MORE THREE DIMENSIONAL BOXES,
A BOOK BY ANDREW H. KUHAREVICZ
OUT JAN 31st 2017
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.
Not Done. Sharing the process. Subject to change. May contain errors. Book To be released January 31st, 2017
The Possible World of More Three Dimensional Boxes
This book is a fictional collection made from a handful of short stories I’ve written over the years. Some of them originate seven or more, and have gone through many edits and drafts and rewrites, and have appeared in a pricey hardcover book that costs over twenty dollars. That book came out three years ago and it has always been my intent to make a cheaper paperback version. But once I started formatting and editing two years ago a simple media transfer became basically impossible. Most of the prose, the style, the readability, the scope and the feeling; words were different in tone, and just about everything changed, and now the stories themselves show little resemblance how they were published, and now after the dozens of revisions…
This book fits nicely into the world where my main book series named Adventures of a Dying Young Man takes place, which is a five Novel series (books are labeled A-E) made from over two thousand pages.
But this book, More Three Dimensional Boxes, will be the first numbered book in the cannon. They’ll be shorter in nature and experimental, seen as side stories, doodles, landscape designs, that will widen the scope of the overall narrative. And there are many concepts and themes at work in the stories, and they span from the future and the past, depicting the historical context of not only the United States but globalization and the interconnectivity of the economy.
There’s pages full of ideas and slow starts that could expand into full books but are cut off and ended before they get the chance, and some only take up a single page but each story is its own, like a puzzle piece in the narrative where the main protagonist named Henry Oldfield is having his adventures.
Themes run all over the place and some are defined and some are not aware they are even there…
From postmodern theory, and life after death, space travel, accepting pro globalization in the hope of creating a world system-like utopia versus nationalism and the isolation that is seen in the micro populist model, and there’s hope and fear and lazy days of talking and stories about the end of the world, a bubble like first world nation where the threats come from inside the bubble.
There are alien invasions and references to technology made during old wars that nobody remembers much about anymore, and about chit chatting with strangers on airplanes and myths told by thrift store owners and stories about theme parks hiding the truth about what we are, in an open field, underground, about cyborgs who are melancholy and blue, after they realize that life is pointless when they’re regulated to the trailer park after the war machine is done exploiting their imagination.
There are stories about a cybernetic god like being who ends the robot war because he misses his family and is sick of the sound of nonsense, and about a brand new life form that comes after us and the one that comes after them, and about conservative and liberal elitism, and about how they look at the poor and the struggling, at the people who make their meals and raise kids too, and there’s themes of rage and murder and the comradery of old friends who’ve gone in different directions but meet on a common ground after all these years of growing up.
In this book there are stories about the assembly line, where the typewriter was built and a spaceship that looks like a bedroom and even a treehouse that is a spaceship, dreams influenced by the foggy reality of the morning and all of it is at work, against and for each other, tugging on the fictional outcome and…that’s it. This is a book about relationships and about dogs and cats who we love as much as our wives and husbands, and about long drives and alternate endings and last names and avatars and the true story of what the devil is like, about a joke and the jester king and there’s a story without borders taking place in a land called Borderland, expanding towards the mind and outward towards the black hole of the milky way…
These are stories about academic burn outs, and the kin of genius, about homes and loneliness and crowds, youth, and the evil and the thin lines of boxes and categories.
This is a book about new endings and old beginnings, and page after page, about what might happen.
Thanks for reading.
Andrew H. Kuharevicz
January 13th 2017
(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.
After the PicProse, there’s a PDF file you can click or tap on of the full short story. I’ve worked on it for four years, and it has seen many changes occur over the years. The concept for the new book called More Three Dimensional Boxes Book (F) is to expand the world I’ve created in the main books of The Adventures of A Dying Young Man series. They give more texture to a living fictional world that will be concluded in Book E,The Future Book of War. These are notes of sorts. I’ve had this story developing for about ten years, and after taking a year off from being a creative writer I chose this book to fall back into the process of making things up. It’s fun, but it takes time to get in the mode of being an artist. Editing is different, all you need is a quiet spot and steady internal reading voice….
