A Beautiful Painting by an Australian.

Rupert Bunny is a well known artist in Australia and other artistic circles.

This particular painting of St. Cathrine, and the Christian legend behind the painting, has intrigued, frightened and awed my soul since a little boy.

From Alexandria, circa 1'st century, she refused to deny her conversion to the new religion, thus she was tortured on the Roman Wheel; a device to ensure the victims bones are broken and death would be entertaining for the crowds. Something went wrong during the execution. After the the third try, the wheel somehow broke into pieces. The executioner's, not wanting to lose face, untied her from the wheel and cut her head off...as legend goes, a strong wind, dust blinding the crowds, through the darkness, strangers appeared, wrapping her in a clean cloth, and carried her to her burial place on Mt. Sinai.

After the dust storm settled, the crowd travelled up the mountain to see a grave and headstone, claiming her love for God. Most went to their knees, while others felt disappointed that the execution was not more entertaining.

Despite the current Israli and Arab bombs destroying one of the most holy places on earth, pilgrims continue their treks to the grave sight of St. Cathrine.

This painting truly depicts the story.

Any comments would be welcome.

Emotion: Awed & Tired.

Chapter in Novel Mysteriously Disappears

A brilliant day weather wise but a disaster on the relationship front.

Attempting to edited chapter 2 of my novel last night and the damn thing diappeared from the screen and the file. I have it backed-up on disk and hardcopy, but it still created a hole in my stomach and a feeling of dread.

A Sunday evening, looking forward to a dinner of ravioli and a glass of red to wash it down. Ah, the simple things in life are the best.

Also started reading "The Secret Life of Lazlo, Count Dracula" by Roderick Anscombe, a Forensic psychiatrist by day and novelist by night. Very well written and captures the readers attention.

The way situations are presenting themselves, it appears I'm entering a new chapter of my life. Rather than bore the reader with the gruesome details, let me just say that an 18 year relationship has come to an end. Never easy, however, taking it day by day.

Also considering publishing my last completed short story, "Gnome" on my BLOG, we'll see.

Emotional State: Sad & Tired.

Art, Media & Beauty

The world of Art in its on-going evolution, entirely... (In the 21st century) for example, the "Anything Goes Ethos" has become a political mine field of egos' and opinions.

Money, as always, dictates, "taste", which of course is relative. We view a work of art and see something, whether technical, subject matter or some content that brings forth our emotions, conjures feelings that have never been experienced before.

There are four sides to art:

* Technical

* Emotional

* Political

* Beauty

Though in the end, art is not about economics, but what the representation means to us personally.

Painting, as an art form, has diminished over the last 300 years.

In my opinion, (which means absolutly nothing), painting, drawing, architecture and what now stands for literature, has, for the part, gone to the dogs.

But when one studies history, discovers that social, technical and political "tastes" change. Similar to the earth turning and circulating the sun with mind-boggling percision, perceptions change, and what was beautiful in the past is now boring, ugly and not worth the time of day. A white canvas with a red line running down the middle, sold for $1,000,000 a few months ago in New York. Why? Because it was deemed "beautiful".

Fashion,, investment opportunities, and the world's general intelligence has dwindled.

In the past, fashion was dictated by the "elites"; now fashion starts at the botttom and gradually rises. Every so-called "celebrity", for example, has a tatto; it has now become "cool" to have "ink" on one's back side or one's arm. Not too long ago tatto's were something for the "boy's", the fighting Navel forces, the men who were forced to kill despite their personnal views; i.e WW1, WW2. etc.

Fashion has now become a false media creatiion. Art, unfortunately, in terms of the ticket paying masses, something to see, to be "seen" as viewing, but when at a diner party, asking a question like, "What did you fell about Mozart's First Symphoney tonight?"

"Who"?

Point made!

It is all about appearences, substance has gone by the way side.

These musings have become irelevant.

Tomorow is another day.

Emotion: Concerned, Angry and Tired.

First Draft of Novel...as requested.

Another crisp, clear and comfortably warm day in Melbourne.

Speaking to a very good friend today, she expressed her disappointment at reading the Prologue of my novel and feeling cheated, (tortured was her exact term) and wanting to at least read the first chapter. As it is a first draft, I'm relunctant to post it; however, her torture appeared genuine, thus the following is the first chapter:

Chapter One.

