Click on magazine at end of blog post, for original source of dictionary and more. I’m not claiming copyright here, and I don’t think there is much of any. But if the person who originally copy edited the words wants, I will take the picture words down and then take the hour to copy edit them again. lol. This is for fun man, ya dig?
Book might be republished in the future. Needs some major editing. Was at a low point in my life when I was drafting it. But before I write out something new about my favorite President, thought I’d share. PS. Thanks Obama. I’ll take a swell, to a job well done.
A REAL BOOK. COMING SOON!
(first sample, then questions)
Social media and neural networks, the evolution of artificial intelligence and what intelligence means, what makes up an intelligent being? The possible evolution, and or, the changing concept of death connected to a more technological driven human culture, keeping family members alive through mediated projects, such as three dimensional avatar creation, correlating networks into an artificial likeness of a loved one now dead. Shared like a tweet, or a picture book, that is stored in the new library of Alexandria named the cloud. What does this mean, and how could this impact our culture? In not just relation to dead and living, but our emotional pallet which has stayed pretty much the same for thousands of years? Also, in relation to job creation and the future of the reporter and data collector? How will this impact the future of the journalist and the freelance writer?
A new short story collection, is coming soon, written by Andrew H. K.
(when you’re a young writer, or maybe they did, you just wouldn’t have listened to them anyway, because you’re a rock & roll star: A random guide made on the go, for other humans that like making books with words. By Andrew H. Kuharevicz)
One: Making a book takes a long time. Years not days or weeks. Like you used to believe when you got your first typewriter and wrote nonstop for a week, making a narrative about your travels down to Saint Pete for three days, one of them stuck in the Atlanta bus terminal, inspired by the totality of an obsession, to be a great American author and nothing else, later to copy edit into a friend’s computer, staying up for three more days in the Florida heat, then believing you’re the second coming of Jack Kerouac and not bothering to justify the paragraphs, or even care to spell correct or any of the professional mumbo jumbo sorta’ things, that a human being who likes words, should do when they’re making a book. Because you already have a *gnarly (when you’ve gone beyond radical, beyond extreme, it’s balls out danger, & or perfection, & or skill or all of that combined) cover that a good friend made and a bunch of words, and so you think the book is good to go, a real classic. But then as y0u get older you find out that the book needs time to grow, just like you, and that the mistakes you find later on negate the finished product, almost entirely. Remember, making books, takes a long time. For example, I’m working on one now, only a hundred and thirty pages, give or take, 41,532 words, and I’ve been working on it for three years. Making books is like gardening. You have to—wait—for the harvest, before you can farm the produce, and still, you have to wait, you have to work, you have to sleep and wake up over and over again, because it takes many steps before you can sell it at the market. Making books takes a long time. Don’t believe the fabricated image. There’s no big bang. Only a slow cook. Thank you for reading. THE END.
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(Taken from the Book, By Andrew K. called, Summer of Chaos. Go HERE TO BUY. Copyright of WEST VINE PRESS USA.May not be shared or linked to any webpage without permission. Leave a message in the comment section of you wish to do so. Thank you for reading)
“Truth is stranger than fiction, but it is because Fiction is obliged to stick to possibilities; Truth isn’t.”
(Taken from the Book, By Andrew K. called, Summer of Chaos. Go HERE TO BUY. Copyright of WEST VINE PRESS USA.May not be shared or linked to any webpage without permission. Leave a message in the comment section of you wish to do so. Thank you for reading)
An Experimental Novel, Coming Soon…
From an experimental novel by Andrew H. Kuharevicz, ‘Summer of Chaos’. Out Soon. Printed in two editions. Trade paperback, with streamlined layout for the traditional reader, or expanded edition, reading like the original journal with 40 pages of pictures taken on the road around today’s modern american scene. Published by West Vine Press
(I suppose this could be labeled as an old school writer’s notebook entry)
After cleaning my place and washing dishes, made some coffee and took a shower. I’d say that it was about half an hour of mental prep work in order to calm down and get to the place where I could comfortably edit.
About an hour and twenty minutes I was working on my novel. My vision was the story and the words were the senses, and it did take a while but I got back to where I needed to be. There was the sound of random steps of pauses then steps of the fingers typing. Never sure but then you have to be sure if there will ever be an end.
