Criticism. Essay. Fiction. Science. Weather.
1A piece removed. 2Come eat it.
Or don't. 3Wine, Shoulder, Bolt, Socket. 4Mothbombs 5On the road with your only soul. 6One woman's trash is another woman's treasure 7Aliens! Right here in America! 8It's not as crazy as it sounds
or, music is as music does 91) Sign.
2) Hope for the best. 10A friendship in a bottle. 11A five-year-old tries his hand at action adventure. 12Will the circle be unbroken. 1390ways' first Quaterly Review rages on:
2 samples of Fiction. 14Muscles and fat.
A thin layer of sweat. 15Fiction goes serial.
Part 1 has sex and drugs.
You know you want to stay tuned. 16Our fiction serial concludes to cure your
vertigo from last week's cliff-hanger. 17An iced-out 21-speed sensation: The Moves are
all up on your handlebars. 18We're all in this together.
Except those bastards in administration. 19Jilted, laughed at,
and in the air. 20Swirling and swirling... 21You can't make yourself like them, but you have to pretend because they are your family. 22How well do jewel cases retain odor?
About as well as you stink. 23It's black and white. It's old world.
It's photo time. 24Piggy calls, wanting to sell you insurance.
This is what's on the other end of the line. 25A long pause, then, 26Fiction's Second Qaurterly Review
can speak Italian. 27It's only bread, after all. 28It's job search time at 90ways. 29George W. Bush's resting heart rate and a bum in a green sweater. 30Antique weaponry and teenage angst.
Together at last. 31One-hundred-fifty-three syllables
of October fun. 32there is only
self 33She's cold to the touch.
Cold and pebbly. 34Gut-wrenching love.
And wallabies. 35Building a habit out of ivies and orange flowers. 36A 90ways exclusive sneak peak at the
new and groundbreaking Alphabet Book. 37Type it with one hand and
see what happens 38A face any susbsitence farmer could love. 39The Quarterly Review: read it again for the third time. 40For every task, someone is the best.
Sometimes that's impressive. 41I didn't get a computer;
I moved to Indiana. 42A piece removed. 4390ways has new concerns about identity theft. Lock up the children and your sense of self. 44time. eyes. deep sighs. 45I know there's a place 4690 stars are born. 47I had to ask. 48It's about sex.
But isn't that always the way with classical music? 49The epistolary form in the 21st century.
Complete with neuroses and unpunctuation. 50There is no end to the party. 51Rockin to the sweet sounds of prepared food. 52Of or pertaining to. 53Including spaces, this blurb is 90 characters. Ways, words, characters. It is a leitmotif. 54Minnesota. Miami. Poetry in 90ways' Fiction.
It's the best of all worlds. 55It lives and breathes and is hungry for carnival food. 56A piece removed. 57The curtain is being pulled back... 58Up in the Fiction house! It's a bird. It's a plane.
It's an illustralogue! 59The hat, in all honesty, is a private matter. 60Putting up with all the doth. 6190words strike terror into the hearts of the longwinded. 62Return of the illustralogue! 63Take one down, pass it around,
blow your nose. 64A piece removed. 65The First Quarterly Review wants
you to meet its little friend. 66From our servers to your ear buds!
It's misguided enthusiasm, in podcast form! 67Questions for the man himself.
Plus, the podcast adventure continues. 68No one would ever use Starbucks
to define their identity. Right... 69Don't you remember the rose clipped under my windshield wiper like a butterfly under a pin? 70Oh, it's nothing.
Oh, it's life-threatening disease. 71It's not you. It's me.
And my Eurasian captors.
72Root, root, root for the brisk
sale of anything possible. 73Look within the very bowels of the soul.
Or at least your mother. 74We're not strangers any more. 75He knows of what he speaks. 76I find that often times I'm quite
mature enough to enjoy a few beverages. 77He is licking me.
I don't like it one bit. 78Our favorite stuff is coming 'round the mountain, again. 79A wooden-back brush and a homemade bowl of oatmeal. 80A man's home is his... 81Fack to the Buture. 82This dude pulled back on his nose
and mucus and unleashed a city. 83The polls are in. 93% of respondents do not approve of the monkeybone lodged in their lower lip 84Like a thirsty man in the desert 85Taxpayer dollars wasted on broken egg. News at eleven. 86She loves her red octopus.
She will chew it to death. 87Bubbling, gurgling, fighting a moment to stay afloat. 88Molting our pasts into the air... 89The Return of 90 Words 90It comes but once a... ever. 91Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's, the end of the Fiscal Quarter. 92The 540 word circle is now unbroken. 93An emptying out of the animus, perceived as tranquility
94All roads lead to South Dakota. Or at least the I-90 does, anyway. 95He laid down his whittling knife and he and his brother took up arms in rage. 96Drinking manhattans made with a good bourbon, and strong. 97Living white and pudgy, I never expected much for myself. Now, I could tell that was true. 98A few gestural lines towards the thought of death. 99Rest in peace.
