I figured that I would announce this along with my sobriety birthday, but I thought perhaps it would have been far too long of a single blog entry; Scribbles is coming out, soon! I’m very excited about it, and like my other publications, I’m hoping that it will be well received. I just want to express further appreciation for my readers that I do have. I know that we are a tiny, tiny group, but I’m grateful for you.
I’ve reviewed one printing of the book and made the necessary corrections. I’m going to be receiving another copy to again review before I give it my thumbs up. The eBook of Scribbles is formatted and is waiting for distribution. Please stay tuned to find out when it’ll be out. Just like with ALL of my publications have been thus far, this one will also be offered as a FREE EBOOK on Amazon as well, but for a limited time! And I enjoy doing that, I really do, it helps spread it about, and I like doing it for my brand new titles when they first come out.
I was going to postpone the book for a month, but I’m about to start a couple “real” jobs and with summer school classes, I’m not sure how much time I’ll have to write. But no, I’m not accepting that because I will make time to write. But just as well, I figured I didn’t want to keep my lovely readers waiting. So, my beautiful people, I give you the cover of Scribbles and another sneak peek into it.
Every morning it is the same routine; awakening from another type of dream, the uncomfortable mattress, the wood that squeaks, the almost unbearable early morning cheeps, the bloodstains that have paved my memory, laying down the guiding stream, the guardrails, the harrowing.
I want to blot out the eyes of the sun. I want no more visions, no more light; let’s subside into the dark. And there I will find the quietness, the serenity, the simplicity, the audacity, the intricacies, the heresies, the simple but much appreciated pleasantries that having no vision can bring.
I am dying inside and this is me screaming out. This is me fucking screaming out. I’m tired of all of this routine, this rat race, this desolate place, this failing fate, this life I waste.
And I’m trying…yes I’m trying, I’ve tried, it is an effort so involved that has left me wanting to die if I fail.
The demons, the cruel devices, the black tar machines, and everything else this lackluster of a world can muster can line up against someone else’s bakery because I no longer define it as custard.
A bird I wish I could be, fly far, far away. I’d go far… I’d fly far…I’d disappear, I’d build a nest in some foreign place, I’d get away.
No, but it is here I remain, where I choose to eat the shit that eats at my brain. And how I wish it were like a cigarette rolled in a filter, but there at no point does it become any cleaner, it just makes you feel better.
I know what can make me feel better, but it will mug me and leave me in a gutter, left for dead, but the demons will be fed. Ha! Don’t you see it, my friends? Everything in this realm requires sustenance to be fed and everything is a process that starts in yours or someone else’s head.
The envelopes desired to be licked, the coin slots have coins slid, the prostitutes tricked, the unloved to be loved—though that can be said of most anyone, that desire we have, the need, the want, the absolute necessity to be loved; and the plants they crave sunlight, the night creatures want moonlight, the hot desires cold, the cold wants what the hot can bestow, the rivers desire the land, and the fucking land wants the bodies of water, the mother regards the sons and daughters, the fathers desire all the strength they can trotter, the bird wants the worm, and the worm wants the dirt, the dirt wants the rain, silence wants to scream, and the man chases the dream, and death wants the living!
So at the bottom of every nook and cranny of your dream eating machine, you will find me and others churning at the bottom and slowly dissolving. Chewed up and spit out, torn apart and cut-up, angry and fed-up, no longer silent but now filling cups.
Oh, but your blade will cut so keen and sharply, so quick and deafening, the eviscerations of the many, leaving little time for screams, but if only your machine was fed on hatred instead of dreams.
We could undo what had been done for centuries, we could invent a new realm for the “living,” but that’s as far as we got because your machine has already chewed it up and the bones spit out like a disease.
And if we take a moment we can see the lonely ‘a’, and soon we will see next to it the ‘b’ followed by the ‘c’ and the ‘d’ the ‘e’ the ‘f’ and until eventually, and completely, we have formed the long line of unity.
But so long as we are on this topic that has me toiling like a storm in the subtropics; can you feel it inside you, that something that feels microscopic?
Life muffins baked in a furnace at 300 degrees will send it out hotter and softer than anything felt or seen, and that is what I am speaking about—that is what I mean, the gracious and unseen, the holy unfathomable, but fathomable human dream.
And our whispers and clues come to us in ever so tiny microwave sized beams. That sudden insight, that overwhelming feeling, that aching, the finally seeing, the hissing that slowly becomes screaming, the balloon deflating but now re-steaming, the 12 o’clock bell dinging, the fish caught on a hook that you’re reeling, the pig that is squealing, squealing not for pain, but for joy, happy now to understand how everything is employed, instead of hiding in a haze, being distracted by the daze, knowing now how important the role that clay plays.
Why would he be happy, why is it now in the end that he can see? Friends, I would like to know the answer to that same mystery, but the only thing I can think of or even conceive is that our one body is the embodiment of many and each piece of magic helps to form the mighty tree, the holy being, the you and me, all of the unseen; and like any puzzle missing pieces you can’t build what cannot be seen, but you can imagine and preen, make guesses while gleaming, but in the end, isn’t that what we are already achieving?
So we go forth like a dog sled race in a hurry to get to this magical place, the end of the line, a place sweeter than any nursery rhyme, a place with endless music and chimes, the hello, hello, hi, hi, the no need to try, try, the infinite fly by, the magical place, the magical, the magical place, the magical place, the magical place, the magical place, the magical place, the magical place, the magical place—the magical place that can’t be seen but can be felt on your face if you only opened new eyes you would understand that we all have every reason to try!
But some are content watching mushrooms grow, and that’s okay if that’s what they wish to experience as their show, but I know there has got to be more, and I’ll keep searching until it drives me insane because it is now more than a chore.
It is a destiny device, a soft cry, the curious why, the ‘I must try,’… the do or die.
Copyright © 2012 Volatalistic Phil
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