Who would have known that a simple telephone call to my father from a deserted pay phone in Irvine California would have changed my life to such a large degree? I didn’t want to call him, but as usual, I didn’t have any money and needed a small loan to ride me through my last year at the university. For a business and accounting major due to graduate that semester, I found my consistent lack of funds a bitter irony. Broke and hungry, I made the call and was granted permission to drop by his home and plead poverty, hoping he was sober enough to throw a few dollars my way. Father’s new wife answered the call and seemed pleased to hear from me.

My mother had died when I was toddler: only glimpses of her remain. My father told me that she had died of a rare disease, and refused to mention anything else about her. His new wife, Cressida, a middle aged woman of stereotypical beauty, could be safely categorized as a large breasted blond. She was a model and a ‘struggling’ actress as most people are in Southern California. To give her due, though, she did manage to make a few guest appearances on a variety of soaps and the occasional toothpaste and sanitary napkin commercial. Cressida would be considered beautiful in a plastic, baby doll sort of way: her grapefruit breasts were real, as far as I knew, and her long legs only added to her Penthouse appeal. Cressida’s pornographic good looks would be the dream of every adolescent, heterosexual male in America. And she married my father. We had only met once before at a bar mitzvah the previous spring, and I was looking forward to seeing her again.

Similar to most father and son relationships, ours had its good moments, but was mostly a conflict between egos: symbolically moving between a mutual fondness and pubescent arguments over who had the bigger penis. At this stage in our relationship, I had come to the conclusion that he was a frustrated statesman, a failed politician: in reality, father was a glorified mail clerk in the United States Postal Service. In the land of the free and the brave, despite all the propaganda to the contrary, if an individual desires to walk in the halls of power, money is required, a lot of money. The time where a lowly, working class person can rise to the number one, most powerful office in the country are long since past – if that time ever existed. Some twenty-five years ago, father graduated from college and went straight into the post office with all the grandiose dreams of moving up the political ladder and making the world a better place. Something happened in that high church of clerical bureaucracy, because he never left: so much for the great, American dream.

Upon entering their home, an attractive Southern California condominium, I found my father in his chair drinking expensive scotch and spouting-on about some political issue in the news. He was on a roll. Throughout his dissertation, his wife sat listening intently on the couch beside him, drinking a glass of wine, her legs spread across the cushions. I recall thinking how young and attractive looking she was for a woman in middle age. Some women posses a sensuality that expresses itself unconsciously: a sparkle in the eyes, a tone in the voice; a certain way they cross one leg over the other. Other women, of course, are much less subtle. They come right out with it: “I like the way you smell. Come home with me.” Luckily, I’ve had both experiences. The former seduction strategy, though, is much more dangerous. It is an innate power that has toppled entire civilizations, and has caused king’s to abdicate –an old myth but a true one. At this moment, my father’s wife seemed to be throwing out a few signals, as I sat listening to my father pontificate about the state of the nation. It could have been just me. She was wearing a tight-fitting blouse that accentuated her assets. Her long, tanned, perfectly shaped legs communicated frequent visits to the gym and solarium – another California habit in vogue at the time. Considering I was on my third scotch, this only compounded my lustful thoughts. Was she flirting with me? Suddenly feeling extremely self-conscious, I excused myself to the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face. ‘Come on now, boy.’ I thought. ‘You can’t be thinking these thoughts. She’s your father’s wife for goodness sake!’

Satisfied that my instinctive urges had been put in check, I returned to the front room to find my father nodding off and his wife adorning a new costume: a skimpy night gown. Taking a much needed deep breath, I sat back down on my chair and knocked-back the remaining scotch in the glass. She leaned back on the couch, throwing her arms behind her head:

“I think your father has finished tonight’s civics lecture. He’s out for the count. Help me get him to bed.”

Taking either arm, we dragged the old boy up the stairs, laying him as gently as possible on the bed. He then snorted, groaned and mumbled something, turning on his own, submerging into an alcohol-induced slumber. She turned to me and asked if I wanted another drink. We descended the stairs and she poured me a strong one. After a few sips of the scotch, she now became the most desirable woman on the planet. Not at all conscious of it at the time, the mysterious hand of fate was working its power, and there was nothing I could physically or mentally do about it: the seduction had begun.

