Love at First Sight

Check out Wordle, where you can make a nifty picture out of any text you wish. I created the below from an essay I wrote about soulmates, and meeting the LOML.

19 June 2008

A Review of Bikeman, by Thomas Flynn

Bikeman by Thomas F. Flynn

I have to admit I was somewhat skeptical when I received a copy of Thomas Flynn’s Bikeman to review. An epic poem? About 9/11? The events of that day can certainly be considered epic by any standard, but poetry that seeks to record such an event seems almost…outdated. I opened the book and flipped around at random, glancing at the page in front of me. This is what I read:

They topple out of shattered windows.
They soar: two or three at once or four.
They fall straight as straws.
They do not tumble like a child’s jacks
but fly straight. The frantic arm waving is over.
They fall resigned.

The impact of those verses hit me like a brick wall, and stayed in my mind until later that night when I sat down to read the rest of the book. I was impressed.

The beauty of poetry lies in its ability to condense emotion and experience into small and powerful packets of verse. There are no spare words – each line is crafted with careful accuracy, cutting with a surgeon’s precision. The result has something like the impact of visual art – immediate and stunning. Flynn seems to understand that principle, and with his choice of form, has distilled the events of 9/11 into a raw, almost visceral experience.

To most of us, that September morning was a series of images, horrifyingly surreal, of tragedy and terror. We watched in unbelief as people jumped to their deaths, and two iconic buildings crashed to the ground as so much rubble. Instead of writing a book that rehashes the facts of that day, Flynn instead revisits the emotions – the anger, helplessness and grief that we felt as a nation.

Thomas Flynn is by trade a journalist, and this book makes a point of highlighting that fact. Dan Rather wrote the foreword. His colleagues Diane Sawyer, Harry Smith, and Meredith Vieira, read it and wrote blurbs for the jacket. What this book gives us, however, is not cold, hard journalistic perspective. Instead, what it offers is much, much more. Epic indeed.

New Feature

For a few months I've been part of LibraryThing's Early Reviewer Program. So far I've snagged three books, and I posted the reviews both there and on Amazon. In an effort to spread the word about some of these new writers, and open my portfolio up a bit more to include book reviews, I've decided to start cross posting my reviews here as well. Depending on how often I get a book, whether purchased or ARC, I'll try to post one or two reviews per month. First up will be the last book I reviewed for LT: Bikeman, by Thomas Flynn.

The Problem of Susan

I'm a big fan of Neil Gaiman, having rediscovered him years after my first exposure during his Sandman years. One of the earliest things I read during this newer prose period was Fragile Things, and the story that probably struck me the most in that book was "The Problem of Susan." Today I came across (by way of Elizabeth Bear) a remarkable review of that story written by Sarah Monette, who has a lovely blog over at livejournal. She really nails how Gaiman criticizes Lewis for his treatment of Susan, and it's not necessarily where you'd think:

In my posts on Narnia, I talked a lot about Lewis's negative portrayal of adulthood, particularly adult femininity, and the way that all his "good" characters sneer at Susan for choosing that over Narnia. That seems to be Susan's sin in Lewis's eyes, and I think it's interesting that Gaiman doesn't articulate that directly, but his critique of Lewis's stance captures perfectly what's wrong with it:

"I don't know about the girl in the books," says the professor, "but remaining behind would also have meant that she was available to identify her brothers' and little sister's bodies. [...] My younger brother was decapitated, you know. A god who would punish me for liking nylons and parties by making me walk through that school dining room, with the flies, to identify Ed, well . . . he's enjoying himself a bit too much, isn't he? Like a cat, getting the last ounce of enjoyment out of a mouse."

She also analyzes the story on a couple of other layers as well, and after I read the thing I was left with another chill down my spine, something else to think about. This is what makes great literary criticism - the ability of the essayist to make you look at a piece of writing in a new way, to have a new "a-ha!" moment.

