Nathaniel Sewell's Blog, page 29

Dumb Starbucks

http://www.hollywoodreporter.com/news/dumb-starbucks-shop-appears-las-678728

After I read the above link from the Hollywood Reporter, I had two words appear in my brain, Lemmings and ‘ubiquitous’.  As in, if you read the story, there is a line of ‘lemmings’ waiting to get ‘free’ coffee and pastries. Obviously, a few folks decided to have a little fun with the ubiquitous coffee symbol. I suspect they will get a nice, legal appearing letter in the mail from Starbucks advising them to ‘cease’ and ‘desist’.

I love black coffee. And having lost many hours of my life standing in line at any airport in the USA, I have always marveled at the zillions of coffee concoctions that people order. So it should not be a big surprise that I used coffee as a metaphor for how easily our bodies can be altered. (And we’ll even pay extra for it – with sprinkles!) I thought it would be a perfect place for Eddie’s parents to meet. I mean, in the 21st Century, what can be better than meeting your future spouse at a Starry Eyed Coffee Hut? And then Eddie’s father gave him some life advice, “… learn to drink it black, then you’ll never be disappointed”. In other words, if you have an uncomplicated life, the better.

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From ~ Fishing for Light, end of Chapter 2

“Goofball,” Eddie said, “but he can sure peddle cars.” He sighed. He muted the one-way communication tube. He shut his eyes. He sat motionless for several minutes listening to the rain sizzle against his apartment building. It sounded like bacon frying in his mother’s cast iron skillet. When he was a little boy, the smoky, sugar cured fragrance was his alarm clock. He would spring out of bed, wide-awake, wearing his Superman Underoos; his red gossamer cape was his spinnaker sail as he scampered downstairs toward the kitchen.

“Why it’s a bird? No, no, now don’t tell me,” Adam said. He had black Elvis like hair, kind eyes and a velvety smooth southern accent.

“I’m not a bud,” Eddie said in child speak. His tiny fingers gripped into his father’s left thigh. He smiled up at his father’s still youthful face.

“Hey love, who can this, be?” Adam asked Sophia. Adam patted Eddie on the back, as he sipped his black coffee from a tall white mug.

“Dear me, I’m not sure,” Sophia said. She turned away from the double oven full of baking buttermilk biscuits. She wiped her hands off with a bright, sunflower printed apron.

“I’m super me,” Eddie said. He giggled and wiggled. He stood up on his red stocking tiptoes, arms stretched wide apart as if about to take flight to protect Nashville.

“Wonderful, but I think you mean, Superman,” Adam said. He chuckled. “Come sit a spell and eat your oatmeal, you need lots of energy to save the planet from the communists.”

“What’s a common-est?” Eddie asked as he crawled up onto his fathers lap.

“Never mind Superman, let me spoon you up some delicious oatmeal,” Adam said.

“I don’t white oat meal.” Eddie crinkled his face.

“Well, you better get used to it,” Adam said.

“Listen to your father,” Sophia said. She pointed her forefinger over at Adam. “Someone’s cholesterol was a bit high.”

“Yap, yap, yap-” Adam winked at Eddie, as he held him close.

Eddie giggled. He looked at his father. It was the one time of day that they would talk, and his father was not distracted with the afternoon newspaper. His father loved bacon, just a little crisp, eggs sunny side up with plain wheat toast. And it was Adam who had taught Eddie the secret to drinking coffee. His coffee not concealed with sugar, cream, or any of that frap-a-lap-a-whatever that might silently alter your body.

“Son, it’s like life, learn to drink it black, then you’ll never be disappointed,” Adam said. He hugged his son. “And always know, I love you-”

“Okay, pa,” Eddie said.

 

NS

The Golden Ratio

The below link is for a Wiki article about Salvador Dali’s – The Sacrament of the Last Supper. If you read toward the end, the writer notes that Dali used, the Golden Ratio.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Sacrament_of_the_Last_Supper

What’s the Golden Ratio, you ask? I will let the Wiki folks put you to sleep from the below link. It has a lot of basic information, and if you have read, Fishing for Light, you might get a chuckle based on several of the references.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Golden_Ratio

So, I get the question, where does the title, Fishing for Light come from, well, I’ll let my characters tell you from, Fishing for Light, beginning of Chapter 13.