“You don’t look like your father. You must look like your mother.”

“Yes, I’ve been told I look like her. I don’t remember her much.”

“She must have been a very attractive woman.”

Taking another long sip from my drink, she sat forward, her gown opening naturally around her shoulders, revealing a portion of her left breast. A surge of electrical pleasure shot through my loins

“I’d like to remember her as a beautiful woman.”

At that moment she spread her legs giving me a glimpse of the holiest of holies. I felt my face turn red as she sat back again and smiled. All I wanted to do at that second was to enter the church and sing my praises. But she was my father’s wife! There was no way in hell. When I stood up to leave, she stood also, removing her gown entirely, it dropping to the floor around her ankles.

“So, what do you think? Am I beautiful for an older woman?”

What could I say to her? Standing before me was an incredibly sexy and attractive female, communicating that she wanted to engage in the most natural of activities between a man and a woman. Not even a saint or the Pope, sworn to a life of celibacy, could repress the desire to make love to her.

She put on some music and we danced for a while. The rhythm of the beat sent my mind wandering; the delicate scent of her perfume wafted around my head as we swayed in each other’s arms. I wanted to release our mutual touch, the delicate softness of her skin; her slender hand wrapped around the nape of my neck, lost in the resonance of the song. The tune faded, that magical moment ended, and I found myself making love to my father’s wife. Was it blind lust or something more meaningful ?

The mind shifted and images of my early childhood moved into consciousness. A young boy, no more than three or four, standing at the doorway of my parent’s bedroom; pushing the door open I saw my father grunting like a pig on top of my mother. They didn’t see me at first and continued rolling around the bed in a strange way. At first I thought they were fighting; I knew without doubt that my father was hurting her, because she would let out an occasional scream. Soon she spotted me and they abruptly stopped. Father turned quickly around, saw me and yelled something. I ran up the stairs in absolute fear, knowing full well that he would kill me. As I lay trembling under the covers, I could hear them laughing. It seemed like hours passed in the darkness, not either of them came up the stairs to check on me, leaving me with my terrible thoughts. Soon I fell asleep with the image of my mother’s glistening skin under the light of the lamp.

Reaching that peak intended in the physical act of love, the outline of my father standing in the shadow of the hallway was the last thing I wanted to see at that moment. Cressida’s eyes were closed as she moaned in ecstasy for the third time. As she opened them, seeing my expression, she lifted her head and saw her husband, my father, observing us in the act. “Oh my God!” she whispered, her body shrinking in shame below mine. Rather than separate and cover our naked body’s, we remained connected, frozen in guilt, as he turned around, without a word, the ember of his lit cigarette glowing in the darkness, and ascended the stairs.

Cressida was panic-stricken. She began pacing the room, her naked body flowing in full view, grabbing cigarettes from the table and strangely lighting one after another. Then something very odd occurred: her face took-on an entirely different expression. This was not a simple emotional change of expression from fear to grief or anger to boredom, but a radical transformation, an extreme shift in physical features, as though the woman had become someone else. Even her voice sounded different: much lower, sexier, gravel-like: “Get dressed. We have to leave before he kills us both.”

Cressida dressed quickly and disappeared from the room. Through the ceiling, shouting could be heard: “You didn’t take your medicine, did you?” father exclaimed. How are we to live a normal life if you don’t take your pills?” Silence. Cressida appeared again and said, “Drive me to the nearest hotel. Hurry, he’s looking for his gun.”

My father was not the murdering type. In fact, to my knowledge, he had never owned a gun in his life. This memory was soon falsified when a loud pop sounded at the top of the stairs. Could the man be actually shooting at us? I didn’t want to hang around to find out. Grabbing Cressida by the arm, we ran through the door and outside to where my car was parked across the road. Fumbling with the keys, I finally managed to get the door open, jump inside and unlock the passenger door. Tina slipped casually next to me, somehow eerily oblivious of the situation and curiously pleased with herself. She was too calm, too relaxed. Slamming my foot on the accelerator, the tires burning in place, we fled the scene.