Creating fiction from scratch is like being an astronaut, and you have to go to space-camp first, ya dig?
(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.
[This is from a short novella typed up about five years ago and is material I’ve been tinkering with when I have waiting time (bus terminals, bus rides, lunch breaks, a few hours and pauses in the action) and will be included in a collection that will be published as a real book sometime in 2017, called Three Dimensional Boxes Two, and acts as a world builder of sorts that adds fullness to my Adventures In A Dying Young Man Series. Warning. These are draft pages. Fiction. Made up. Never happened. Art. Life. Made with joy, and they probably contain errors. NOT A FINISHED PROJECT. Thank you for reading.]
I heard celebrations by all these poets I thought were only in books yelling at the moon or cursing the moon cause it was covered by clouds while more clouds covered the stars that were speeding out of sight, and—poof poof—like a magic trick—the stars broke with fire through the wall of more and more clouds that formed a dotted line of the summer horizon, bringing a clear sky and—the stars slow danced and fell in love and sang to those people down here that fall in love during the summer as the moisture of life soaked into their pours and came from the stars up there and out there, out my window screen…
“You hear me henry?” Sophie said
“Yeah darling” I said as right away I then faded away and started dreaming.
Baby—look up at the stars and—that action, can you hear all that noise that is happening out there darling?
What are you talking about Henry? It’s your turn to do the dishes. I’m going to take a bath.
And Sophie did take a bath. And so…I did wash the dishes. But first…I soaked in those smells and my mind drifted out there to where I thought them slices of life blew in from. And then I made love to Sophie. And yeah, so it goes. But still…Back when Sophie was here and when she was done eating well that meant I would do some dishes and brush my teeth. Soon I would in a matter of predetermined moments be spitting in the same sink as Sophie spit in a rotating fashion. And then after them teeth would be scrubbed and hopefully more white than before, then it was time for bed and I would hold Sophie and she would kiss my neck as I looked with wide eyes awaiting and thinking about those sounds and smells that maybe were covered in dirt, maybe they were, just as Sophie said…
Maybe they were sounds of a vile form, maybe them smells came from the decadent as I was told over and over. But I couldn’t believe her. I dreamt about those sounds as Sophie slept, and that’s why, because I was taken by the sounds of the unknown, sounds that sounded like the words I read in all them books that were lined up perfectly on cutely dusted bookshelves.
Sounds and horns and dreaming about those million eyes, and my mind would be overwhelmed by some foreign woman’s voice that heard singing…
come on baby light my fire…
This voice was a slow metal stretched out on jazz that could only be heart in the night as I lay awake with my lover, awake while she slept, awake while she loved me more than I’ll ever know.
Hours pass and still she would sleep. Minutes would pass—the alarm clock was unplugged. Seconds pass and more sounds would put me in some kind of trance…
All those sounds buzzed and brushed off trees chanting around a fire, chants of love for what I never knew, chants of the truth, chants of reality man, chants of what I read about with other people’s words, recorded by other people’s words…Chants and yelling of whatever it was, sounds that were getting savage and were returning people to the elastic skin.
She would wake for a moment and see my eyes were still wide.
I would say nothing.
I was asleep…
I was sleeping with my eyes open…
I was sleeping in the night with my eyes not blinking and I heard her voice but I was sleeping in sound, I was sleeping with my eyes wide open to what? Who knows but it sure felt like peace.
