Science fiction, fantasy, mystery and what-not
A character is pushing for this music. She screwed up. They accused her of trying to be a hero, which is wrong, which is not what it was about at all. They don’t care. They set the course of their perceptions long before her actions.
Now she needs a hero. So many offerings out there, musically, but went with David Bowie’s ‘Heroes’. Many renditions are available and Bowie always delivered an excellent show. I chose the recording of his Live Aid performance from 1985.
Sometimes, you need change.
Avoid the usual.
Escape yourself and explore.
Consideration of my state doubled me back through a labyrinth of realizations and understanding. I set fire to a few things and watched the ashes of those spirits take to the eddying winds. Then I set off to find a new place in the labyrinth of being. Once I did, I needed different music. Here is the song that volunteered itself.
Lynyrd Skynrd, ‘They Call Me the Breeze’.
A depressing dream has pillaged my enthusiasm and burned my energy. Rising to face the tedium of repeating yesterday’s activities just like I did yesterday and on through a hall mirroring hundreds of yesterdays and tomorrows, I thought, “Yeah, you go back, Jack, do it again.”
So here it is, another throwback. Steely Dan’s ‘Do It Again’.
Do you hear that sound? I think of it as a thousand thousand metallic and plastic insects clicking their way around the world. It’s really millions of fingers typing on keyboards. It must be happening after reading this headline:
I mean, come on. Look at all the graphic novels, horror tales and science fiction stories that headline can inspire. The actual story behind it is not as rosy, citing the chance for many long-term ill effects, including chronic dementia. But the story also says, “But it’s not clear exactly what effect space radiation has on the brain because there are different types of radiation and they’re delivered in different doses.” Maybe space brain will develop mutant space zombies (which may be redundant, as I think zombies are mutants). Or space brain unlocks telekinetic and telepathic powers of which we’ve fantasized.Maybe space brain triggers weird time travel or teleportation skills, or the ability to see or experience other dimensions.
Of course, space brain may just cause space rage or space laze or space gaze. Who knows?
Let your imagination guide you.
“Who is that?” Handley asked.
I paused from typing. I didn’t know what she was talking about. That wasn’t part of the planned scene.
“Listen,” Handley said. “I hear someone.”
“As do I,” her therapist, Endura said.
Grutte Piers was nodding. “And I hear him, too.” His mild accent bothered me.
None of that matched the dialogue I’d been chasing as part of the scene. Sitting up, I gave heed to my characters’ comments and listened.
“He died when I was eight. My memories of him is of an overweight man who always drank, who was always smoking cigars. He was always in a wheel chair. Quite frankly, I was always a little scared of him.”
So the voice goes on across the room, issuing from a woman. Her voice has the quality to slash through my writing shields. It’s a rare phenomena. I can usually block everyone out. Not her. What is it about her tone, frequency or volume that lacerates my concentration and focus?
She’s fallen silent but the characters are all restlessly shifting. “Okay, where were we?” Handley asked. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t know,” Grutte Piers said. Looking up and out at me from his place on the page embedded on the computer screen, he continued, “Why don’t you go back and see what you’ve written so you can remind us where we were going?”
“Okay,” I answered. “In a moment.” The world was too much with me. Music was playing. Others were speaking. “I need to collect myself first.” Sipping coffee, I looked out at the rain.
The voice began again….
Ah, she’s leaving….
Don’t forgot to stand up and st-t-t-t-r-r-r-r-r-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-tch everything once in a while. Feels good, doesn’t it, my pet?
Ah, a simple offering today. I’ve not known this song long but it’s taken a place in my virtual jukebox.
The song is ‘The Blues Don’t Care’ by Frank Bang and the Cook County Kings. I’ve added writing verses:
The blues don’t care how many words you wrote
The blues don’t care if you’re published or not
The blues don’t care if you’ve written all month
The blues don’t care if can’t write at all
I need to amuse myself somehow.
I woke up with this song in my mind so I went with it.
It was written before I was born but it’s a pop standard, and has been used in movies. Lots of famous people covered it, and even some later groups, like The Cure. I know it from my mother playing it. I primarily grew up in the towns, townships and suburbs surrounding Pittsburgh. This was the 1960s. Hi-fi stereo was the iPad of the day and vinyl was emperor.
Mom listened to many records on her hi-fi stereo console and I became familiar with many artists through her enjoyment. This song was one of her favorites. I always enjoyed these lines:
“And if you should survive to 105,
Look at all you’ll derive out of being alive!
And here is the best part, you have a head start
If you are among the very young at heart.”
(n/t to Lyricsmode.com)
That’s what I awoke to in my mental jukebox today. Don’t know why. I slept well and had interesting but common dreams.
Here is Frank Sinatra with ‘Young At Heart’. He didn’t write the song but it was his hit, and it seems most associated with him. Enjoy. Cheers
Writers, poets, musicians and artists all know this, I think, but I write to express my feelings to and for myself. I share it on the blog to find some validation and to give others encouragement, so I’ll share this today.
I’m riding the wave. The wave is when the work in progress is fully comprehended and effortlessly reached, providing a calming high. I’m buoyant and yet introspective, but I don’t mind being like that because I’m happy. Writing is going great. It’s constantly with me but I see that as a beautiful, wonderful state.
My friends probably wonder about my absence. I haven’t been out for beers for over a week. My wife probably thinks I’m losing some cognitive functions because I drive to the wrong place. I can’t and don’t explain that I’m still writing in my head. The story is so rich and real, I don’t want to disturb it, but just write and write. I also know that my enthusiastic descriptions of what I’m doing, what’s going on with me, and what’s happening in the novel tends to create an EGO state for her – eyes glazing over. Only other creative people, involved in their own realms of endeavor, can truly understand. I get that. It shades my existence with loneliness because I can’t share with all these others, these non-writers, non-musicians, non-artists and non-poets. They just don’t seem to get it. But then, I’m not social, so I don’t hunger with the urge to socialize, and it amuses me to watch others engage in that drive.
There are other drives I don’t have that others display. Hunting, dancing, hobbies, making money. Thinking about them and striving to gather insights into those activities and their influences on the people and societies is part of my writing enjoyment.
It’s been a long ride on this wave. I wonder when it’s going to break, so I’ve resisted writing about it, fearful my mentioning it will jinx it. Even as I finished writing this and I read it again, I think, do I really want to put this out there? This wave is so strong, I’m still with Handley on the bridge, peering over her shoulder and spying on her thoughts and actions, and contemplating what’s happening with Pram, Richard and Brett. This wave is strong.
Oh, the coffee is drained. Two thousand words have been written and edited, and ninety minutes have elapsed. A weather storm is approaching so there are real existence matters to attend. Selfishly, I hope we don’t have a power outage, that the storm isn’t strong, because I don’t want the wave to break. I know how shallow that seems, that in this world of life and death, I’m thinking of myself and my writing. I laugh at myself, mocking my priorities.
But of course I hope others safely survive, that the damages aren’t too great, that when they are great, people are able to rebuild and continue on. And of course, I understand, death is a natural part of life. Yet, even in those wishes, hopes, and acceptance, the writer within thinks of the scenes, emotions and dialogue, and imagines the emerging stories….
Writing really is a sickness.
But it’s such a beautiful thing.
Cheers
Michael Seidel, writer 