Content: art

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THIS IS A REWRITE OF, The Devil's Handshake. I edited it down from 7900 words to 5600 words. This is for my, TEN SHORT STORIES, TEN SCREENPLAYS project. (On my third one of ten). ≈≈≈I owned a Weimaraner for 12 years. My favorite type of dog, a lot like me in personality, lol.. ≈≈≈ I cut so much that I may not have correct ted/rewritten 100%. ≈≈≈≈

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This is a short piece of prose that I wrote for a Creative Writing unit a few years ago. It's been a hit thus far so I thought I'd post it on here and see what sort of feedback I receive. It was an observation assignment in which we had to choose a particular type of person from a list, go out and observe one of these people in the real world and then record our observations. I chose 'observe a drug addict' because it was particularly close to home for me at the time.

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First, I apologize for the irregularities of meter and rhyme in this thing. Secondly, I apologize for posting it on this most serious and erudite of writing sites. And finally, a little explanation. For several years I worked on this thing as a country song and then as a poem. It's hard to see the investment of intellect and dedication, I know, but it's there. Or here. This is especially for Memphis Trace. Comments always welcome. Please be gentle.

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Trying to capture a sight during a drive October 30th... It was really magic as Autumn hued leaves were being stripping from the maples trees and swirling around us like huge colorful snowflakes. Monet's Haystacks came to mind. I tried to capture it. I hope I did it justice. Started in older English but ran it by Jlb and he suggested I go with my other version of modern language. Thanks Jim.. Any and all feedback

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Contests are great motivator. I feel the need to preface this by saying I've been reading Stephen King lately. So, too creepy? Are you surprised at the end? Worried about my sanity? Bring on the comments! Thanks for reading :)

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Started a drying paint story, but it came out a poem about painting. And a rather odd one at that. Does it make sense? Or is it too arty? lol ≈≈≈≈ Invented word - clingering = lingering and clinging. ≈≈≈≈ Thanks - måx

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Another experiment. Comments welcome.

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I've always thought that abstract poetry, like abstract painting, could be tossed off easily and since the rules are so vague as to be non-existent, who could say what was good or bad. Then I started looking into the work of some poets who collaborated with abstract visual artists and discovered that I might have been making false conclusions without real knowledge. Finally I decided to write something, as I usually do. So after several periods of mind clearing meditation I plopped myself down in front of a painting by a guy named Kandinsky called On White2. This is the result. Comments are welcome.

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REVISE 09.22.11 ) THANKS - måx ≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈

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REVISE 09.22.11

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An 8K word story posted in two parts by necessity, but best read continuously. A captive audience in a New York restaurant is told a story by an old waiter. How does the story within a story format work? How's the pace, characterization? All feedback appreciated.

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Conclusion of an 8K word story. Same as part 1. I would appreciate input on pace, characterization, how story within a story works or not.

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Trying to read and understand some modern poets inspired this little poem. Comments welcome.

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A painter experiences a rush of inspiration

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A Sixth Grade Art Class in Oakland PA. 1940:

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This one hit me before my first cup of coffee. I was just staring out the window on a beautiful morning. It flew into my mind and time stopped long enough so I could write it down.

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A couple weeks ago I ran into an old friend, a musician, playing in a small bar in a small town. He's quite an accomplished player and singer, though he never had more than regional success. He plays blues and rock with his current band but he can hold his own in many other genres. This poem is for him and, in a sense, about him.

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Yesterday I had fun! Silly piece for those who know my beserkness. Not a word but that is fitting! This is a piece I have been working on for weeks and struggling. I am afraid it shows but tweaked it a bit last evening. When one does a piece in honor of another to me it should represent their best. Is this there? No! Will it ever be? Not sure it is possible. Why this piece of art has so moved me I haven't a clue unless it is the darkness this man lived in at times and my own small pits I have visited. Serious input is welcomed. Sometimes that open the mind to see your own work more clearly and can tweak the thinking.

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An idea that I had - possibly for a longer story, possibly for a novella/poetry combination thing, possibly as something to be filed away. Comments regarding those possibilities are welcome as are any other thoughts.