There are so many decisions all asked at once. No. This is good, just good enough, forget about the words and style and let the story be itself, detached from the control of the mind, and it sounds funny, but this is what it takes for the inside fan to become one with the outside arctic wind.
I was there, at real nice quiet point, and then as I was moving to the next paragraph I hear four gun shots, then one more, a total of five divided by point three or so seconds of separation, it’s a real motive pull of the trigger, no rifle range, no American boys be boys Sunday evening target practice, and when I heard it—it sounded like it came from right outside my window cause’ my desk is next to the big one near the back towards the woods, and so I couldn’t write anymore and I thought about calling nine one one and telling them, but for some reason decidedly I figure just wait it out and turn off the lights, hope for everything to settle down.
Half pissed at existence for interrupting me, I was upstairs in the dark looking out the window down towards the street looking at the panels of long church window reflections all at once as a couple of cop cars drive slowly by and then circle around, and then it’s quiet again and dark.
It has now been less than Fifteen minutes, and I’m still standing there when there’s more squad cars crawling down the street and an ambulance and now it looks like Christmas lights in a mirror and I can’t really write anymore but I have to because I have to finish the book.
And being a writer isn’t easy, and as you get older there’s no coffee talk and silent university walls. There’s you and there’s the society out there—that you’re hoping to capture a glimpse of with prose, and then, when random things like this happen, part of you wants to run over to the scene of the crime without hesitation, like you did when you were younger, maybe to help, but you know you couldn’t. Because it’s over. What’s been done is done. But still you think about going outside, if only to see if you got close, to what you thought it would be like, even, if you don’t know what that is.
But you can’t, because you don’t know what’s out there, and you have this instinct inside of you that tells ya’, that if you die, well then you won’t get your work done, and it’s sad, because right now, sometimes, it feels as if that’s the only thing you care about. Completing the painting.
The sound of a gun is a scream of madness. It sends chills down my spine and (if it turns out to be reported) it’s the third killing (or attempted one) I’ve been within a short proximity to in the past four months. And I don’t like it. It’s not material. It’s a sickness. It’s bullshit. I don’t know. Maybe it is normal and everyone is desensitized or have moved out but me. And I know that’s not true, but maybe, it’s time to try and be an adult author and see if I can get a nice coastal residency. One not in the middle of a postindustrial war. Just great. More wishing well literary dreams of being relevant, and in the end, probably nothing more than hours of stamped paperwork that nobody will read.
Maybe this is where I belong. Maybe this is the writer I will always be. But whatever the future will materialize into nothing will ever surprise me more than the insanity of our species, and so below is what I was working on when the shots rang my nerves, and instead of coffee now there is beer and typing this nonsense instead of pacing before what I’m sure will be a restless night of trying to get to sleep.
These words are taken from a novel that I’m working on called The Fear & The Going. As always, Thanks For Reading.
This is taken from a novel I wrote and released in the summer. It is called, From Far Out There. It is a mess of a pretty good book. I regretfully edited it in a messy and very small kitchen of a house that I was crashing in located inside of a town I just ended up in after I had to get off the bus. Overall, it was a necessary step to take I think as a writer, and it’s a good read, and so on this numerical sequence on the calender I was reminded of this section in From Far Out There, that is half and half based on what did go down. But as Hemingway said, it could be, truer than true. Enjoy. If you want to buy a copy of From Far Out There, go HERE!
Another Day In May. ?. Fiction Theory. Summer Notebook. 2014. Page Nine Of Second Moleskine. Written By A.H.K. Draft Proofs. West Vine Press.
THE MEMORY OF a brain never skips a beat. There’s no such thing as a hangover. Slowly in silence it all comes back. I remember everything.
End day and new night, and the three of us, Conrad, me and Slaughter, were sitting a bar called Taxidermy and a girl asked, “You want tequila?”
End night and new day, and this happened, maybe or maybe it is fiction…still, I remember everything. I wrote it all down.