04 June 2008

A Picture is Worth 1000 Words

At least.
Found this picture on Shorpy. It's been haunting me like a stubborn ghost ever since. I've looked at it many times, and I'm convinced there's a story there...

Processing the Process

Great Weekend. Lately we've been working as hard on Saturday and Sunday as we do during the rest of the week. The last couple of days have been much more laid back though, and much, much more relaxing and enjoyable. Went for a short hike with the munchkins yesterday in a very pretty state park near here with some gorgeous bottomland swamp/forest trails. Not hot enough yet to be miserable, so it was a real treat. Fresh air'll do wonders for ya. I recommend it highly.

Read Cory Doctorow's new Little Brother last week, and passed it on to the LOML on Friday. He didn't sleep until it was finished in the wee hours. We both liked it very much - I think it has a lot to say to its YA audience. They've grown up in a world where technology is both ubiquitous taken for granted - these are kids who've never known a world without the internet. Because of that, many may not see the harm in data mining practices and the slow but sure turning over of our rights to privacy. Little Brother presents the argument that we have to be very careful in our management of our personal information in such a way that kids can identify with and understand. He explains a lot of techno-savvy terms, along with their possible implications, but the text never sounds preachy. I especially liked the afterwards which explain the tech in a little more detail but also give the reader information about where to go for more...well, information. Highly recommended.

Also got a little work done on the novel this weekend, mostly plotting points and characterizations. To be honest, lately when I think about working on this project, I find myself afraid. Sounds weird, I know, but in my never-finished-a-novel before mind it looms as a huge undertaking, and I worry about doing it right. As if on cue, Gaiman posted last night,

"In a first draft, you get to explode. The objective (at least for me) is to get it down on paper, somehow. Battle through the laziness and the not-enough-time and the this-is-rubbish and everything else, and just get it written. Whatever it takes."

That made me feel better. If he can feels like his work is crap the first time around and it still somehow comes out great, I at least have a shot. So, today I'll soldier on.

12 May 2008

Slackeresque

God, I am such a wiener. I haven't updated this page in forever. Sorry again. Been here, been busy with other things. Consistency has never been my strong point. Procrastination, on the other hand...

Have been writing a lot all spring in The Paradox of Vision. Crossposting at The Wild, Wild Left. To be honest, however, I'm weary. I feel like I've been beating my bloody head against a wall. I go through these periods where I am passionate about making my voice heard politically, even if it echoes back to me, and when I am despondently apathetic, unable to force myself to read any more stories or blog posts about how horrible things are here politically. Safe to say I am moving into the latter. I feel guilty about it, this being an election year and all, but I've learned not to force myself to attend to things I am sick of. The time will come round again.

Have been writing, short stories and such. Got a couple more rejections, but still one out there having passed the first test. Started a story earlier this week but then realized that I want to work on a novel. I want to write a novel, and finish a first draft before the end of the summer. Spend the fall revising & rewriting, and then send it off to agents and/or publishers before Christmas.

So I opened up my trusty word processor this morning, propped the keyboard on my lap, and waited. Nothing. The program is still open, as a matter of fact, staring at me with that, 'come on back, you know you have to eventually' look. I know, damnit, I"m coming, just give me another minute.

I want to buy my name, start a real website also. Somewhere I can post pieces I've written, start eliciting an audience. Getting some feedback. Rejections so often come with a form letter only, so I've no way of knowing if it's good, bad, or just not right for them. I love criticism, especially the bad stuff. Not easy to come by, however.

Right. Ok. Back to that blank page...

07 May 2008

Of Spring

Winters here in Louisiana are short. Hell, most people would go so far as to say we have no winter here - just a few weeks of chilly weather. And while they are probably right in that sense, we do indeed have a period of time when the trees go dormant, when mother nature sleeps and the days are strung together with clouds that are mostly grey and low. Our winters are cruel in that there are warm days checkered here and there, days when tropical gulf air flows in and brings with it memories of springs past. We don short sleeves, and venture out, but it is always short-lived, and the cold harsh north winds inevitably return within a day or two.

