. But as with all things in life, change comes with time, and we lost another teammate to that world beyond us. Another teammate had shared a photo of our friend from a few moments after the big game. It is a terrific photo. Behind his facemask, he had that gaze of happiness, hope and youthful exuberance. As another friend wrote, and “ode to the halcyon days of youth gone by.” I think that statement is quite on point. I’ve written about the first few pages from Fishing for Light, and the reason Professor Quan saw a ‘Kingfisher’. And I’ve written about the Greek myth, Alcyone. In modern parlance, it is a peaceful time, and so I pray for our friend to rest in peace.

Roll Blue Tide

Once upon a time a Blue Tidal Roll surged, and it surged,

It crashed blue wave, after blue wave against fourteen sandy shores,

Youthful Blue Devil faces – hidden behind steal cages,

As they navigated through each battle, they plundered as one,

They were one … they are still one,

But as we continue to orbit the sun,

With the certainty that tidal time has but only one master,

And those younger tidal waves that follow will continually come ashore,

And then our frothy essence will recede to reveal,

One less set of foot prints from that victorious team that came before,

But within the soul of that Blue Devil’s high school,

Behind a long glass window,

Hides the collective picture of those proud Blue Devil’s,

Frozen in time together, forever from 1981,

But it is within those flashes from our collective memories,

We can all take great cheer,

Because we are all still together,

Within the spirited Blue Devil heart, it beats, and thumps,

The knowledge – Once a Blue Devil, always a Blue Devil!

And so, the Blue Tide Rolls …

NS