Then she started to laugh. I’ll never forget the insidious tone of that laughter. It was evil, sadistic and cruel. And it didn’t stop for some time: her head stuck out the window, the wind blowing her blond hair back from her face as if she was flying through the air like a broom less witch.

“Where do you want me to take you? Is there a particular hotel you had in mind?”

“I don’t care where you take me. It doesn’t matter now because I’m free at last. Free from your father – free to fly again!”

This woman had truly lost her mind. She brought her head back into the car and started to fiddle with the radio dials. After moving through several stations, she finally decided on a heavy metal one, turning the song to full volume.

Because of the amount of Scotch I had consumed the road seemed to ebb and flow like waves on the ocean. My vision started to blur as the pounding bass from the radio rattled my skull. It was then I lost control of the car.

Memories can come back to one in two forms: snippets, flashes or sporadic scenes influenced by the imagination, distorting reality, creating false images of what actually happened. Through years of social conditioning, I’ve come to understand the mind as a separate entity, repressing memories that affect one adversely, or changing the circumstances to suit one’s temperament, one’s capacity or strength to deal with the truth. The other kind of memory, the true kind, can return acutely, re-presenting the past, a segment of one’s history, with all the reality as if living the moment all over again. My memory of the accident lies in the second category, haunting my daily life – even in my dreams. Similar to one of those instant replays you see of a spectacular sporting moment on the television, the accident returns: played-out in slow motion, ensuring that I will never forget those terrifying twenty seconds.

The sounds of the accident echo loudly: the pounding bass and high pitched notes of the heavy metal song on the radio; the hysterical screams of my father’s wife as she was hurled through the windscreen like a bullet shot from a high powered rifle; the sickening scraping of metal impacting against metal. The sound that pains me the most, however, is the splintering shatter of glass, exploding in every direction. Then, of course, that deafening silence.

Why did she reach out and grab the steering wheel? Why did I violently wrench it out of her hand, guiding the car back into the path of the truck? It was the in-coming brightness of the headlights, cruelly zooming-in out of the night – the false light, blinding us to oblivion. Did I want to destroy us both? Again and again I see her thrown forward from the seat into and through the windscreen, the jagged edges of the glass cutting into her scalp, neck, shoulders – but most horrible of all, as her body hurls over the hood of the car, airborne in the night sky, she turns almost nonchalantly, her eyes peering into mine, her lips mouthing those unforgettable words: “It’s not your fault, Marcus.” She then slams against the windscreen of the truck, rolling off the hood and onto the road.

Did I simply imagine her saying those words to me? Because of my guilt, did the mind edit the memory; insert these macabre few seconds to alleviate my pain? Knowing what I know now, that is the underlying powers of the temporal world; the forces that determine our fate as human souls, my destiny, these words were indeed spoken. While her body was thrown violently through the air, she turned and uttered these words: “It’s not your fault, Marcus.”

The exploding impact of the vehicles colliding should have killed us both. I remained strapped in the seat, smoke and steam floating around me, hearing the sound of a distant siren. The body of the car had been utterly decimated. My body wedged between the dashboard and the seat, unable to move because the car had turned on its side. The last image is the many faces peering in at me through the wreckage: “Just remain still young man. We’ll have you out of there before you know it. Don’t move.”

The memory of the accident fades.



*

What I was told after waking from a three-day sleep in the hospital changed my life irrevocably. The information was enough to emotionally send any man to the pits of despair, guilt, and the undeniable wish to end it all. Suicide was a definite option. Blinding myself like Sophocles's Oedipus Rex, as a symbol that the truth is too terrible to bear, felt much too easy – a coward’s way out. “Not to be born, past all prizing, best.” A line the protagonist, Oedipus, states tragically, after discovering the awful truth.

A common scene: the patient opening their eyes to a white-clad doctor and nurse looking concerned but relieved that the person under their care has come to consciousness. The doctor had a kind face, a natural bedside manner that so many modern doctors lack: a genuine care for my physical as well as emotional well-being. Beside him stood the young nurse, appearing angelic because the light streaming through the window cast a white glow around her pretty head.

“Mr. Parks joins the land of the living. How are you felling?”

“I’m not really sure. My head aches and I can’t feel my legs.”

“That’s to be expected. Both your legs have compound fractures but we managed to repair them. If you don’t mind I’d like to check a few things.”