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Chapter 13

 

Forged to their life long mission, after completing an exhaustive search, Professor Quan and Captain Lovins determined the ideal location for their lair was within the southeastern corridor of the United States, known as Appalachia. After they secretly acquired a vast track of land from a mining company that bought some of their unique diamond tipped drill bits, land that they had removed most of the mountaintop, Captain Lovins skillfully built the laboratory complex within a dead coalmine. The region’s forgotten inhabitants were made up of mob informants under witness protection, clannish hillbillies and their unlucky spawn. They ignored the mysterious alchemy going on up in the deep, dark, woods full of imagined magic fairies, giant Cyclops, and sinister leprechauns bouncing in and out of our dimension. And the new kids in the hills, a tough, bald headed soldier, and a ticked-off mad scientist. They happened to make drill bits for mining and excavation companies.

One fateful afternoon Professor Quan, with total commitment to his science, he extracted several pints of his own blood.

“Hate, stinking, needles,” Professor Quan said. He squirmed and held his breath. Using a rubber tourniquet, he penetrated his left arm near the elbow with a number three gauge needle attached to an evacuated collection tube. With a tiny sample, through his use of the Golden Ratio, he calculated the exact cross-linked polymer gel composition. He blasted the mesh network of polyacrylamide with a lightning bolt-like electrical current he had focused through the Hope Diamond. The intense beam of pure energy made the substance appear as if a massive earthquake shook the gel residue with hydrodynamic friction as if the earth’s surface had turned to grains of sand. He then stained a brilliant blue dye along the particle strip, which caused his individual molecules magically to appear. He then flooded the specimen with intense UV light and snapped a photo. Under a powerful optical microscope, he had customized to view below 200 nanometers; Professor Quan peered into the view lens. His vision blurred as he inspected his own genome. All of his genetic information stripped bare.

“I knew it!” Professor Quan said.

Nearby repairing Professor Quan’s autoclave, Captain Lovins rushed into the lab.

“What’s up?” Captain Lovins asked.

“I can map my DNA. I know where the genes hide,” Professor Quan said. His hands shook. “They can’t hide from me, I know how to find them. I don’t know exactly what they do, yet, but-”

“Amazing,” Captain Lovins said. He smacked Professor Quan on the left shoulder. Professor Quan webbled, but he did not wobble off his feet. Captain Lovins snapped his fingers.

“What do those hippies say?” Captain Lovins asked.

“Far-out man,” Professor Quan said. He and Captain Lovins cackled. “I did it, man.”

Captain Lovins glanced around the laboratory at the collection of scientific equipment.

“When do we attack?” Captain asked.

“First, we need an efficient delivery method?” Professor Quan said. He puckered his lips. “That’s my next trick, might take me some time, I can isolate genes, deliver them in an easy, simple way that will minimize detection. I know for certain I can alter IQ’s, I can use my profile to boost their IQ’s.”

“Good point,” Captain Lovins said. “Not just going to walk up, hey take this pill, it’ll help you get smart, sense evil.”

“Exactly,” Professor Quan said.

“Teach a child to fish,” Captain Lovins said.

“To fish for the light inside them,” Professor Quan said.

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I will write this, at least I’m not boring, although I do like to wear bowties.

NS

 

 

 

The Ecumenical Council

I had an interview question concerning the influences for Fishing for Light. As I shared in the interview, I used to live in Florida, and have visited the Dali Museum several times. Over the years, I was drawn (excuse the pun) to several of Salvador Dali’s masterworks. In particular, the Ecumenical Council, the Hallucinogenic Toreador and of course, the ‘Clocks’. But I want to focus on the Ecumenical Council, I provided a link below if you want to take a look at this amazingly complex painting.

http://thedali.org/exhibits/highlights/the_ecumenical_council.php

The key issue with the painting for me was that “Dali sought to revitalize art by merging modern science with spirituality”. I was literally staring at that painting when the idea for Fishing for Light emerged inside my wacky brain. Now, it took me several years to get the manuscript written, and in a form that worked, but going back into the 1990′s, and forward that painting, and several others, kept nudging at me. They were not just colorful paint splattered on a canvass, they told a story. In a way, I was emotionally hooked.

After I published Bobby’s Socks, I felt a sense of freedom, a sensation of not being afraid. If you are going to be true to yourself, fear, is not a helpful emotion. But I promise you, if you have a passion for something, don’t be afraid. I’ll share one more of my writing influences, I have a quote under my the glass desk top, it is a quote by Henry James, from The Notebooks of Henry James. If I go all weak in the knees, and I need a booster shot to keep me going forward, I read this quote.

