So you can read my books

Wednesday, February 24, 2010


Ever since I started mine, I've been reflecting on them. I've come to the conclusion that in essence, a blog consists of : Me. Me. Me. More Me.

And wow! Even more Me!

Oh, and let's not leave out the Comments -- which is blog-speak for "Enough about me. What do you think about me?"

But it occurred to me that we carry a blog around inside us all the time. An awareness of ourselves that can be either good or bad, discerning or self-serving. It all depends upon how truthful we are to that one person we lie to most : ourselves.

And I focus on that tidbit of reflection in my {C'mon, this is my blog. You didn't think I could stray too far from me, now, did you?} ... in my surreal Noir tale, FRENCH QUARTER NOCTURNE.

It is the first night of Katrina. The Convention Center is being turned into a living nightmare by drunken young men from the streets. Samuel McCord is angrily approaching them, and he is about to unleash hell. While it is certain that they have acted badly, those around them have not. But all of them are in the condition too many humans live out their whole lives : frightened confusion.

And as Sam walks towards them, his thoughts become his own blog :

I looked into their hollow eyes. Like most folks in this day and age, they had gone about their lives, quietly trying to swallow the fear that their lives had somehow gotten out of control and things were falling apart. Now, their worst nightmare had come to life before their eyes. Their predictable world had crumbled right in front of them. Their next meal was no longer certain, much less their safety. What did Al Einstein tell me during that last chess game?

"The true tragedy of life is what dies inside a man while he still lives."

Then, I heard the squalling.

I made a face. As I have stated before, I am not a nice man. For one thing, I hate screaming babies. The more of them I hear, the more I want to lash out and hit something.

Maybe it was because I never had one of my own. Maybe it was my sensitive hearing. Or maybe it came from me being a man. Men just naturally want to fix whatever they see that is broken. And I couldn’t do that with a squalling baby. Most folks get downright cranky when you snatch their howling baby out of their arms to see what is broken with the damn thing.

And there were a lot of babies crying as I stepped onto the water-covered sidewalk. I made a face, and those closest to me cringed. I have that effect on a lot of folks. Go figure.

My better self urged compassion. I found it odd that there was a me that I couldn't see, that walked beside me and commented on my thoughts, urging kindness when I would be cruel. I made a face. I was too old to go crazy. Hell, at my age I should already be there, holding the title to my very own asylum. But then, in an insane world, only the mad are sane.


So there is another snippet of my novel -- and my theory that all of us write a daily blog in our minds with a running commentary of the people and events that color our days. By the way, in case you're wondering : my day insisted on coloring outside the lines. But I believe Mark Twain would remind me : "When you remember that we are all mad, the mysteries all disappear and life stands explained."


Currently, I'm listening to "Where Are We Going From Here?" sung by Candice Night of BLACKMORE'S NIGHT, a Renaissance-inspired folk rock band created by Ritchie Blackmore, formerly of DEEP PURPLE. On October 5, 2008, the two were married after 19 years together at a castle overlooking the Hudson river. Ritchie is quoted as saying, "This is the first wedding I've attended where I'm not looking for the exit sign." Give their website a look and a listen : . You might like what you hear.

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