Every year I suffer in winter. Perhaps it's Seasonal Affective Disorder, although I can't imagine something like that this far south. Perhaps it's just some character flaw on my part. In any case, I usually simply exist during January and February, counting the days until the sun returns. It's a short wait, relatively speaking, but the older I get the harder it seems.

All of this nonsense is related here to explain my absence for most of the last couple of months. February I spent waiting in some kind of suspended animation. I wrote, but not much. I spent time with my family because they make me forget and cheer me up. I read a bit, drowsy by a warm fire, which is one of my few pleasures during the cold months.

And then March arrived, and my birthday, and the sun came back. As a result, I've spent the last few weeks outside, planting vegetables and flowers and exalting in all the things growing green and new. Today, sitting on the ground, covered in dirt and sweat, planting petunias, a story landed like a raindrop on my head.

It is another fairy story like the one I have been working on for at least a month now, but unlike that one this little gem was birthed fully formed, walking and talking from its first breath. I sat down at the computer when I came in this afternoon and wrote it in one sitting. Tomorrow I'll revise it and send it out to fledge. We'll see what comes of it.

In any case, expect more essays in the coming days. I've been thinking over some weighty topics lately, not the least of which is the nature of atheism and belief in relation to one's age, as well as a post on my topic du jour, The Fey. Happy Spring, everyone.

02 April 2008

Magical

Been away for a while, mostly working on stories and writing for the dark side of The Persistence of Vision, The Paradox of Vision. It's an election year, and I am mightily fired up.

I wanted to pass all of this along however - an article from the Times Picayune about upcoming book releases from Louisiana authors. I want to check out lots of these in the coming months, as it seems our artists are acting in some ways as a cultural release valve for all the destruction and sadness my beloved home has experienced over the last few years. It's cathartic to read stories (even fictional ones) that deal with the hurricanes of 2005. It makes us more of a community.

On an utterly different note, the book I'm currently hashing out has lots of elements of Magical Realism. I've always been utterly enchanted by the genre (no pun intended), because for me, that is what life feels like. Every day things happen to us for which there is no easy explanation, and while we could probably discover the cold, hard truth of reality around us, how much more entertaining and fun is it to imagine, just on the edges of our rational minds, that magic is real, and that one day it just might really rain cats and dogs. Of course, what makes it so enjoyable to read is that the characters take the intrusion of the extraordinary into their lives as utterly ordinary, so much so that they are often more annoyed by its presence than anything. I may be flabbergasted, but they aren't surprised in the least.

Latin artists and authors seem to have a particular gift for it. I'm thinking Frida Kahlo and Salvador Dali in the visual arts. In literature, I love Laura Esquivel's Like Water for Chocolate, anything by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, and of course my favorite poet of all time, Pablo Neruda.
A recent example in film that I loved was the beautiful and exquisite Pan's Labrynth, written and directed by Guillermo del Toro. Their vision appeals to the spirit in me that sees the world through a child's unclouded eye. If you haven't before, check it out.

21 February 2008

Most Sincerely Yours, E.A. Poe

I've always been fascinated with Poe. He first caught my attention when I was a young girl, probably not much older than his wife, Virginia. Strange, I love his writing, but I have always been more interested in how his choice of topics and genre were influenced by his life and nature. I wondered, endlessly, about the man who married his 13-year old cousin, but presumably became so devoted to her that he never recovered from her death. What pieces of his childhood were infused and entwined in his stories and poetry - his adoptive parents' disappointments in him, or perhaps his own uncertainty and rebellious nature?

I especially loved, of all his works, the poem "Annabel Lee", which describes the longing and remembering after the loss of a dear and fragile love. Every time I read it, I can feel his broken heart in every word, and almost see his eyes turn another shade darker while he drank to numb his soul. And yet I also think about the fact that, despite everything, he (more or less) made a living and a career out of the events that had shaped him, changing it all yet again into stories to send shivers down the backs of the common men and women who read them.