“I am in full possession of my accumulated resources – I have only to use them, to insist, to persist, to do something more – to do much more – than I have done.  The way to do it – to affirm one’s self sur la fin – is to strike as many notes, deep, full and rapid, as one can. All life is – at my age, with all one’s artistic soul the record of it – in one’s pocket, as it were. Go on, my boy, and strike hard, have a rich and full St. Martin’s Summer. Try everything, do everything, render everything … be an artist, be distinguished, to the last.”  ~Henry James.

NS

Jerome Internment and 14th Amendment

Well, I was not sure what next to share about Fishing for Light. And then, as if by magic the attached article appeared from the Washington Examiner. What is the old saying, ‘truth is stranger than fiction’? I suspect the Millennial Generation might think it hard to believe that the United States built internment camps, but, under the Roosevelt Administration, they did. In Fishing for Light, Professor Quan’s father was shot dead trying to escape from the Jerome War Relocation Center. If you do a brief internet search, I think you’ll find that the facility actually existed.

http://washingtonexaminer.com/justice-antonin-scalia-says-world-war-ii-style-internment-camps-could-happen-again/article/2543424

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Chapter 8

Back in 1962, exactly three weeks later, decades before the time of Edward, at precisely noon within the busy Department of Defense cafeteria, Professor Quan sat directly across from Captain Lovins. Within his rectangular lunch tray set a paper cup full of water and a wrapped whole-wheat club sandwich on a hard plastic plate.

“So, tell me what you learned,” Professor Quan said. He appeared a bit heavier. He wore a baby blue bowtie. He slid his black framed glasses back up his nose. In front of him, set a six inch square box topped with a golden bow.

“Pardon?” Captain Lovins said. He studied the ruddy, pock marketed face. “Weird, your voice is the same, but-“

“It’s me, I’ll show you how, but later,” Professor Quan said. He put his hands up. “But first, I want you to carefully examine my face. Do I look real? And I want to know what you learned about me. A man like you would always do a complete background check, you would not miss any detail.”

Captain Lovins closely scrutinized Professor Quan’s face.

“I’ve only heard rumors,” Captain said. He pointed at the box. “What’s up with this?”

“I’ll explain, but first tell me,” Professor Quan said.

Captain Lovins shrugged.

“Assuming this is you, well, you were born in Miami, January 30, 1932, a leap year, your father was named, Pi Dong, your mother was Maria Lopez Delores. Your father was a Japanese spy, your mother, a Luddite, a South American separatist movement.”

“Anarchists at heart,” Professor Quan said. He grinned.

“Well, the Hoover boys detected your mother after she tried to get free healthcare for some illegal orange pickers. They caught you all in the Florida Straits trying to escape to Cuba on a raft shaped like a swastika,” Captain Lovins said.

“That was not a pleasant day, it was a left handed swastika,” Professor Quan said. He sighed. “Helicopters, speedboats, my father was a Hindu. He thought the shape would give us luck. My mother was a Catholic, but didn’t practice since the Jesuits wouldn’t welcome her into their order, not the nun type.”

Captain Lovins scratched his clean-shaven, square chin.

“He was shot dead in 1942 trying to escape from the Jerome War Relocation Center,” Captain Lovins said. He tapped the table with his forefinger. “They deported your mother to Cuba. We sure like to wear a white hat, but I wonder.”

Professor Quan adjusted his black framed glasses.

“She was a rather passionate woman,” Professor Quan said. He sighed. “I never saw them again, just figured they were dead.”

“Yeah, but the government decided to keep you, as a prized brain washable pet,” Captain Lovins said. He shook his head. “190 IQ, not bad for a little kid, they justified keeping you using US v. Wong Kim Ark and the Fourteenth Amendment, but they always have excuses for what they want, now don’t they?”

“Then, you learned about Briar Hill?” Professor Quan asked.

“Orphanage for smart kids?” Captain Lovins said. He chuckled.

“I suppose,” Professor Quan said. He drank some water. “It was a secret science school, trained me to be a scientist. I guess I’m used to being alone, it can be an advantage.”

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NS

23 Enigma

As I was writing Fishing for Light, I could not make up my mind as to Eddie Wilcox’s age. And then, I stumbled upon the 23 Enigma. The reason? I happened to be reading about William S. Burroughs. At present, I reside in St. Louis, Missouri, and he happened to be from St. Louis, so I was curious about his life. He was a lead part of the Beat Generation, and wrote, Naked Lunch. It is a wild ride for the reader, and the cross connections with the number 23, and Eddie representing the Millennial Generation, I thought it was a perfect fit. I like to be specific, if you read Fishing for Light’s first sentence you will read what I mean.