Before I could say anything to her she would be back asleep, as lovely as she ever looked. Me on the other hand—I went right back to the trance, four in the morning—imaginary wonderings, back to the wave of the infinite that carried me on without even that normal type of human sleep. The sounds kept coming. The sounds of the tongue tangled on roots drinking these smelling things and sensual finger things, all these experiences and sensations became one and were real. Dreams, yes, this was just a day dream. But for me, as Sophie had her some of those real dreams, those closed eyed dreams, well my dreams tasted like chocolate—a real ripe tomato freshly picked from the vine. I smelled of cotton candy and dill pickles that smelled like fields of corn. I heard ice cream trucks that looked like trains that used coal and the coal was not the color black, the coal was a red rose playing the xylophone, and the coal tasted like blueberries and the rose that was the coal danced into the fire, the fire which smelled like campfires and tasted like oatmeal cookies. Everything melted together with the dream, the dream I had as I just stared at the screen window, the dream I was having in the middle of the night, a dream that wasn’t real at all but—I tell ya, it was a dream that tasted and smelled as relatively existent as the wet grass of morning dew that covers the lawns as the sun rises on just another day’s sky, a day that showers your perception with the colors of pink and green and invisible bubbles of water, a dream that shows you a storm, when it hasn’t rained in over a week, and the colors of the morning alone rubbing your eyes when the sky looks like a dream, but it ain’t no dream. The dream doesn’t feel real, but that sunrise is as real as real can ever be. My dream of those sounds out that screen that collaborated with all my human senses weren’t real, but they felt as real as some of those dreams that happened, those dreams that humans call memories of what did take place. Out there down from our apartment, as I was awake and she purred like a kitten, while I blinked with each rattle of strings—that brushed against the paws of our cat’s playful insomnia, as these sounds came in from our window, from three stories down on the dusty street, a street that looked more like a third world coast than a Midwestern town…Down there and down here in the bottom of the city where we lived I would at last fall asleep to those sounds of the night as Sophie woke up to tell me she loved me again, only to see I was still awake. She would ask me what is wrong, we would make love again, She be snoozing after orgasm with thoughts about our future, and without much of a word she would be out—just like a light—once again, sound asleep—innocent, naked and totally free, not at thinking about those smells and sounds that I was mesmerized by, and as I would slowly fall asleep only to have to get up in a few hours, as my eyes closed and opened and I looked at her, and that moon always made sure it shined white light on her motionless and dreaming body.
As Sophie slept and the apartment was silent my heart trembled with constant thumps of anxiety, the anxious rhythms of time that kept moving and would bring another sunrise and just another dawn as those sounds changed and resembled nothing I’d ever heard before and…(breathe) so, With Sophie’s still eyes breathing in and out with peace while still holding my hand she clenched with animal passion as she screamed I loved you, as she scratched my back with painted finger nails as we made love right before she fell asleep again, as I felt her pulse and the skin of her tiny fingers my hand was shaking and my eyes were transfixed upon that screen window, that window where all those sounds and foreign visions came from. And as I fell asleep I was happy, I was pure, I was in love but for some reason, I just wanted to know what was out there, what was out that screen, I wanted to know where all these sounds came from. And what I described above happened for weeks and months and then a year the same way. Just like always Sophie was washing her face and as she was doing this I walked down the stairs to have a cigarette. And well, and then there was Dusty Apostolo. Of Course, back then I never came across this dude, back that I didn’t even know he existed yet. Untying my neck tie I placed a smoke in my mouth and opened the mailbox, as you already know the mail box is at the bottom of the stairs and where I ended up finding that dang letter of Sophie’s. But anyway…when I looked in the mailbox there were no letters or nothing cause Sophie was always on top of getting the mail cause her father was always sending checks from that other southern America. My muscles were tired and my eyes were tired and my lips were tired from talking about the future with Sophie so much and man oh man I was ready for bed and dang! I forgot that I had to call my ol coach for the last time and tell him that I wasn’t going to play baseball no more cause well I was going to tie me that knot with Sophie. You know just settle down and begin a family, you know what I mean coach, so well I can’t a play me no baseball no more I had to tell em cause well I guess I was going to begin me a family or something. And man oh man he was going to be disappointed and he would be telling me that I was throwing