Tequila. That’s all it took and bam. After the tequila there was a stranger who said he was a Celtic folklore from the wilderness. His beard looked like it was made out of grass and twigs and he was always plucking a banjo or playing out of tune metal solos on an unplugged electric guitar, and after the tequila, there was a week of raves and hallway sit-downs and bathroom speakeasies, there was unrehearsed hip hop in garages and in the rain and there was college students and business men and women and doctors and nurses and veterans of wars, and some of them were playing with hula-hoops and chains made out of fire, and there was a house behind the university, and it rested directly down the hill in the backyard of the biggest graveyard in the city, and for seven days, there was punk and it rained tequila, and she had a pickup full of it, and after the tequila there was seven days of monster trucks and broken porches and broken talks and broken screen doors, and for seven days there was tequila, and the tequila wouldn’t run out for seven days, and this happened, probably, and the memory of a brain never skips a beat. There’s no such thing as a hangover.
New day and new night on little to no sleep. Seven days of tequila and across the street there were young kids with their young drugs and everyone was dancing and after she asked us if we wanted tequila there was a harmony with the nature of good times, and everything was forgotten, and in seven days everything that happened before the first day would be remembered, but not for seven days, and it was Sunday and I woke up alone in the driver’s seat of a car that wasn’t mine. Slaughter was somewhere in the Upper Peninsula and I was locked out of the rental’s floor that I was sleeping on and Conrad was missing in action. It was Sunday. I don’t like Sundays, never have and I don’t know why, and I was sad because it was a new day and it was almost summer and my life was almost chaos. Total chaos…
It’s cold and I didn’t even finish one of my last cigarettes, and I cant afford to waste the vice to my addiction, but I think I zoned out and a new song is playing. It’s john Lennon and he said he found out that there’s no guru who can see through you…
I found out. I found out. John Lennon Found out, and I think I found out too, something, I found out something…I think…
Wait. Same day. I zoned out again looking at willows shadow on woods lake, like hand puppets at night under lantern in bug tent near lake Michigan. I found out…no…
The song by john Lennon is over and next it is M…I…C…K…E…Y….Mickey Mouse. It’s one of the last tracks from the clockwork…no, the full metal jacket soundtrack from the Stanley Kubrick film. The scene where the young american battalion is walking side by side with flame throwers through a town that is on fire at night. Everything is burning and they look terrified with who they are and what they are doing and what they are seeing, and for the most part they are kids, all in their early twenties, and as they walk with helmets and boots and look close to sickness and losing their minds, and as they walk in the fire storm of what was the home of children before the war, there are no enemies, only their thoughts and the darkness and the fire and the voices that are heard on screen as they sing M….I…C…K…E…Y Mickey mouse. And near the fade out to black one of the soldiers is thinking about some girl and the innocent smell of her sexual desire, and he found out, and what he found out, I’m not sure, but he found out, there’s no doubt about that, and mickey mouse is the sad song that will get them through the night, because its the only song all the troops can remember.
as I’ve already said (see below for old notes) this is just a raw demo of a short book I’m working on for preparation reasons.
“Started to take mental notes for The Future Book Of War. I think ill have to write many short stories before i even get to the novel. one will focus on a major offensive in Rome and then what the vets do after the war is over. the year will be set in 2021 to 2027. The last book in the adventures of a dying young man series“
(working title for yet to be named short story collection based in the world of Henry Oldfield
Written and intellectual property of Andrew H. Kuharevicz
Unnumbered Time Lapsed Letter A
Henry sat like a Sunday school student with his hands folded at his desk and he was bored and like when he was a child there was nothing more and nothing less. He sunk into his subconscious and did not care about anything, and it wasn’t late but not like that mattered either. There was something though, and He couldn’t write another word. He felt ashamed for the amount of sound that he made when he wrote his dumb books. That’s what Pel called them, back…oh just back then. It was a joke now. It wasn’t then. Nothing was a joke even though many people laughed at the tragedy as it played out in real time, but now it didn’t matter because who cared where she was. Time moved. He grew. Henry was a man of repetition, of inspiration, of sunrises and sun sets, and he once knew how to write a chorus, and a powerful strong and pleasant chorus at that, but now he was all verse, one long verse without breaks, and this was like the day and the night. Life was a string of nothing more than a mess of particles that looked like the bread crumbs left behind in the strawberry jelly container. It was lazy but real, and the machines wore him down, and he smiled and looked out the window, and the windows were so clean. Henry missed the sun strains and soap stains, he missed something real now lost but yet undefined.