Removing a pin light from his coat, he shined the light in both my eyes.

“You have a slight concussion which again is to be expected considering the magnitude of the accident. You’re a lucky man, Marcus. Now, can you sit up for just a moment?”

The stethoscope felt cold against my back. Sitting up took a tremendous amount of effort and I was relieved to lie back down again. Suddenly the image of the accident poured into consciousness, and I remembered Cressida crashing through the windscreen.

“Can you tell me if Cressida is all right?”

Strangely the doctor and pretty nurse made eye contact with one another as if they were expecting the question. The nurse’s face turned pale while the doctor gritted his teeth and said: “ I’m sorry, Marcus, but your mother passed away in the crash.”

“I knew she was dead but I still wanted to ask. Anyway, Cressida is my stepmother – my real mother died many years ago.”

They made eye contact again, not with expressions of expectation, but of fear.

“Nurse, would you mind leaving Marcus and I alone for a few minutes.”

“Of course, doctor.” She turned around and walked through the door, closing it softly behind her.

He took a deep breath, clasping his hands together, and resting them on his lap.

“I have other bad news, Marcus.”

My mind began to reel. What could be worse than two compound fractures and a dead stepmother? What other bad news could he possibly tell me?

“The police are outside waiting to ask you a few questions.”

“Do they want to know about the accident?”

“Yes. But they also want to ask you about your father.”

“What about my father?”

“There is no easy way to tell you this, Marcus. I’m sorry, but your father is dead.”

Only those people who have experienced the unexpected death of a parent know the emptiness and numbing shock that is the result of receiving such news. I’ve known people to go into extreme denial, not accepting the fact and going on with their existence as if the dead loved one was still alive. Then, of course, there are those who accept the news and move into the mourning process appropriately and naturally. My situation seemed different. I was lying in hospital in pain, feeling responsible for my stepmother’s death, and now they tell me my father had passed on. I remember thinking: Is this some kind of test?

“How did he die?”

“I’m afraid he took his own life.”

“How?”

“He shot himself in the head with a 22. calibre hand gun. I’m really sorry, Marcus.”

Then it came back to me -the loud pop at the top of the stairs. Cressida was right. He did have a gun. The bastard didn’t shoot us but shot himself. You stupid bastard, I thought, you bloody stupid bastard.

“The police are just outside waiting to ask you a few questions. Do you feel up to it?”

“I don’t feel much up to anything at the moment.”

He stood up. “Fine, I’ll tell them to come back another time. Is that alright with you?”

“No it’s not. Tell them to come in. I want to get this over with.”


Two uniformed officers and a smartly dressed woman entered the room. Their expressions were sombre and professional. Obviously the woman was in charge because she ordered the two men to stand by the door as she approached the side of my bed. Her blond hair was cropped short accentuating her aristocratic facial structure: typical high cheekbones and cold-blue eyes. I remember thinking there was nothing soft about this woman at all.

“Mr. Marcus Parks?”

I nodded my head.

In a clipped, military manner, she explained the details surrounding my father’s death. A neighbour had become suspicious after hearing a loud retort next door and called the police. They gave a description of my car and an investigation ensued. There was no doubt in their minds that my father’s demise was self-inflicted, but they were curious as to what occurred just prior to his death. I was in no hurry to tell them what had actually transpired that night.

“So you’re saying that a difference of opinion between your mother and father caused you to take your mother out of the house? Did your father threaten your mother in any way?”

“No, but he was slightly drunk and Cressida didn’t want to take any chances.”

“I see.” She jotted something down on her little note pad.

“I’m curious. Have you always called your mother by her alias?”

“She’s not my mother, but my father’s wife. And what do you mean by alias?”

The detective began flipping the pages of her note pad in a nervous fashion. “I’m afraid I have some bad news.” Finally coming to the page intended, she read:

“Mrs. Janice Parks, alias Ms. Cressida Burton. Born 1952 in Melbourne Australia. Married one William Parks in Los Angeles California, 1974. Birth of one Marcus Parks in Los Angeles California, 1977. Janice Parks diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia by a Dr. James Bellow, 1980. Committed to a State Psychiatric Hospital, 1980. Released to the care of one Dr. Paul Fromm as an outpatient, 1995. Died February 2000 from massive head injuries due to car accident.”