away my god given talent and on and on he would ask me to re consider what I was doing with my life. But with the thought of this in my head everything just faded in the background of my mind as I turned the apartment door knob. The building was hot and sticky inside during the summer months and in Michigan the summer only lasts about three months. It smelled like human stagnation and all the air inside of the apartment building where Sophie and I lived, well that air had no choice but to stay put while the olive colored walls had a constant stream of a downward waterfall of salty tears always dripping from the rusted pipes, and every year these pipes have been patched over by some man name bill who has worked inside this complex he’s told me on numerous occasions for almost twenty years now. And these pipes of the building were the veins of the building and the broken furnace and radiators and garbage shoots that were too clogged up with broken up cement well these were the lungs and the kidneys and the cardiovascular of a building that was built during one of those prohibition years. And let me tell that building that I lived in downtown was so hot during the summer months and thank god for Sophie or I woulda surly frozen to death in the winter. Thinking about how broken this building really was I turned the door knob to that big red front door, a door that had foot prints all over it, feet prints of hooves and leather boots of all those cops and violent lovers and drug and bill collectors, these banging prints of markings and shadows of feet with toes and anger. The red door of my apartment building was beat and banged by lust and mania and greed, some of the boots were looking for salvation through this metal red door, a door that could be opened from the inside and was painted with so much red paint that there was nothing them fools could do to get in, the red door told such boots and feet and shoes of hate to please turn around and go home, because nope—there’s no way you’re getting through this door and…I opened the door and the warm air ran out into the street like a Labrador that had to take him a big ol piss and that air that was a dog or something ran out into the cool night’s air. The colder air of the outside hit my body and my wet face like a wall of ice and sweat was dripping into my mouth dried up as well just about right away, and I started to smile and then without expecting anything to come my way I heard some feet and shoes walking on the sides of houses and stretched out on the street and saw some large shadows swerving side to side on the street; both the shadows and the trees were lit by the overhead lamps that attracted insects that fed all those birds of the night that sleep upside down and bats that look like flying rodents, and those shadows didn’t really frighten me cause this was a college town and people were always walking around late and so…I don’t think it was that late yet but anyway I wasn’t fazed or worried at all cause well I justa’ came out here to have me that smoke like I’ve had every night for I can’t even remember how long, just that cigg that I’ve had every night when Sophie fell asleep, and as she closed her eyes in our bed well I had some time all to myself, on this stoop outside of our apartment and…I always came out here have me that smoke but also to look at some stars and just be inside my thoughtful head with just me, just think about my future and what I’m going to be and who I’m going to become and where me and Sophie are going to go, just ta’—think to myself like people whistle to themselves or talk to themselves and I never sung to myself or talked to myself cause when I would mumble to myself Sophie would ask me if I’m feeling alright and if I was going crazy or something. And when I was a boy…I was just singing to myself when I was in high school but…Mother thought I was crazy or something and so I don’ts a sing around people or talk to myself around people because I guess people think it’s crazy or something and everybody is always asking me if I’m alright. And when I come out here for this smoke it’s one of the few moments of the day when I can think and just—be me, just be—henry, all by myself. And if I want to sing or talk to the stars I can, cause there’s nobody out there in the night to call me crazy and question my sanity. So, I opened the door like I’ve done, only this time was a bit different. Out of nowhere the door opened the same as it always does but one of them shadows those gotten in the way er something cause BAM! Out of nowhere within the summer night that door just went—BAM! And god dang-it—wouldn’t you a know it, because there was—Dusty Apostolo, and I never woulda thought any good coulda’ come out of that night, but that door swung open and suddenly I heard shattered glass and then just silence and streams of light, and I wasn’t sure if the light was from cars or the rusty street lamps that lined the downtown street; everything stopped as I opened that door and BAM! I dropped to the ground and didn’t feel my head hitting the pavement Blinking…I…started…to…come…to…in…a…matter…of…seconds…although—it felt like timeless so, who knows. I couldn’t hear a thing, nothing at all, and my ears were sensing these fuzzing and tingling sounds, and I could hear ringing sounds that kept ringing and ringing and chirping and shocking down to the stems in my spinal cortex or something. My eyes were starting to make sense and on the ground I could feel my body lying on the ground and my head rubbing slowly as I was rolling trying to balance my body as it laid…