Again Henry watched the day, and the oaks and the pines were tall and about to die. Henry had another book due and for the longest time he used to grind his teeth and bite his nails, he would be nervous and the coffee would cause a goofy kind of manic vision to create itches that were not real, but now everything was fine, he was fine with everything, life was good, real good, life was as good as it should have been. Music didn’t get better or worse, it was held in time and he hadn’t heard anything new or bad or good that he really liked in a very long time. He didn’t know how long of time anything had been, it’s just been that time was moving, and of course it was, but the deadline wasn’t a screaming kind of red and it was now a soft circle on a nice calender that hung in the nice hallway that led into his office. He didn’t like to have calender anywhere near where he wrote, that was one of his rules that he swore by. No calenders by the typewriter.
And as it goes, there was a new deadline coming up, but now Henry wasn’t afraid of it, the deadline was a soft guillotine that couldn’t even cut through the first layer of skin. There was no fear. not like there used to be, and now the deadline, the guillotine didn’t matter. the story was fine and good and Henry wasn’t afraid any longer of the the last page. Because it was the same as the sheets on his bed and the suit coat that covered his arms, the words on the page were the same and everything was the way it was supposed to be. It was nice and normal now. Life was good.
After the writer, after Henry, after the character that he was got over love and excepted the business of business, he fell in line and kept track of the schedule on his calender, and he marked in line with his perfect handwriting that he spent weeks on retraining instead of actually writing, and he kept track of the information and the dates with the accuracy of statistician. The writer was prompt and pleasant and professional, and the new publishing house that purchased the rights to his science fiction pop up books, after the old school beast finally went out of business, well the new cat of media corps called, NovelDome, was the big surprise winner. After learning the tricks from the best of insurgent bankers after the great last depression, NovelDome had the game plan down before anybody else even had a chance. They waited in the shadows, and somewhere it reads in italics that they were based in Utah or Pittsburgh, the details are conflicting but true and upheld by the judges of the most respected sorts. The tenured journalists who reported this uprising weren’t sure how it happened and how NovelDome pulled of the kinds of money swings that would be necessary to overtake pretty much all of the publishing industry, and once again looking at a mismatch of web pages that are old and ugly and faded in contrast levels, it would seem they were very much a rags to riches kinda of story that good normal folks love to dream about while watching fireworks….
So the story about NovelDome is simple. They came out of nowhere and became the market, and before pretty much anybody knew who they were they were an upstart company…I think…at least if rules of deduction are still reasonable. Anyway and in reality, they were a half-assed indie publishing house that released a couple alt lit books and some traditional and fashionable photo books throughout the course of a twenty four month period. They had a budget that came from a one Mr. So and So, but nobody knew it was the same Mr. So and so who people believed had died in the Ozarks over twenty years ago but still somehow voted for the bomb to be dropped…
And it was, it was the same Mr. So and So. and it doesn’t matter anymore and NovelDome is now publishing the dumb science fiction pop up books, and Henry Oldfield does not care….
To Be Continued In September Draft Pages 2 of 2.
(This is a long post, intended to be read in more than one sitting. It will be the last post of august 2014)
As the summer of chaos is slowing down and about over I’m thinking about work, stability, and the future of my book series that I had planned to be completed by 2016. I started working with this world in 2006 and now almost ten years later I’m still following around the protagonist Henry Oldfield. I’m eager to get a new typewriter and a new corner of this planet to begin the exercising in writing that it will take to get back to the creative energy I had when I was working on it before. There will be a difference this time, not all of my day will go to these books, well not yet, as I will be working in the public sector and then writing and editing after. As far as books go I have two more planned releases for two thousand fourteen, making that five books that I finished this year, not including the books by others that I edited, making this my most productive year as a writer. I don’t think this will ever be done again, because as I grow older the paper mountain shrinks and a new one is made, the back projects fade and new life obstacles stand in the way.
Being a writer and a person is a balancing act. The real and the fiction must be both given responsible amounts of time. I must get better as a person and as a citizen in order to become a better writer and artist. I have set very high standards for myself, as far as goals and legacy attributed to my cannon when I do, in many years, reach the end of my life, but for now, I’m somewhat young, somewhat romantic and blinded by living my life and trying the best I can.