It is said that he had skill in cryptography, and that this interest led him to write the first detective stories, solve puzzles for the readers of his magazine, and invent codes to amuse his subscribers. It is said that he drank himself to death. It is said that he was mad with grief, and it is said that he was just plain mad. In any case, I can't help but wonder each time I think of him what his art would have reflected had he lived an ordinary life, full of success, ambition, and happy memories. Do we bring the sadness upon ourselves, or do we simply utilize what we need to create our art? Perhaps someday I will ask that Raven.

I started a new story a few days ago, a story in the style of Mr. E.A. I began to write it, or more appropriately, it began to write itself, on a dark and gloomy mid-winter day when I was totally alone in the house, and felt totally alone in the world. I hope he would have liked it. Or, at least, have understood why I had to write it.

Most Sincerely Yours,

02 February 2008

Paint It Black

I have always found goth or emo-type people to be affected. I've never understood why someone would take an interest that most people find bizarre and turn it into a lifestyle. It always seemed like a cry for attention to me - kids who were lonely, feeling on the fringes of their social world, who just want to say fuck it and take their differences to the extreme.

Having said that, I started wondering yesterday what happens to these people when they grow up? Of course there's the famous example of Marilyn Manson, who found a way to make money at it and so never had to. But at some point, most of us have to move out of our parents' houses and get on with our lives. Eventually we all get out of school and have to find real jobs, spouses, and the ordinary day-to-day world begins.

I guess some people just go underground, of a sorts, dress normally during the week and take on a different persona in their free time. But even that, it would seem, would eventually have to end, as the places you frequent and the crowd you fit in with get younger and younger than you each year. What is that day like, when you realize that all those black outfits will no longer be worn? When the black nail polish and lipstick get put away for the final time? How does it feel to finally be forced by society to slough off a personality, a personality you originally acquired to deal with society to begin with?

When I was in high school and college, there were lots of goth kids around. I wonder, as I look around at my Generation X as we've aged, how many of those soccer moms and baseball-coach dads I see everywhere were once those goth kids? Do you lose your angst, or just swallow it? Do you one day decide that the world isn't a bad place after all, or do you just drink the kool-aid?

I can't really speculate too much, as I was never one of them. I was in school, as I am now, just one of those average people who sort of gets along with everyone. I had friends of all ilks, and still do. I blend, like a chameleon, from the PTA to the computer geeks to the art scene. Whatever the weather brings.

Speaking of which.

Raining and cold today. Received a idea yesterday from the fiction gods, my own version of the gothic horror stories of Poe and his ilk. Am still editing the atrocious sci-fi mess that I wrote, though at least I feel now like it is starting to shape up somewhat. Maybe I'll go dress up in all my black clothes, and spackle on the black eyeliner. March on, Marilyn.



----------------
Now playing: a-ha - Little Black Heart
via FoxyTunes

25 January 2008

Anthony Burgess and the Martini Method

There's an old story about the writing habits of Anthony Burgess (A Clockwork Orange, for those of you who don't know). Legend has it that his method for production was to force himself to write 1000 words a day, 365 days a year. Every day, when he'd finish, he'd stop working and reward himself with a martini. When I read this, I thought to myself, hmmm...1000 words is doable. And 365,000 words a year is certainly production. So, I've tried it out, and so far, so good.

I write something, anything, 1000 words. Even if nothing salable comes of it, the exercise itself is honing my craft. I learn something every time I sit down to write. How to create believeable dialogue. How to take a character sketch and shape it into a story with direction. Sometimes I just make one line better, more accurate, more artful. And then I am free for the rest of the day. Free from guilt, and free to think, wonder, and imagine.

Good news has come today. A story I sent off a few weeks ago to a British horror magazine has passed the first read with the editors. Not an acceptance, but it has put me on cloud nine. It's progress. Yeah!

