A New Day?

I missed Church again for the third week in a row. The main reason why I began going again over a year ago was to invest in the Lord's economy. Most people of Generation X have some sort of investment program to help them through their golden years. I've always known that giving the ten percent cut resulted in great blessings. Before I left Shithole, I had more than I could prudently spend. Now most of it is gone, and I have nothing to invest at this time so I don't go.

The Pastor will come looking for me, and I will tell him what happened. He prayed over me when Shithole began conspiring against me, and it took them eight months to get rid of me as a result. Now we will all just have to wait: the Pastor, Moy and I. They both believe that the Lord will deliver me eventually, and so shall I.

I continue this intellectual journey nonetheless. Right now I am reading James Joyce, Reinaldo Arenas, Ray Bradbury and Lester Bangs. I read a chapter at a time from each book, set it down and go to the next. My mind greedily absorbs ideas, concepts, information from each and tries to weave it all together in a chain. I read of how students in Joyce's Dublin commiserate in pubs away from the pouring rain, hundreds of miles and decades away from Arenas' Cuba, where that thunderstorm sweeps in and makes all things new, capable of extinguishing the bookburning flames in Bradbury's distant future, foreseen by Bangs as he predicted the demise of free thought and speech in the wake of 21st century conformity and Government repression. I synthesize it all and blend it into a new voice. It is not my voice, it is the voice of the prophets of the past. Only when they try to find a name for it, they will settle on mine.

E-Treasures is taking a hard look at Both Sides Now, and Leo Publishing is ruminating over The Triad. It is possible I will have seven publishers distributing my work: is not seven the perfect number in the Bible? And why not one? Well, a horror publisher will not touch an action/adventure novel, and one who is enthusiastic over a speculative fiction novel may not want to invest in a romantic comedy. This is why I cannot find an agent. One does not want to represent a writer whose work will eventually fall outside their area of expertise.

I suppose that is what you get from someone who reads Joyce, Arenas, Bradbury and Bangs in sequence, as if one provides a perfect segue to the next. What sense could one make of it, and who would want to try and understand its translation. Of what use could it be?

We shall see, won't we?