“On December 22, 1990 inside a university hospital complex, Edward Tiberius Wilcox was born at exactly 3:07 Coordinated Universal Time.” Fishing for Light.

We are born at an exact moment, and we die at an exact moment. I intend to use up every Nano second of my existence. But further into my odd brain, I used to live in Florida, and enjoyed walking about the Dali Museum in St. Petersburg. I highly recommend the museum. In particular, take a close look at Salvador Dali’s master work, The Ecumenical Council. If you take a moment and read about the paintings meaning, I think you’ll get a sense as to why I wrote, Fishing for Light.

http://thedali.org/exhibits/highlights/the_ecumenical_council.php

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Chapter 2

 

Twenty-three years later just beyond Nashville’s outer-loop, inside a spartan one-bedroom apartment, Eddie flicked on his father’s old Mr. Coffee machine. Stark-naked fluorescent tubular ceiling lights blurred his vision as the gurgling coffee maker began to gasp steam and drip addictive brew. After a random godless lightning bolt stung a nearby laurel oak, he ducked down below the white-on-white Formica counter top. He heard a crack and then a dead thump. Eddie crawled over to his kitchen window; he stared down two stories at the soulless tree with a black charred limb stump thrust toward heaven. He shook his head. He knew his natural reaction was no match for the one universal constant: the speed of light. He studied up at the guilty dark-grey thunderclouds and wondered if special providence hid up there and had decided to zap him. He would already be flying into a white haze, as an oven roasted, Ralph Waldo Doll toward his long since deceased father, Adam.

But his cell phone vibrated. The tracking device sounded like a trapped bumblebee within the irregular shaped ceramic bowl, a bowl his mother Sophia had made years before at her church pottery class. It had been a Father’s Day gift for Adam. It had rested at the left corner of his father’s glass covered office desk, full of multi-colored candy next to the formal family photo. Until the day they had to pack up all of Adam’s possessions after his fatal heart attack.

NS

Professor Quan’s, Waldo

Any self-respecting mad scientist would have a trusted pet, right? Of course, the stereotype is for the scientist to be, EVIL, black eye-patch and hiding within a subterranean lair waiting to take over the planet. But Professor Quan is not evil, and he is not mean, he is a man on a mission to eradicate Ms. Prosperina. To me, that’s the connection between Professor Quan and Captain Lovins, it is about personal responsibility, they understood it was vital to their mission to hide, and remain ghosts.

Professor Quan’s pet was named, Waldo. The inspiration for Waldo comes from the happy faces at the top of this post. In particular, the Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, on the right side of the photo. She was our Margaret May, and I could not think of a better friend for Professor Quan. So, I decided to share an excerpt from Fishing for Light, and perhaps when you read this chapter, you might remember our departed friend.

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Chapter 6

 

Inside a cavernous, subterranean lair, lost within the lush emerald green Appalachian hills, Professor Quan stared into a high-powered optical microscope. His skin was reddish with orange undertones. He was far from packed urban neighborhoods, busy city streets, but most of all, Big Brothers’ constant inquisitive eyeballs. Nearby on a faded leather lounger his pet dog’s seal-brown eyes focused on her master. He slid off his magnifying goggles, latex gloves, mesh smock, and deposited them into a biohazard container. A satisfied expression emerged across his face as he slipped on a white lab coat. He scratched the dog behind its fluffy ears. He grinned down at his friend.

“Waldo, it’s about what happens to you, and you have to remember you’re loved,” Professor Quan said. He adjusted his lab coat at the lapels. “Let’s go for a walk, time for you to do some business, right?”

Waldo and Professor Quan left the lab; traveled up inside a wide reinforced elevator, and emerged inside a dilapidated shotgun style house. Together, they ambled out of the rickety front door. A lonely 1940s era powder blue metal porch glider set on the left side, flanked on the right side of the concrete slab porch by a wooden swing connected to the ceiling by metal chains. A cooper-bellied water snake, disturbed, uncoiled and slithered into the scrub grass. The obedient dog scurried just in front of Professor Quan down a narrow dirt path. She sniffed at dense foliage, pranced back forth in semi-circles before she stopped to relieve herself.