21 January 2008

Ennui

I'm not exactly sure what's wrong with me these days. Maybe it's winter, and the fact that it's been perpetually cold and/or rainy since Christmas. Maybe it's the mounting stack of rejection slips I am collecting, breeding on my doubts and fears. I can't quite pinpoint the cause, but the effect has been staring at a blank screen for days. I've written several sketches for stories, but nothing is going anywhere. The fact that I'm not writing has started breeding a low grade panic in me as well, which in turn contributes to trying to force myself to create something. Deep down I know that there is no such thing as forcing creativity, but the fact is, I need to sell something - I need to start making money at this profession, or it won't be a profession for very long.

Apparently, I'm not the only one having this problem. Wil Wheaton and Elizabeth Bear seem to be having the same sorts of troubles. Luckily for them, however, they have deadlines and agents/editors on their backs. I have nothing but my own motivation, which has not been very active for the last couple of weeks.

One bright spot. Yesterday I got out of the house and started driving. I have always loved to do that, just riding around, listening to music and thinking by myself. And for those few moments, it worked. Stuff started flowing again, as if I'd turned on a tap. Sadly, I had places to go and shit to do, so not much came of it, but it gave me hope.

Therefore, the new plan is GTFOOTH, otherwise known as Get the F__ Out Of The House. I'm going to pack up my laptop and go somewhere. Anywhere. Ride around. Stop at a coffee shop and work with no distractions for a couple of hours. I think that by staying home all the time, the first Law of Procrastination comes into play. It's a sad day when I keep up with the laundry around this place, but right now there's not a dirty towel in the house.

Yeah, I need to get outta here.

18 January 2008

Working Again

Today was my first full day back into writing since the holiday season began, and it felt both strange and comfortingly familiar. I am out of practice and have had a very hard time concentrating today when I try to flesh out scenes from the current story I am working on. Conversely, when I work on journaling and just let myself sit and think, ideas are flowing all around me begging for an audience. So, part of the day was spent researching those new tidbits and writing notes for other projects. I think it will take a few days to get my groove back, per Stella.

I am so often pulled in several different directions. I love sci-fi and fantasy, and am working on several short stories in that genre. I have a book inside me about addiction and the havoc it wreaks on families, which is decidedly not sf, but that I wrote the opening scene for today. Also a big fan of African American literature, Ernest Gaines, and Zora Neale Hurston and Richard Wright and Ralph Ellison, and I want to write a book that brings that experience into the modern age and in connection with white Southern youth who try to overcome the prejudices of their ancestors. Then of course there's Lilith, who stalks me unashamedly and without end, waiting for her turn. They are all in there, begging to get out, and I feel sometimes like a tiny pinhole in a bag full of water.

I got a rejection letter for "The Question" a couple of days ago. Was disappointed, but hey, that's the game. Re-submitted to another magazine this morning, so we'll see.

I'm kept hopeful, and encouraged, by successful writers who are kind enough to blog about their writing process. Although it doesn't make it any easier, it is so comforting to hear that a well-known published author struggles with the same day to day problems as I do. Thanks Neil Gaiman, Elizabeth Bear, Wil Wheaton, and William Gibson. Thank you for giving me a frame of reference along with a healthy dose of reassurance.

09 January 2008

Persistence Indeed

I have always had trouble staying the course with my writing. It is a bit of a love/hate relationship I have with my pen - on the one hand it is part of me, and I am compelled by something bigger than myself to tell stories. On the other hand, it is had for me to focus so intently, difficult for me to get past the daily distractions and stick to a vision. I'm not sure how to describe it, except to say that it is like exposing pieces of myself, pieces I normally keep hidden. They call to me, my characters and stories, and insist on their freedom, but it is hard to let them go.