I was on the ground and my head was rubbing against the concrete and was stuck to my cheeks, without touching it I could feel that my lip was cut open. And I was thinking as I was starting to regain my presence man oh man—I was hoping that I didn’t lose any teeth. My eyes kept refocusing and tearing up and man I thought about playing dead but I was hurt too bad and that ringing ringing ringing in my head knocked all sense out of me. I had one hell of a headache I’ll tell ya that. That big ol red door that protected all those back-rent begging tenants, and yeah—that included myself. I begged the landlord often for just a bit more time and luckily Sophie’s father, because he had lots of money and so he always made sure his daughter had her a roof and…clothes and just—everything money could provide; Likely her dad would send those checks in the mail and could bail us two young love birds out cause, come the end of the semester I had me little scratch. But anyway—that big red door swung open and wouldn’t you a know it there was nobody else on the street, everyone else in the city seemed to be all tuckered out and were in their beds either yawning or snoozing their evenings away, and even with the abandoned streets it was just my luck and let me tell ya it seems that I have real bad luck cause these bad kinda things seem to happen to me more often than they do to most people. Yeah…Just my damn luck, and I just came out here to see stars and have me that smoke, the smoke was even in my mouth and lit, but I had yet to take a single toke from the filter and that creaking and cracking and creaking door slammed right into this person I’ve never met before, this person that well this person this fella this rebel that I’m not sure if his parents named…
That red door banged right into a kid that called himself dusty Apostolo, and come to think about it, even after all that sneaking around with that guy, with dusty, even after meeting him with this chance collision, even after all those miles we put on his beaten orange van, just driving with windows down and only talking to each other cause the radio was broken, even after all those towns and back on the Michigan roads with our hands surfing on the eighty mile an hour current, with fingers playing the kooky sounds on so many guitars and bongos in so many open mikes all over the land, even after all those drives and exit ramps and down interstate ninety four and back up then down for no point at all just searching for fresh people going down to some new town on interstate ninety six this time. Even after all that dusty never told me if that was his real name—or if he made it up, you know, to make himself sound bigger like a legend he made for himself, and one time I overheard one of his many girls call him Fred and he quickly silenced her when I overheard cause—I thought maybe that was his real name or something. But he just changed the subject and I never got to find out if Dusty Apostolo was his real name, and after I hit that kid with the door I never woulda expected that man just like pulling a rabbit out of a hat or sending a human soul into outer space, Dusty Apostolo and Henry Oldfield drove all over this state. But back then, I thought of myself as a writer and I mean at the time I had no other choice or anything else to do or anywhere else, other than to—go—back when Apostolo said, “get in the car and—hey—bring that typewriter of yours”. And when he said this to me I remembered Sal paradise and Dusty didn’t give two shits’ about nothing. Dusty Apostolo wanted to go cause he just graduated from college and his daddio gave him a set of wheels and…Dusty always said to me when I knew him, he always said “henry, you need to live your life, you always just sit in your dirty apartment, just sit there in the dark and type away away away, fella away, Oldfield away, henry boy, I dig ya but you’re just typing your life away”…So well, he kinda talked me into it but a writer has to have him some experience to go with the theory, right? But yeah we’ll get to more of back when I knew that Apostolo character after Sophie leaves the picture…I’ll get to all of this in just a Bit. But first where were we, oh yeah—that big red door slamming into one of them shadows. Suddenly, everything that happened came back to me like the decent of the roller coaster and during free fall you scream and lose your mind and forget about living or dying and get them butter flies in your stomach, but after that drop you enjoy the ride. And even though I wasn’t enjoying laying on the ground and bleeding and…I sure as hell wasn’t enjoy that ringing in my head…Everything snapped like a big ol light and I replayed the events, and what happened is when I opened the door it slammed into somebody. And that shatter I heard was a bottle that got knocked out of the person’s hand, and while I’m on the ground and pulling myself up, as I’m starting to regain my footing, as I’m wiping my lip and my teeth under gums that somehow dug into my cheeks, as I feel for all my teeth…