“Good Waldo,” Professor Quan said. He chuckled as noticed several fox squirrels. “Come, Waldo.” Ignorant that Professor Quan lurked, they scratched behind glossy red bryum moss covered limestone, and chewed fresh elder berries. They dug holes near Cumberland rosemary. Their cybernetic vibrations bounced off inconspicuous spider web like receptors strategically placed next to tree trunks, rock embankments, and draped across mountain azaleas. Carbon based threads that glistened with a blue diamond fleck coating. The vibrations reflected back to a primary cellular membrane spread over the shotgun shacks tin roof. Over the decades, they had created an almost impenetrable organic mesh security zone, because years before he had roamed the habitat, hunting the local rodents with his enhanced three-foot blowgun. He had shot a disintegrating dart, tipped with a microscopic wafer that dispersed into their pink tissue. At the molecular level, over the subsequent decades, the little-brained creature’s natural breeding cycles advanced the micro-organic adjustments from squirrel to squirrel. The result, their sensations and feelings beamed back positive kinetic energy collected by the web sheets that Professor Quan could convert into three dimension visual images that signaled any unwanted visitor hiking within their environment, an environment that had only a single narrow dirt road that terminated in front of the dilapidated house.

Professor Quan and Waldo continued along a bisecting walking path up to a clearing within the forest that overlooked the sun-splashed valley. But he dared not emerge from the canopied tree line to reveal his real face. He remained within the shadow cast by a massive sycamore aware Ms. Prosperina’s drones constantly roamed the heavens filming, probing and sensing earth, and communicating with her satellite constellation. Waldo sat back on her hind legs, she panted with her pink tongue as she looked up at Professor Quan.

“Waldo, this valley was formed from a huge meteorite, I used to go hiking along those trails when I was at Briar Hill, it’s not far from here,” Professor Quan said. He looked down at Waldo. She had happy black eyes, as her tongue waggled out.

“I wish you understood me, but that’s okay, what I tell you would get you killed,” Professor Quan said. He clenched his jaw. He leaned down on his left knee; he patted Waldo along her furry back and turned to stare down the jagged valley wall. “Down there, along that sandstone ridge, I found those plutonic diamonds. I had no clue, coated with organic material. I was just a kid, playing with science.”

Professor Quan picked up an oak leaf. He smelled its oaky fragrance admiring the expansive veins that had fed the blade.

“I wonder about nature, a random asteroid slings past Jupiter, it blazes through the atmosphere, crashed into earth, with organic material packed in ice, organic material? And the ice melts, we have water, but from where?”

 

NS

 

Pure Love

“When Professor Quan realized the government used his genetic starter to create Ms. Prosperina, he devoted his life to eradicating her by spreading the universal bond within humanity’s genetic code, pure love.” Fishing for Light – from the book description.

Pure love?

Fishing for Light is a satire, so it should be funny, and absurd at the same time. Right? But I added a serious note, as in, what is ‘pure love’? I will not tell you how Professor Quan finds, pure love, that would ruin the story. But,  if you consider the word, love, it has several meanings, but in reality it is a simple, and almost undefinable feeling, I think it should be a humble sensation. If you believe in evil, so then you believe in love, you cannot have one, without the other. But, I think the word to focus on is, pure. From the Merriam-Webster dictionary:

“1
a (1)   :  unmixed with any other matter <pure gold> (2)   :  free from dust, dirt, or taint <pure springwater> (3)   :  spotless, stainless

b   :  free from harshness or roughness and being in tune —used of a musical tone”

Fishing for Light, the underlying theme generates from behavioral epigenetics. I thought it was an interesting twist for Professor Quan to discover ‘pure love’. As in the reality we are all ‘mutts’, none of us are ‘pure breeds’, and our DNA is a jumble from our ancestry. But what if, deep within each of our genetic codes, hides, pure love.

NS

Jim Bob Calhoun

An editor asked me an innocent question, “How does a character like Eddie have a friend like Jim Bob Calhoun? I don’t see them together.”

As I have written previously, I carefully create every character and each has a specific purpose. If you read Fishing for Light, you might cast off Jim Bob as the cliché bumbling friend that shoves Eddie back into Professor Quan’s world. But that would be incorrect, if you think about your own life, and the friends you have and have had, what is the one aspect that brought you together? (And we’ll not even consider the characters Christopher Clayton or Bobby Humperdinck, but all the characters interrelate for a single purpose. And by the way, look up the last name, as in the composer, Engelbert Humperdinck.)