I have spent years cultivating excuses for not sitting down and writing. I am very good at it. I'll never be free, though, to be the writer I've always wanted if I continue to live from one procrastination exercise to another, spending my days telling those little voices to hush already.

NaNoWriMo has been very good for me. I'm sitting down to write and finding that the words do come. There is more to me than short stories. I am 5000 words in now, and am finding that I have a voice, and something to say. The story is coming together magically in my head- as I write, the story plays out on a little ribbon-movie in my head. It is wonderful. It is enlightening. It is what makes me happy.

Part of the credit also goes to a book I am reading, by Julia Cameron, called The Right to Write. She systematically dismantles all those arguments you make to yourself about why you don't have the time or the skill to be a writer. I have been so focused this year on selling a story that I forgot about the sheer joy that the act should give to me. I let myself get so caught up in the editing, rewriting, fear of rejection, and procrastinating that I lost my focus. This book helped me find it again, and I highly recommend it to anyone who has that "Great American Novel" inside somewhere waiting to see the light of day.

09 November 2007

NaNoWriMo

As many of you in the struggling-writer-in-progress online world know, November is National Novel Writing Month, with its annual challenge to write a 50,000 word novel in 30 days. I signed up last year, wrote two pages, and spent the rest of the month dodging encouraging emails and reminders. This year, I'm committed. I have been writing and submitting stories and articles all year (though have yet to sell any), and throughout the summer that voice which has dogged my steps for as long as I can remember has gotten steadily louder. (You know that voice. The one who says, HEY! WRITE THAT NOVEL YOU'VE BEEN THINKING ABOUT FOREVER!!)

For the last few days I have been doing research on my topic (Lilith), as well as some historical time periods I plan to include. I have worked out a vague storyline in my head, and I hope that Neil Gaiman is right when he says at some point it will all come together like magic and I'll know what I'm doing.

My main strategy this time is just to WRITE. I have a terrible habit of writing two paragraphs, then spending 3 days editing them to death. This time, I am going to just write, get the words down on paper, and forbid myself to go back and look at anything until December 1. As they say at the NaNoWriMo hints page, the time for editing is later, when you have a manuscript. The important thing is to get to that point first.

I will add updates here, hopefully every couple of days, to let my faithful reader(s) know how it is going. I also have a post coming up on E.A. Poe, in celebration of All Hallow's Eve.

25 October 2007

News and Info

The Times Picayune's Book editor Susan Larson has written an article on Fall 2008 books by Louisiana authors. You can see it here.

Also, local author Chere' Coen has recently launched a new website for readers and writers called Louisiana Book News. Very cool to have a place where you can find local author appearances and signings, reviews, and general goings-on in the reading and writing community. Chere' also writes a book column here on Sundays in our local newspaper.

Finally, the State Library of Louisiana has an interesting site worth checking out, The Center for the Book. Here you'll find a searchable database of Louisiana authors, information on a couple of writing contests, as well as info pertaining to local book festivals. Good resource - check it out.

Off to the Friends of the Lafayette Parish Library Used Book Sale today. Hurricane Humberto is knocking on my front door, but who cares when there are yummy books to peruse and buy. :)

13 September 2007

The Graveyard Road, Pt. II

Photo - Paul Devereaux from the Fortean Times

Related to my previous post about The Graveyard Road in my hometown, I've been doing some research lately on the lore of the Coffin Road, sometimes referred to as a Corpse Road or Lych Way. They were medieval creations in Europe, primarily the UK from what I can gather, and although they started out as political tools, have all sorts of interesting myths surrounding their creation and use.

In the Middle Ages, the Roman Catholic church reigned supreme in Europe. Individual parish churches were numerous - sometimes too numerous for the populations in their immediate vicinity. In order to guarantee a bit of revenue from funeral and burial fees, they asked for and received permission to require residents of certain areas to use a specific church for the burial of their dead. Sometimes families had to transport their loved ones several miles in order to reach the cemetery where they had to be buried. In order to facilitate this transport, paths and small lanes were constructed, leading from various villages and settlements to the graveyards they had been assigned. Some even had large "coffin stones" carved on which to occasionally rest Grampa or Uncle Joe, as carrying a full coffin for several miles over sometimes rough terrain could be pretty tiring.