She stopped reading and looked up from her notes. “I’m sorry you had to find out this way, but Cressida Burton was your biological mother.”

My initial reaction to this appalling revelation was purely physical: every ounce of blood rushed directly to my head. Water filled my eyes and my nose began to bleed. I wanted to run and hide but my legs were broken. There was nowhere to hide.

“Are you alright Mr. Parks?” Shouting to the officer’s behind: “Hurry, get the doctor! He’s having some kind of seizure! God damn it, get the doctor!”


Evidently I lapsed into another comma for a period of seven days. After coming out of this dead sleep, not surprisingly, I experienced a slight dose of amnesia. I could still remember my name, but as to the bare facts: unknowingly having sex with my biological mother, causing her death, and inadvertently causing my father’s suicide, these memories were banished to the depths of my unconscious. The in-built safety valves in the mind that most of us are lucky enough to have, in this case, worked like a charm. After about a month, however, the shells fell from my eyes and the facts presented themselves again.

Thus my journey into hell began.

There you go my friend; feedback would be highly appreciated.

Emotional State: Thoughtful.



Chapter Two.

TThere you go

Reflections on the Day.

A Beautiful evening in Melbourne.

A successful lecture this morning with the Year 12's, discussing the Russian October Revolution of 1917. Aside from his many failings, Lenin was certainly single minded and ruthless towards his goal to topple the Provisional Government. The charming Kerensky, residing in the Tsar's palace office and travelling through Petrograd like a medieval prince, certainly turned public opinion to the Bolsheviks. The charismatic Kerensky made many other mistakes, but his intended public personna as the new "Tsar" did not help his political position.

My students appeared interested today - which is always a bonus.

In class today, one of my more intelligent students stayed back after class, her concern was the panic attacks she has been experiencing because of the stress of being accepted or not accepted at Melbourne University. She wants to study law, and Melbourne University is the best Law School in the country. She wanted advise to alleviate her stress.

After a few questions, I discovered the poor girl has not been sleeping, staying up at night obsessively reading, writing...and sweating till the wee hours of the morning.

My advice was to see her doctor, explore other alternatives, because, from my own experience, she's on the road to destruction. And for such a beautiful and fine mind, this well could become a tragedy.

I'll follow up tomorrow and emphasise the point that medical help is advised.

She has a gift for philosophy and history and writes like an angel. This young seventeen year old has talent and the world would be a worse place without her.

Emotional State: Concerned.

Love & Betrayal

Most of my entries will seem disconnected and irrelevant. This is the point. As the title suggests, "musings" are a kind of rambling free-association of thought and ideas, seemingly having no connection. Life changes, circumstances travel, and the people we thought were our friends or loved one's, inadvertantly or intentionally, play with our hearts for their own unscrupulous ends. For me, today, is one such day.

As a writer, to be alone, when working, is a blessing. All too often the noise of reality seeps into one's thought processes, destroying the scene unfolding...and once returning to that particular moment is all but impossible, it has vanished forever. Writing can be (but not always) a selfish endevour. As time runs forward, the so-called real world becomes insignificant, and the reality of the tale is all that matters. I have always admired good writers who can maintain meaningful relationships, write and pay their bills on time. Something I am currently striving towards, because when one's "significant other' has had enough, believing that your world takes precedence over their's, trouble is inevitable.

To discover a betrayal, something that was the furthest thing from my mind, was devastating. Of course, having stumbled on the indiscretion by accident, made the whole experience that much more dramatic. I think the word is "blind-sided". Reflecting over the years, however, any aware individual would have seen it coming...

The cuckold husband is not a good space. Makes one feel like a total loser. Why? Because I should have seen it approaching; obviously all the signs were there, but I chose to remain in my work, writing, teaching, drinking, playing music, and believing life was a bed of roses. Talk about a wake-up call!

Love for someone is never enough. Love is a mutable phenomenon, ever changing, particulary, in this universe, ever changing, whimsical, fickle, directed, in essence, to the propagation of the human species.

But as a Romantic, pure biological explanations seem absurd.

"I love you but I cannot live with you anymore!"

Really she's saying, "I cannot live with you anymore, so deal with it and find another life."

Fair enough.