So, I love the character, Jim Bob Calhoun. He knows he is not as smart as Eddie, he in fact tells Eddie. Well, better than me writing something, just read from Fishing for Light. As you read this brief excerpt, I think you will note a few not so random aspects to the dialogue. The key point is they are friends because they trust each other. For anyone who has ever had trauma in their life, which is every man or beast roaming the planet, the instinct that you can trust someone means everything. As my previous blog post stated, per Mr. Keith Urban, “Raw is a good place to be as an artist … it’s where the truth comes out.” I think the truth is, we have friends in our life that we know we can call at 3 am, and they would help us out. I think it is the basis for ‘unconditional love’. And remember, Professor Quan discovered, ‘pure love’.

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Eddie aimlessly stared down as he glided his fingertips across the particleboard tabletop.

“I ain’t always stupid,” Jim Bob said.

“I know,” Eddie said. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You’ve always been real smart,” Jim Bob said.

“Never mind me,” Eddie said. He shrugged. “We need to come up with ideas. I don’t have any money, my mom is not rich, we’re on our own Jim Bob.”

“Why have you always been my friend?” Jim Bob asked. “We’re as different as black coffee and an ice cream soda.”

Eddie kindly grinned at Jim Bob.

“I know you,” Eddie said. “Known you my whole life, you’re as predictable as the sun coming up.”

“Well now,” Jim Bob said.

“I trust you,” Eddie said. He faintly grinned. “I know if I called you in the middle of the night, no matter what, you’d help me, right?”

“Yeah, I figure so,” Jim Bob said.

“That’s something not for sale,” Eddie said. He smiled at Jim Bob. “I remember my father telling me, keep life simple, uncomplicated, don’t judge people, take them as they are.”

“Ah, shut up,” Jim Bob said. “I got get outta here, the coffee sucks, I had the shakes for two days.” from Fishing for Light, pages 116 and 117.

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NS

 

“Raw is a good place to be as an artist … it’s where the truth comes out.”

“Raw is a good place to be as an artist … it’s where the truth comes out.” Keith Urban, American Idol. (last episode)

The truth? I love watching American Idol, I love the new cast, and in particular the honest encouragement the young artists get from these judges. Because these judges know what it is like to stand in front of a stranger and perform. And then accept their fate.

It is a ‘thang’ to put on someone else’s socks, and walk around in their world, I think it also can be humbling, and a huge responsibility. I was driving home today, and heard the song, “Say Something”. So, I want to share some of my truth, for what we intend to do, and the reason I am asking for your help.

1. I wrote Bobby’s Socks directly from my instinct. It is fiction, but there are elements that you can only feel from your own trauma. I did not need to do any research. I was not sure I wanted to publish the story, it is a tough book. And the ‘book cover’ is, well, too perfect. I mean, if you look at that book cover, are you going to pick it out of all the other reading options you have? (Unlikely) But that is okay with me, because that book gave me the power I needed to accept – me, and not be afraid.

I will tell you a secret, if you are willing to go to - that raw, emotional place - you will feel the truth, but that is also a scary place to go, and most people would rather not venture there.  I hope my writing can give them the words they need to have a quiet moment to heal. This is the reason in part, I wrote:

“There are still moments that flash in my mind – terrible moments. Sometimes, I feel like all the blood in my body drained out, down through my feet – as if I stand naked to the harsh sting of an ice storm.” – from Bobby’s Socks.

I know there are people who have read that sentence, and cried. I cried, it was as raw as I could get. And from the last sentence, I do know what a silent scream feels like. And it is an odd feeling to have someone tell you they cried after reading Bobby’s Socks. As a writer, I know at that point I did my job, because good writing taps into raw emotions. I think the same goes with songs, “Say Something”, now to me, that song smacks my heart – in a ‘neutron bomb’ scorched earth sort of way.

2. We, not I, intend to build a sock company. The Bobby’s Socks Company. The mission will be to manufacture colorful woven socks, with a happy heart symbol on them. We will distribute them through all available channels, and we intend to make a profit. We intend to make a HUGE profit. From the profits, we will offer the socks to abuse shelters, crisis centers and the like, the idea being if a child or teenager in crisis has been brought into the facility, one of the items in their care bag will be colorful warm socks. Think about it for a moment, on a cold day, if you put on a pair of warm socks, how do you feel? It is a rather simple, yet, powerful idea. And if you are about to interview a victim, any and all available means to calm them down would be helpful.