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On my walk today I wondered about all the great men and women who had original ideas and this idea literally unrolled into my head very much as it appears here. The force was with me writing as Obi Wan then the evil side invaded my mind and I lost control, or was it visa-versa?

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I saw a sketch at a local sidewalk art sale some time ago and made some notes. This is the resulting poem. Comments welcome, as always.

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All feedback welcomed

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The grottos of New York City can be a terrifying place for any twenty-five year old, especially for a recent Ivy League drop-out, especially when you’ve been spoon-fed caviar since the cradle. In his final year at Amherst, Ethan Elliot—privileged heir to the QuikClean dynasty—flees New England, abandons a promising future at a top financial firm and moves into a loft on the outskirts of Williamsburg, Brooklyn in hopes of finding something “greener.� What he finds is anything but. Instead, he’s hurtled far from the boroughs of New York on a life-altering, cross-country, roller-coaster ride into the bowels of Middle America with Jules and Wolfgang, his just-as-lost tour guides, each of them towing their own trunk-full of emotional “drag-age.� They take off in a derelict Chevy Chevelle expecting to find Jules’ deceased biological mother, Lisa; themselves, and the world they once knew. What they don’t expect is to be taken hostage by a schizophrenic family member that none of they have ever met. However, it’s not until they come upon Lisa’s Law: an edict of good will penned by the namesake to “make a long-lasting impression on at least one other life, for the better� that the central theme begins to surface. The Law of Lilies is a character driven, coming of age story about forgiveness, survival, and our redemption as a human race. It takes the reader through Ethan’s slapdash, and often times frightening view of today’s America. But more than simply a story about a character’s fruition; at approximately 60,000 words, it’s a challenge to the reader to make the world a more beautiful place, regardless of the ugliness of one’s past. Thrid round draft. Looking for any advice: creative, technical, what have you.

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IF YOU'RE JUST STARTING THIS NOVEL, PLEASE GO TO THE ORIGINAL POSTING --ECHOSIS--AS THE FINAL DRAFT IS BEING CONTINUED THERE. IF YOU'VE NOT COMPLETED THE 17 CHAPTERS HERE, GO TO THE ORIGINAL, AS THE REDUX CHAPTERS HAVE BEEN POSTED THERE, AND FROM 17 ON, ALL REVISED CHAPTERS WILL CONTINUE WITH THAT LISTING. THANK YOU.

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Given continuous "same ol'" headlines, here are some additional thoughts as the working class and artists alike continue to wade through the Grand Guignol of economics and ethical decay in this country.

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A short novel about a tragic romantic triangle. Carla, Tom, Steven...Two will die. Note: the reviews, good and bad, were made about an earlier Chapter 1. So please deal just with the story as it is now. (Novel is finished; I'm doing a global edit; so I put part of it on this site to get feedback.)

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In Boston the new museum of contemporary art displays avante garde exhibits, some of them rather baffling. I visited recently with ten friends from Western Mass. Boats sail outside the big glass wall and the airport can be seen across the water. That's Logan, where terrorists once boarded planes to wreck some lives and landmarks.

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With so many new members to the site--many of which have proven excellent writing and critiquing can be a superb empowering energy--I wanted to offer a refreshed Echosis for their keen eyes. I am most appreciative of any suggestions that can improve this dedication to the struggle and determinination of today's artists. --- Is imagination under siege...the quiet focus of 21st century terrorism. ---- From Wall Street to Oil and Health industries, control-mongers pose a threat that knows no boundaries. What aspect of life might be next to experience its influence? The Media? The Arts? Perhaps, both. ---- Because of its subject matter, I am continuing the effort to keep Echosis timely and relevant. Believing WE ARE ALL CREATIVE, the story explores the consequences of a world where the threat of a global strike by artists of all disciplines brings the brokers of art, entertainment and the media to their knees. Reminiscent, in part, of NETWORK and its plea for a public to speak out rationally, in anger if necessary, Echosis chronicles the growth of NYC sculptor and visionary, Derek Turrel, and the obstacles he encounters in trying to hold onto his integrity. ---- AS A RESPECTFUL REQUEST, PLEASE START ANY REVIEWING WITH CHAPTER ONE.

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