As you can imagine, lots of stories, traditions and folklore sprang up around these highways of the dead. People in those times had no scientific explanations for the odd lights that showed up occasionally in fields at night, or why little Susie came down with a mysterious illness no one could explain or cure. People really, really believed in curses and ghosts, and took them very seriously. Care was taken to keep the spirits of the dead in their place, as fear of revenants was common. Many times coffin roads passed over streams, for example, because it was commonly believed that spirits could not pass over running water. Another trick was to transport the dead to the cemetery with their feet pointing away from home, in the hopes that when and if they walked, they would do so in the opposite direction from which they came.

A traditional English Lychgate (entrance to cemetery)
Courtesy of Wikipedia

Interestingly, the idea of spirit roads was not a new thing, even in the Middle Ages. In Celtic Europe, "fairy roads", which always traveled (in theory) in straight lines, criss-crossed the countryside and were the reserved travel ways of the fey. People took great care not to build structures across them, or block them in any way with fences or hedges. Violation would incur the wrath of the supernatural - hauntings, poltergeist activity, and mysterious illnesses.

Related to all of this is the folklore surrounding crossroads, which by tradition are places where not only roads, but worlds, intersect. The Devil is said to keep watch at crossroads, a myth manifested in America by the legend of Robert Johnson, who sold his soul in Mississippi at a crossroads at midnight in exchange for the ability to play and sing the Blues. Suicides and criminals were often buried at crossroads to keep them from roaming and seeking solace with the living. One famous example in Britain is Tyburn, the traditional spot for hangings in London for centuries. It was located at the crossroads of two ancient Roman roads.

Sadly, many of the old Coffin Roads have fallen into disuse and neglect. Most people don't know the origin of these strange, overgrown tracks and pathways that lead through the countryside. The dead have to find their own way these days, picking among the ghosts of their former highways and byways. I like to imagine, however, that in time they find their destination anyhow.

References:
"Where The Ley Lines Led" from The Fortean Times
Wikipedia articles on Coffin Roads, Lych Gates, and Tyburn, London

12 September 2007

Insanity it seems...

Click to enlarge:

A New Forum

(Authors Note: I'm posting this here, and also as the initial article on the new blog, in order to direct traffic. I'll be posting my first article on the new blog soon.)


Even after I wrote about my political posting, I wasn't happy about the state of my blog. What is it about? Writing? Politics? I am well aware that art and political discourse don't play well together. Hell, they don't even look good sitting on the same bench. Therefore after some thought I decided to break things up into separate entities.

The Persistence of Vision will continue to be about the things that prompted its origin - art, writing, folklore, magic and other interesting tidbits. The Paradox of Vision will be my activist voice - reserved for the constant struggle I feel as a citizen of the United States in 2007. There are days when I read the news and it is filled with things I don't want to see, things which outrage me and cause me to question the future of our nation. Other times I look around and see people and ideas that make me proud to be an American. It is open to any topic under the political umbrella - from the latest despotic labors of Mr. Bush and his cronies to rampant Republican hypocrisy, Louisiana politics and candidates and citizens that I admire and support. I know there are tons of political blogs out there supporting both sides of the aisle, but I don't care. I am a citizen, and a voter. My voice is important, even if it is drowned out in the crowd. I won't hide my eyes to what is going on around me. Democracy cannot die as long as there are informed voices that demand truth and justice.

I'll also be welcoming the LOML as a co-author and occasional ranter-in-residence. His screen name is El Prez, and he'll be offering his own take on free speech issues, legislation affecting electronic freedoms, and occasionally, opinions which are totally at odds with my own. But hey, I welcome discourse. It's what America is all about.