I see pieces of sharp glass of a broken bottle with a label. Colt45. That’s what cut me, and so I know what happened but I don’t know why it happened. But I got myself punched in the face. Smashed in the dome by someone’s rolled hand for my decision to open that red door. All this came back to me and now my hope was whoever had done this was long gone. I just wanted to go upstairs and clean myself up and try not to wake Sophie cause something like this would send her into some kinda nervous spasm. She would be calling her father for money to leave and she kept talking, telling me how this area down here was dangerous and man oh man…She kept saying—how this area where our pad was located—it got her nervous and from all’s she’s heard about some gang that I’ve never seen but from the new scrollers and newspapers talking about some new stereotypically brand of foggy hoodlums moving into the area, kinds of thieves and sinners and nope—not top of hill people moving down here, well, with all that the girl had been hearing from her friends and reporters and doctors and lawyers in the daily gossip chit chatting chirp chirp well…Sophie made it clear that she wanted us to move and I liked it here—I really did, and if I go up there and wake her up—looking all beat with a bleeding ear and a swelled lip—yeah—that Sophie would get frantic and start packing her bags until the sun came up. She’d keep screaming how that’s the last straw we’re out of here henry and on she would scare herself by pictures that neither of us have ever seen till that damn ringing in my head faded. So, with them thoughts thinking I got up off the ground and wiped the side of my face with my hand that was also scrapped. Taking a deep breath, I squinted at the light that seemed to radiate and form a constant streaming rhythm and beat to that ringing in my head and it throbbed with bells and fizzled of pop rocks of nausea and caused me some kinda vertigo… As that ringing and ringing…sounded like some kind opera singer er something, a screaming that was in my head…Well, I was facing the other side of the street with my back to the door and I didn’t think to myself weather or not if whoever kicked my skull in was still lurking around in the alley or behind some building or something, cause I couldn’t see nothing and I was thinking about that good looking girl, that lovely sleeping Sophie and—it wouldn’t stop, that ringing in my head that was clawing its paws against the lining of my brain. And so, I didn’t think if whoever did this to me was planning on coming back for a second strike, some more fun to add to their already drunken bloody night. And I didn’t think about these scenarios, because…I thought that—if I out of the blue…sucker punched some nice guy in the face, well…if I done something nasty like that I’d run away and ask for forgiveness or something; this is what I thought my attacker did and with the ringing and the lights and, with that blood dripping off my hand and from my bottom lip…nope…I wasn’t afraid of getting hurt again, I was only afraid of what might happen—if Sophie saw me looking like a wounded dog—you know, bleeding and limping and saying…“Nothing, it’s nothing, no honey I tripped.” And that’s exactly what I would say when she woke and starting crying, and so I turned around to that red door that started this whole mess to no fault of its own and I couldn’t walk right cause of that ringing bottled Mason jar in my head, and I leaned against the building and looked down for my cigarette cause let me tell ya, I came out here to have a smoke and like a true addict and for the love of any kind of supernatural being, I sure as hell needed it now.
A car drove down the street, a long and box framed Buick with thumping tunes, and for a second the ringing in my head dimmed down a bit. I was standing with my back to the door and my eyes were scanning the side walk. The cement was red with the blood from my broken lip and there was a faint imprint of a body that I left on the ground outlined like a murder victim that highlighted where I fell. But I wasn’t thinking…
Twas’ looking for my smoke and…Ahh hell—I couldn’t find it, and so I gave up and…snap—that ringing in my head wouldn’t stop and I put my finger up to my lip to stop the bleeding and then turned around to go back inside. Out of nowhere I heard a roll and a click of some fire and smelled some smelling threads of slowly burning tobacco, and wouldn’t ya a’ know it…
Standing behind me, in front of the red door, was Dusty Apostolo and he was talking to his little sidekick named Alex. I knew Alex; he was a Mexican kid and I seen him once or twice at this coffee shop down the street. He was a good guy and talked books with me. He wasn’t a scary kid but it made sense that he’d hang with somebody like Dusty cause Alex seemed as clueless about life as I did. So, at this point in the action, I wasn’t sure which one of them hit me because maybe perhaps—Dusty put him up to it. And by seeing it was Alex—I had a hunch he’d never hurt a fly, let alone attack in retribution for some lousy accident. From that premise, I was pretty darn sure that Apostolo was the one who did this to me, and I couldn’t do nothing and so I rolled my swollen eyes and my interior voice said…
“Oh—henry boy—you’re about to get your ass kicked and well, this time probably even worse, cause man, I isn’t no fighter and Dusty has proven—that he is.