Think about it this way, when did you first tell someone, you loved them? Or, in my case, the moment I told my wife about my childhood. To me, for someone who has spent his life being rather goofy, and funny, to distract my mind, being extremely serious is terrifying. But it is from those raw emotions, truth comes out, right?

The other idea for our company will be to offer the socks at a discounted rate to schools. I had a thought, what if at the beginning of every season, schools had the Bobby’s Socks exhibition game? The players would wear their schools – Happy Heart socks. And it would be a simple, yet effective method for teachers, counselors and professionals to open up a channel of dialogue with students to talk about, child abuse, bullying, and the effect on the body. And each year, the school could share a story about a child that was bullied, or abused in another form. And each year, unfortunately, a new name would be highlighted, not Bobby’s Socks, but Rebecca’s Socks, Steven’s Socks, and so forth.

Consider if a teenager asked you, “Dude, what’s up with the socks?” A window of opportunity just opened, and all you need to is tell them. I know this to be a fact, because I’ve worn my colorful woven socks, and people ask me, “Ah, dude what’s the deal with your tie-dye socks?” And I tell them, and after I tell them, I typically get – ‘crickets’ or better known as – silence. But then, they say, “How do I get a pair?” And that, is the problem I have, I need to figure that out, because the socks can save lives. If the children think the socks are cool, they’ll wear them, and encourage them to – say something.

3. Remember the statement from Keith Urban, “Raw is a good place to be for an artist … its where truth comes out.” Okay, as raw, and as hard as it is for me to write this, I need your help. I am asking for your help.

I don’t want any money, I know how to do that part. But, we need, your voice. It is as simple as asking a friend to read this blog post, and to perhaps investigate the story, Bobby’s Socks. Or, my new novel, Fishing for Light, which is a satire. In fact, the Eddie character was not created by some random, cliché, in hopes to just be funny. He represents a real generation, and real people that have lost that spark in their eyes. His life trauma, the loss of his father, is the common link between the two novels.

If you believe in our purpose, simply tell a friend. It’s that simple. And perhaps one of your friends is in the media, who might take notice, and we can provide them an amazing human interest story. It will create the momentum we need to advance our cause.

“I had a lifetime of pain before I was even a teenager, but I faced the reality. Then I let it go; it no longer has any power over me. And every night, I pray no children ever feel like I did. I guess Dr. Richie’s sock therapy worked. She saved my life.” from Bobby’s Socks.

Okay, I hoped off my soap box, thank you for reading this post.

NS

Bertrand Screwtop

I get asked on a regular basis, “where do you come up with these characters, and their names?” I’ll answer that question with Chapter 4 from Fishing for Light, which I have pasted below, or you can read it off Amazon.com in the ‘look inside’ option. It is a short chapter, but it might be more interesting if you know the background influences.

I create my character names, based on what the character represents. As in Bertrand Screwtop. In Fishing for Light, Bertrand is a commercial litigation attorney with the firm, Lewis, Milton, Wormwood & Screwtop. And his new client is, Ms. Prosperina.

If you have read, The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis, and you were trapped in high school English class and had to read, Paradise Lost by John Milton, I think you’ll get a chuckle from the dialogue between Bertrand and Ms. Prosperina. I have read about every book by C.S. Lewis. And it is not lost on me the continuous push-pull in my life between good and evil. From these two classics I developed some of Ms. Proserpina’s more, evil gifts. She is a seriously nasty character that I hope never to meet.

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Chapter 4

Hidden within the frothy early morning haze of Nashville’s downtown skyline, as Eddie drove toward work within the commuter traffic, Bertrand Screwtop closed his six-panel oak office door. He stood on the thirteenth floor of the Batman shaped building, at the high-powered commercial litigation firm of Lewis, Milton, Wormwood & Screwtop. He combed his smooth fingertips through his thinning, curly light brown hair. He slid behind his desk onto his button backed, brown leather chair. He sipped coffee from his favorite Kentucky Derby mug. Then he dialed a secret transatlantic telephone number.

“Mr. Screwtape, I presume your demonic self has good news,” Ms. Prosperina said, English was not her primary language.

As he clicked through his computer screen, he opened the cyber client folder. He clicked on her picture. She was a diminutive middle-aged woman with blonde hair; she had hardly a wrinkle across her blank face digitally staring back at him.