There is only a few constant's in this world: change, violence, pain kindness & love.

Emotion: Lost. Angst. Sad.

Iraq on Verge of Civil War - Bush Administration Denies

Despite the highest recorded road-side bombings and civilian and American deaths and injuries this year in Iraq, the Bush administration denies the country is in on the verge of civil war.

Acording to the New York Times, August 17, 2006,

"Senior Bush administration officials reject the idea that Iraq is on the verge of civil war, and state with unwavering confidence that the broad American strategy in Iraq remains on course. But American commanders in Iraq have shifted thousands of soldiers from outlying provinces to Baghdad to combat increased violence in the Iraqi capital."

According to documented sources, Sunni Arab militias and Shiiite militants, continue their violent efforts against American military and Iraqi civilians.

The toll is rising on a daily basis, revealing a failed strategy by the Bush Administration to establish a democratic government.

Bagdad's violence in the streets has doubled, and civilian casualties are at its highest since the occupation began.

It is the opinion of many that the Iraqi occupation has been handled incompetently, the reconstruction plans falling short, as the government and American military underestimated the Shiite militias retaliation to the occupation.

The Bush administration lied to the American people and the international community for their reasons to invade Iraq, (WMD'S), and currently denies the quagmire that this war has become.

Despite the billions of tax dollars to continue the occupation, American and innocent deaths are rising to all time highs, and a democratic Iraqi republic is looking more and more like a pipe dream.

Rather than deny the mounting deaths and failures in Iraq, the Bush adminstration should state the facts and develop a strategy for total American withdrawl.

Though other "unknown" agenda's by the Bush administration appears to be their priority despite the death tolls rising.

Iraq has become a quagmire of unnecessary deaths akin to Vietnam.

Prologue to my Novel...

I wanted to post the prologue to my novel, and if it would possibly grab the potential reader's attention and motivate them to continue. I have no working title as yet, however, its central theme is the recovery of the protagonist's true identity.

PROLOGUE

The strange has become the mundane. Nothing can surprise us anymore. Not anything, it seems, has the capacity to astonish, to excite us, to make us believe in the possibility of the miraculous. Cynicism is the new social pose.

A young man, over time, slowly conditioned to a shallow state of cynicism through the television and film. Later, as a university student, searching for a greater high in drugs, sex and dangerous sporting activities – the ultimate adrenalin rush to experience something meaningful, something with definition, anything to make me feel like an individual of importance, a person above the fray. We all want to be special. The media tells us so. But as I grew older, these feelings became less intense, and I realized these grandiose dreams were a symptom of youth. It was time to grow up and be a contributing member of the community. Conformity was the key to my success. To be different was to be an outcast. One had to move with the flow, follow the crowd and always do the ‘right’ thing. This is called being safe. Always knowing what you are doing from one minute to the next, one day to the next. Surprisingly, moving into this way of life was quite simple. After changing my course degree at university from art history to business accounting, everyone from my father to my girlfriend at the time, praised the decision – the boy is finally growing up – and my life generally became a set of carefully laid out calculations and balance sheets. Predictable and safe: until the accident.

Guilt is a powerful emotion. That necessary sense of right and wrong had always been a stable and clear trait of mine. As a child I would cry myself to sleep for stealing a piece of fruit from the grocery store. So to be responsible for the death of another human being was totally unthinkable. But it happened. I killed someone. It was an accident, but I murdered her just the same. Even now, years later, the pangs of guilt can strike out of nowhere and without warning. I could be ordering a meal in a restaurant and the waitress will remind me of her: a simple mannerism, an expression in the eye, sending me plummeting to the valley of guilt. But as my mother used to tell me, there is a silver lining in every dark cloud. My silver lining, however, turned out to be pure gold.

When I think back to the chain of events leading up to the accident, my conscious mind attempts to shut down, the hard drive moves into crash mode. It is similar to watching a bad film and any effort to change the channel is futile. The film continues to run, over and over, and there’s nothing I can do to prevent it from continuing. Although there is a reason my mind relentlessly pushes these memories in my face. It is to remind me that with every tragedy come special gifts... in my case, the most powerful, all persuasive ability that could ever be bestowed on a human being. It is an ability that the human being has wished for since the beginning of time.