Seeing Apostolo I said…
“Sorry I didn’t mean to…”
Dusty placed his finger up to his lips while Alex walked back and forth on the other side of the street and shook his head in what only could be described as disapproval. And then I looked at the building and all the lights were out inside and everyone was sleeping cause it was sure as hell time to sleep, and I looked down the street and there wasn’t a single truck or car or cop was driving by, and I thought—where are those officers and civil servants now, right now, at a time when I needed them the most>?
“Please man I didn’t mean to I said”, to Dusty —who just kept blowing on his finger with a rolled S…S…S—which he followed with a tap…tap…tap of his steel-toed construction boots. And wouldn’t ya know it—that Apostolo was smoking my cigarette and this ticked me off.
With that ringing in my head, that white noise pinching with those disorienting shadows and no help to come I could hardly gather my thoughts, hardly make out what was going on, or what would happen next, and…I think you owe me a drink, I mean you broke mine dusty said to me.
I was now a bit scared cause the grin on his face looked like some lunatic about to go on a lunatic spree er something just killing and hurting cause they’re a lunatic. And I was scared and still bleeding, and this lunatic was in front of me, this dusty Apostolo fella—he was smoking my last smoke and this got on my nerves and by the fraction of split seconds that were passing me by I was starting to work up some courage that I never knew I had, cause man oh man the way that Apostolo smoked my smoke was a mockery to my end of the day solitude.
He ran—Nigel just ran. I mean in such an event what else is there to do? And since he was tired from the miles he ran he sat still and was covered in dirt. And he wasn’t anxious, Nigel was nothing but out of breath. Light paused for a second. Then even more shots came running down. Nothing was left and everything was gone. The north was now a little bit more west and the east was a lil’ more towards the south. It wasn’t just the natural world, but it could be seen in the attitudes of people. But none of this chaos matters because the human world ravaged itself alive. Lake Michigan was eighty-five degrees for nine straight days in March, and there were dead trees without leaves and the sand burned your toes. Nigel sat near the shore without his shirt, and he didn’t care either that the light wasn’t yellow anymore. The light was red and now blood was green, and there were many bodies—thousands of bodies dangled and slouched and burned, and the buildings were torn down and some remained—but only the old ones remained. It was simply bad and there was nothing but ash and green blood. He was there. Nigel was standing there, and he was wanted for murder—but well, not anymore. And it wasn’t his fault. No. He didn’t do it. His friend did, but it doesn’t matter anymore because he was in shock.
Nigel’s thoughts were consumed with the color of his bloodshot eyes, and they were green. And who were they? Where were they? But he didn’t think long because this was survival and so he ran and he kept running until he was out of breath, and he was out of breath so Nigel stopped running, and up in the air a storm was blowing in, but the clouds were orange, and so when he looked up there were airplanes crashing and metal sirens blazing and there were satellites falling back to earth from the sky; it looked like the sky was on fire but the fire wasn’t the color it was supposed to be. Everything was just a little bit more different, and that’s why Nigel ran through an old field, where in the past, he ran to get away from the ordinary days, days that are now gone by.
Feet ran by the old newspaper machines that were connected to each other with metal chains that held the benches in their spots. When he was out of breath he listened to the chaos and there were yells and screams and then there was silence from the alleys, and when he looked up at the skyscrapers there were hundreds of bodies falling from the windows, and when he smelled there were terrible burning smells and this was some kind of war but there was no enemy to be seen. And he was thirsty so he drank from a hose. It was the first water he had in days. But before he could get enough to drink because he was so thirsty, he had to hide in a bar doorway because there was a swarm of the ordinary running in his direction, and without looking Nigel heard their footsteps. Like a wild stampede in the Serengeti humans by the hundreds were coming from over the hill and they didn’t say anything but their faces were covered in fear and horror; their faces were screaming, “Get out-of-the-way boy!” And this wasn’t isolated. All around the world parts of the International Space Station and other orbiting junk pummeled into the tips of melting trees and bodies were crushed like a slab of butter and there were limp hands and torn pants and…The end was more colorful than any of us could have ever imagined, and as people ran passed him he hid in the bathroom of the city’s park. Cut off from hell and inside of the rest room for some reason made him believe that society was still together, and that everything was ordinary again. So he closed his eyes and pretended he was in his house and that his girlfriend was sleeping and that his cat was purring. He forgot about the blood and the color green, and he replaced the newer memories with the memories from last week. He tricked himself into believing that everything was normal, and the way that it would be once again after all of this was over. But he knew right away that it would never be over because nothing can go back to what it was before after something like this happens. Because when something like this happens, it stays like this for a long time.