Below are a few sections of the next couple books in the, Adventures of a Dying Young Man Series. The first two novels are out. You can buy them by clicking on the covers. They are both under ten dollars. They are first and second editions. When I’m done with this series, it should, if done properly, be something special. I’m sorta worried about people stealing my ideas, but not my words or my style, because only I can replicate it. I’ve spent so much time with these characters and this world that it is my fingerprint. But with that said, I probably will delete this sometime…just in the near future. Thank you for reading. If any large publishers or indie publishers with actual binary ones and zeros stumble across my words and would like to help me get these books out to a larger audience in stores, and also, pay me a bit of money, perhaps, and I stress perhaps, we could work something out. I’ve worked a long time with West Vine Press, and I believe in the message of real books. The problem is the budget, because there is basically only my imagination and my drive that keeps it going. I would like this story to be given a chance, because I think it’s a interesting story, and also, because I’m a writer worth reading, who will soon be able to stand toe to toe with the greats of this strange art form. Maybe not they will say. I don’t care. It’s just life. Rock and roll and that is all.
If you would like to message me for anything word related, or to talk about these books, send me an email at…
Book A, More Adventures of A Dying Young Man, & Book B, The Original Adventures of A Dying Young Man, Out Now. Click on Cover to buy A Copy.
Book C, Adventures of A Dying Young Man, The Fear & The Going, Part One, The Going, Out December of this year.
Book D, Adventures of A Dying Young Man, The Fear & The Going, Part Two, The Fear, Out Spring of 2015.
Book E, The Future Book of War, Out sometime in 2016.
Below are some draft pages. There may be errors and the prose will be different as the books have not went through the final rewrite and some have been written years ago.
UPDATE. I deleted this post. read the first two books. I want to be careful with my material.
• Almost two weeks. Move into apartment on weds. 4 days left at bug tent..
• Did you know….that none of us even exist. For example…I’m just a character in a novel. This is all part of the advertising. Don’t worry. Hash tag. Coming soon.
• The bugs are being cool and staying away so I opened the tent and a little frog jumped in and there’s now a cat living next to me and so I guess the woods are telling me it’s time to go back to society. Two more nights and I’m gone woods. Also I’ll get to all my digital letters and hate mail in the morning. I Don’t have time because I’ve lived in a tent and want to shut a door…so I’ve had to work real hard in three weeks to get back above zero. I’ll be getting back on the bus next weekend to get all my typewriters and clothes and what not. But three weeks. That’s not that much time really. Peace.
• An interesting aspect of the streets in this post modern world is how office buildings have wide open windows even at the ground level. This gives off the quality of trust to the locals. For instance…in every m live media office building is clean and modern with flat screens streaming out to the streets. This is like some form of Walt Disney ride where you are in the newsroom. The strange thing is you hardly ever see anybody working and your local newspaper building has a for sale sign on it and now is owned by one of the oldest oligarchies in United States history.
• ”You know the only thing I’ve never lost is curiosity.” Hemingway, The Snows of Kilimanjaro
• I can tell you about the future…but I’m always running way behind schedule in the present.
• Some guy told me he was going to get two bowling balls and sink to the bottom of the lake. I gave him my copy of The Myth of the Sisyphus…which is one of three books I have on me….a high life and two smokes….and said shut up and read a book brother.
• Lost my apartment. Back to the hunt. Back to the bug tent.
• Been in so many places and cities and states this summer it all looks the same.
• Started to take mental notes for the future book of war. I think ill have to write many short stories before i even get to the novel. one will focus on a major offensive in Rome and then what the vets do after the war is over. the year will be set in 2021 to 2027. The last book in the adventures of a dying young man series.
• Chapter one. Where is Babushka?
• I want the book to read like a Kubrick film. Down to the grass and the dirt and the ropes and the follicles of hair. Every particle and atom and neutrino must be accounted for. This is the only way for true future storytelling. The book will be a big book. I will need many typewriters and many beers and more random life experiences that circle on repeating the axiom of nonsense.
• I was sitting in the park. A Squirrel fell out of a tree. Thump. It wasn’t dead but it looked pissed. Bad dream i said to the squirrel. I knew it was time to call it a day.