This may sound like a grand and absurd claim. But is it not written somewhere that one must travel through the depths of hell before being permitted entry into paradise? This cliché was certainly true for me. I committed three of the most hideous sins, one on top of the other, and was hurled into a world that one can only imagine. I keep asking myself: Was I destined to receive this wonderful gift or simply a victim of haphazard circumstances out of my control? Maybe this is the reason I’m confessing my story now through the written word: to find the reason for my great fortune.

I can hear you asking the question: What all pervasive ability and power is he talking about? Before defining this power, let me first confess the three sins that led to the chain of happenings ending in my enlightenment. The unadulterated hell I had to experience in order to move amongst the gods. Once you hear my story, then you can decide for yourselves. I only ask one thing of you: open your mind to the possibility - have patience. By doing so, you might also have the opportunity to learn these esoteric lessons. Through hearing my story, you too might find yourselves in a position to become a true initiate of the mysteries and secrets of existence.


CHAPTER ONE

Who would have known that a simple telephone call to my father from a deserted pay...

More to come...

Emotional State: peaceful

Motivation, writing fiction and reviews...

A cool, crisp morning.

No time this week to write on any of my on-going projects. In fact, to be quite honest, my motivation to do anything is really at an all time low. Rather than go into detail, let me say that we all, at one time or another, experience lows...this too will pass.

My novel has come to a stand still, wavering in purgatory at the end of chapter 15. In this situation the answer has always been to write, and keep writing until the various threads of the story tie together, and the plot falls back into line. This book has really written itself, coming to an end of a writing session to be amazed at the material, and wondering where it came from.

The genre of the tale touches upon a supernatural thriller combined with philosophical thoughts about the nature of existence, metaphysical, ontological, from the main character, Marcus Parks. There are religious overtones coupled with the occult - a good vs. evil tale with a twist. If possible, I'll publish a chapter or two on this BLOG, and request feedback from friends and readers...anything to get the ball rolling again.

Completed a strange tale, a short story, back in May, titled "Gnome". Feedback was mixed, as none of the characters, including the main character, are very likable human beings. However, finished another short story in April, titled, "Josephine and the Fallen Horse", which got great feeback, despite it being one of the most "normal" stories that I've ever written. This goes to illustrate that the author can never really be the best judge of their work.

I have been an amature book & film critic for some time now. My reviews can be seen on Amazon.com, somewhere around 320, having reached the status of Top 500 Reviewer. Criticism, for me at least, is much easier than writing fiction. It takes much less energy and effort.

To see my reviews go to: http://www.amazon.com/gp/pdp/profile/A3OEECMCM2T4KQ/ref=cm_aya_pdp_home/104-5958347-2355115

This will take you to my "profile" and access to all my reviews.

Onwards.

Strange days indeed...

A birthday celebration for my boy tonight, Sam. A 16 year old going on 45, a boy who is, beyond all other aspects of his character, a kind soul.

A beautiful day in Melbourne; spring has arrived early, and the scent of Lilacs fill the air as I drive along Whitehorse Road to another day in the classroom.

The scent and warmth of spring always creates feelings of sentilmentality, memories of early love's, early times of friendship and meaning - happiness.

Driving closer to the campus, one wonders how and why some of these poor children have the strenght to survive! But they do, and they continue to front up to school...
beyond all the hoopla, interest in their lives and a genuine care goes a long way.

I want all of them to do well, which pulls me out of bed every morning.

A sentimental night.

Tomorow some thoughts on politics!

Emotion: Weary...and hope.

Day One

This is only the beginning.

The purpose of this BLOG is to express my thoughts and views on politics, philosophy, literature and current affairs. As I'm currently residing in Australia, observations of the culture and politics of this interesting country will, no doubt, fill these pages. However, having spent my childhood and, for the most part, educated in Denver, Colorado, my opinions on American politics and affairs will also be expressed.

As a writer of short stories and about to finish my first novel, excerpts will be revealed.

My profession is school teaching, particularly upper middle school and Year 12. My key learning area is history, world history, thus these pages should reflect this knowledge, comparing the past with the present.

It is currently raining in Melbourne, it has been a long day. I'm feeling tired but it's a good tired after a productive and creative 16 hours.

My cat's are sleeping and Chopin plays silently in the background...a good place to end