I know I will. 100And then we played baseball and then we played army and then we were best friends. 101We torn holes in sheets and became ghosts for each other's pleasures. 102I looked at the pictures of you, twenty years old,
sometimes skinny and sometimes your face a soft moon.
103Fingers clutching little trinkets of the day... 104All roads lead to South Dakota. Or at least the I-90 does, anyway. 105Everywhere signs of an interstice arriving. 106What you see and what you believe are two different things. 107It was as if a million literary ghosts poured from its pages, moaning to be set free. 108So what if too many times we have been here, both
lost in our machinations...
The Living Account
I have hung juries. In 37 states, I have nearly established residency. I have watched most of all of everything on television. I can say hello in 8 languages. There is no end to my mastery of outlining pictures. For many years I have made my living as a classic novel abridger. I take my vacations at the public pool. I have darned hundreds of socks. I have a white belt in four different martial arts and credit hours at 2 prestigious universities. I put the weight back on. No one applies milk to cereal better than I. And last year, I wrote a screenplay.
Sometimes my screenplay seemed to write itself. Most times it was a heart wrenching and soul shattering process. I purchased several books on screenwriting and the forewords made it clear that my undertaking would not be an easy one, so I was not surprised when my heart wrenched and my soul shattered. No, I was prepared.
At all times I kept next to me a journal. In this journal I recorded both ideas for my screenplay and my reactions and emotions as I wrote the screenplay. I have taken to calling it The Living Account. It records. It reflects. It breathes. It is a freeform picture of an artist at work. It is a mirror which I can use to look back at my creative process. What is really stunning is that this mirror, this reflection of art, has become art itself.
Please send corn dogs. Am suddenly seized by love of them. Too full of carnival goodness to resist. Quirks are the fruit of life. They are my mana. My main character cannot live on water alone. Enter his quirks. A feast of quirks. A gorging. And since I am dealing with an economy of words they will be literal and figurative. Always eating corn dogs. Everyone loves the man always eating corn dogs. He is a national phenomenon. Behold his glory. Everyone eats corn dogs. They toss off the tired stigma of carnival food and reemerge as neo-beatnik staples. The snapping of the food world.
Here is something that would not surprise me: My screenplay (already nearly finished) gets made into a successful film generating a devoted following. In the wake of that initial, if somewhat mundane, success The Living Account gets published by a small, daring press. While initially ignored by the public, critics and academics are floored, for the reasons outlined above. Slowly but steadily, the importance of The Living Account becomes apparent, even within the mainstream, and in casual conversation my name is linked with those of Kepler, Darwin, Freud, Einstein. I am not at all sure I want any of this to happen (while I am still alive) but it will not surprise me.
Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Main character in desperate need of relationships. Similar to myself and inspiration. Caught in minutia. Psychology behind corn dogs. Psychology behind relationships. Actions are motivated. Plot will write itself when relationships are in place. Man who loves corn dogs also loves...blondes. Is that it? Redheads. And... conspiracy. Yes. The rush of relief from the rush of ideas. This is what love is. Not just of corn dogs, but of humanity. It feels like this. This rush. This undamming. This is love. This is how my main character feels about corn dogs, blondes, redheads, and conspiracy. Action issues from this kind of passion. Not vice versa. I was right to start here.
Just looking again at The Living Account makes me sweat. I cannot decide if it makes for what can only be described as compulsive reading or if it makes for what can only be described as thoughtful reading. I have to admit that there were days when I did not want to work on the screenplay (tentatively entitled Blonde Dog X) but did anyway just as an excuse to etch out a few more bold cantos of The Living Account.
There. Is. No. Love. But. The. Love. Of. A. Good. Corn Dog. So sayeth I. So sayeth my main character. But my, how we have become intertwined. It hurts to turn off my computer. There is a wrenching of two linked souls. Last week I only wrote love scenes. If I look too long at my monitor my eyes burn as if it were the sun. I cannot shrink from this ferocious light! Ooooh. The exclamation point. The exclamation mark! It is just what I need to add punch to my dialogue. I'm off again!
The Living Account stirs my soul and my bowels. When I add the final few cantos (already forming in my mind!) It will be a truly complete work. I am not proud of it. I am only awed by it. When I wrote it, and even now, its power was almost draining. I need to take a rest. Now is probably the perfect time to write the Introduction to the Second Edition.
I have written The Living Account.