“Well, I’m not exactly sure,” Bertrand said. His southern accent was subtle, as he had refined it from years of practice so his Yankee clients did not think him daft. “But, I have good information, the people you seek have emerged.”

“I trust you will not give me false expectations, like Dr. Yin,” Ms. Prosperina said. Bertrand could hear her puff on a cigarette, and a drag that sounded like fizzing antacid tablets.

“Understood, my contacts believe it’s them.” Bertrand coughed to clear his throat. “It appears someone paid an exorbitant amount for some, ah, shall I say, rather personal sporting goods equipment, athletic supporters worn by a star running back.”

“Star?” Ms. Prosperina said.

“Sorry, American football,” Bertrand said. He fingered with the sharp cress of his suit pants. “All American football star, ah, similar to a famous soccer player.”

“Oh, a man-bra, didn’t want to lose his paradise,” Ms. Prosperina said. She cryptically laughed. “So, the old man just cannot give up on his quest to protect the world from little old me, not much of a multiplier effect, one baby at a time.”

“Ah, I suppose, you’ve retained me to provide information about internet commerce, but I’m not a private detective,” Bertrand said. “And Dr. Yin seems like a typical scientist.”

“Oh, now, now, I had my associate Mr. Oppenheimer thoroughly research you,” Ms. Prosperina said. “Mr. Screwtape, you are a sneaky fellow, and he tells me you’re quite the playboy.”

Bertrand twisted to stare out the expansive office windows across western Tennessee and down at the dense interstate system cycling through the heart of Nashville, where Eddie and Captain Lovins sat within the clogged traffic idling in their fossil-fueled machines pointed in opposite directions.

“It’s, Screwtop, not Screwtape, never had a reason to marry.”

“Irrelevant, I can be many different people all at the same time, my father was quite creative,” Ms. Prosperina said. “I need to find him.”

“Not sure how to respond,” Bertrand said. He studied Ms. Proserpina’s dossier, as he clicked his computer mouse, it was painfully thin of information, aside from the menacing photo. “Not sure I totally understand my role, but I do understand your business is agriculture?”

“I am amazed, I can be entangled with so many, in vastly differently locations with a minimal investment,” Ms. Prosperina said. She purred. “Perhaps you should do more research about me, better than that client folder you’ve been studying, do you like my photo? On your computer screen I don’t think it quite captures me.”

“Well, I suppose,” Bertrand said. He gulped. He sipped some more coffee from his mug. “You always wear black sunglasses?”

“No, but I don’t think you’d want to see my eyes, besides, it will pay you financial dividends to be in my world,” Ms. Prosperina said. She paused. “I have sensitive eyes. One of my investments is in bioengineering, to find replacements for people, like me. I’m quite the philanthropist, and I hope to feed the world, help my future generations.”

“I suppose,” Bertrand said. He loosened his tie.

“I need you to continue to focus Dr. Yin,” Ms. Prosperina said. “I’ve quietly funded his research, he’s not totally aware of me. He thinks his research is an off the books government program to grow synthetic diamonds, to figure out Professor Quan’s secret formulas.”

“To continue, this will take some more time, I’ll need a substantial retainer, ah, our managing partner, Mr. Lewis,” Bertrand said. “He will ask about the purpose of our relationship, he’s annoyingly honest.”

“Name your price, perhaps I’ll send Mr. Oppenheimer to pay you a visit, he assists me,” Ms. Prosperina said. “Tell him I am purchasing a utility, land, so forth. Good day, Mr. Screwtop, and remember, always drink your coffee black, you do know what’s in it, right?”

The cell phone line clicked silent.

Bertrand quickly pushed his steaming coffee mug back across his leather inlay desktop. He stared at it as if it were leaking nuclear radiation. Then he studied her photograph, he quickly clicked the mouse to close the client file. Then he opened his internet browser and continued to research his client. Ms. Prosperina had a vast empire of privately held companies, they were all focused on utilities, agriculture and related businesses. He had not found any evidence she was involved in the bioengineering niche. However, he did note she had a relationship with a space technology company. But she held neither positions on boards of directors, or philanthropic organizations, nor could she be found in any form of social media. It was as if she preferred to live in the shadows, building a vast fortune. Bertrand sat back and stared over at his steaming coffee mug. He decided it best to not to contact Dr. Yin again. He would get agitated and more nervous having someone outside of government asking questions. But he wondered who this Ms. Prosperina was, and where she came from. He knew he better find out because his partner Simon Lewis would pelt him with pesky ethical questions.

NS