• Found an apartment. All good to go. One more night. One storm after another. Ill miss the lakefront property…but not the mud and…oh…it’s all good.
Summer Notebook. August 9th 2014. Short Journalistic Piece called, More Than Half Way There. Written by Andrew H. Kuharevicz.
This isn’t really a short story. I don’t have the time right now to edit and put everything in quotations. Time is not working on my side. I am living outside and only have one hour a day with the computer. It is what it is. It is life, and this is just a series of handwritten pages that I wrote in my notebook…
This is what happened. It’s not all that much. It isn’t war. It was just this…
I was writing in the library and an older man said something to me. He was in his mid-sixties and his name was Albert. I know because he asked my name, and I don’t know why, and so I asked him his name. I was doing something and didn’t want to talk but Albert told me he didn’t know how to use the copy machine, “can you talk to it” he said.
This man I didn’t know was trying to make copies of sheet music and he performs in the park with the free symphony. Albert said…you must have had a class or something? you sure are a fast typer. I said I’m a writer and I guess you could say that. He opened his folder and showed me more sheet music. Nice I said and he asked me if I played.
Play? Yeah Albert said. Music. You play an instrument? Sounds like you play based on your typing. I laughed and said, yeah, well, I write a form of I guess…folk songs I guess you could call them, at least I do when I have a guitar but…yeah so…real cool though… I have to get back to my…
And I was trying to get back to the screen but Albert said, that’s all my handwriting, right there, see, on the sheet music, and I bet when you were writing your words I was writing music. Very good I said, and…
Here take this Albert said. It was a sheet of his music. It looked like art. It looked like writing. It was so much cleaner than my scribbled notebooks. I looked in my bag and then I handed Albert one of my handmade books. What score I said. I mean composition or piece is this? Albert pointed and… “oh…Bach”.
And now that I write this back at my tent, as the sun goes down over the lake, I can’t remember what Bach composition it was. I was in a rush at the time, and I know exactly what I was doing. I was trying to find a job. The cover letter was to be attached to my resume for a war correspondent out in the middle east, and I didn’t think that I would get the job, even though I should get the job, and sure, I would go over there and risk my life and be on no side because I am everything, but I would go and watch how the end game scenario of the flesh of steal and gunpowder and these crazy minds who are out to shed each other’s blood plays out. And the end is slow but steady, and I would go and write in war, I really would, only because I am a man of words and only here to get you the story, because this is about everything that is all of us…
But this is all beside the point, but then again not really, and that is because everything that is everything is part of the reason that I was in a rush and can’t remember the name of the Bach composition that Albert is playing a piano solo for, and He’ll be there this weekend. For some reason this is interesting and I don’t know why I said, but the truth is that I’ll be here and you’ll be there, and Albert will be playing the keys down at the park, and he’ll do this for free. He used to play the flute in the university of Michigan symphony and he’s still doing it. This is great stuff I said to Albert. He’s almost seventy and he’s still a music man. I’m thirty three. I’m more than half way there Albert.
Sand on feet. Dirt on hands. The birds fly out to sea. The last of the young bugs have hatched and summer is at the eleventh hour. Listen and a new notebook is inked as the tides fall towards my blood drawn veins.
Words on pages featured in pictures are taken from the book, The Original Adventures of A Dying Young Man, By Andrew H. Kuharevicz. $9.99, Full Novel, 168 pages. Go HERE! to buy!
9.16, Full Novel, 154 pages, by Andrew H. Kuharevicz, go HERE to buy real book.
$9.99, Full Novel, 168 pages. Go HERE! to buy!
Summer Notes, August 10th, 2014…
I have a feeling that his first days at Walden were not as romantic as literary scholars would have us believe. I think Thoreau was doing what he did out of necessity…and then after the voices of society were dimmed…just a little more…that’s when he could think…that’s when he could write and reflect on the slow incoming tides that move as a mirror in the morning. And I’m sure he had his fits of fear…anger and self doubt…as all would be revolutionaries do…but after his civil disobedience became just another campfire story…that’s when the real folklore of Henry David Thoreau became the sun of just another same ol day.
click HERE or on the below picture to be directed to where you can buy a copy. Thank you for reading. Peace.