In a few minutes Nigel opened his eyes. The bathroom had a bad aroma and he didn’t feel good and his senses consumed the shit smells and the paper smells; he couldn’t see like he could a week ago, because now there was only the dark flickering light inside of the bathroom, and it was fading in and out. But still, Nigel wasn’t afraid but he was lonely and he didn’t want to be inside of the stale bathroom so he closed his eyes again, just for a few more minutes, because he wanted to go back to last week. So he imagined that everything in life was good and happy or sad, just the way it was. And when he closed his eyes the world went back to normal and there was a flicker of light and he opened his eyes again, and now it was hard to see and there was the yellow light and he heard more screams of people outside, and the sound of trees tangled and there was rubber melted together with metals and the sounds of helicopters vibrating with the sounds of power lines and the sounds of flesh and the sounds of more flesh ripped apart like paper. The sounds were terrible, and these were sounds that Nigel never thought were even possible and then…
There was nothing. Everything was quiet so Nigel shut his eyes again, just for a few more minutes, and inside the bathroom he was going to wait, because he thought that if he left he would die like everyone else out there is going to, but he didn’t want to wait in this bathroom, even if it could keep him safe, because he didn’t want to die in the bathroom and so Nigel opened the door and as his eyes adjusted to the way the Earth now reflected, he couldn’t believe what he saw because standing in front of him was a happy dog who was panting and, it was just a dog.
His hands were blue. He started walking. By his side he carried a picture. A car drove by. The car was yellow. He ripped the picture in half. The war starts tomorrow. It hasn’t been planned. The enemy is old. The enemy is familiar. Tonight the world waits. At this hour, the world sleeps. He can’t sleep. He can only walk.
It was March. He kept walking. On his feet he wore old boots, they were his fathers. They were almost two sizes too small. This caused his toes to bleed at first. They don’t bleed anymore so it’s fine. Everything was alright, and so he turned around and walked back to the spot where he ripped up the picture. He found the bottom half. He smiled and crumbled it up and then sticking the paper-ball into his coat jacket he laughed. Above the pocket there was a zipper. He made sure to zip it up. He never cared about zipping it up before. He never even thought about it prior to this moment in tomorrow’s time, and so one more time: Zipping the old rusty zipper never crossed his mind. But for some reason out of the blue he remembered to zip up the pocket, and that’s why tomorrow, Nigel will zip the zipper.
Patting his pocket, the paper ball was flattened, it was secure, it was safe. He wasn’t sure why he came back for the bottom half of the picture, he just did, he wanted it. Nigel wanted it more than anything he ever wanted in his life. He knew he needed the picture, whatever was left of it. This was a weird feeling for him to have, but not difficult to digest, the feeling that is, for he accepted this feeling. But he didn’t even know the person in the picture. He stole it from a home that he broke into. This was the only crime that he ever committed. He was never caught. He stole jewelry that he couldn’t sell. He stole a snow-globe because it reminded him of plastic sleds. There it was, and it was sad, because the dog was bleeding. So Tim yelled again. Tim said that he found what he was looking for, and Nigel didn’t really know Tim very good. They met by chance. What this chance event was isn’t very dramatic. They met at a probation office and…Mot, this is Tim’s Nickname, and he insisted everyone called him it, it, being mot, mot, being Tim’s nickname. But Nigel always forgets to call Tim, Mot, and this forgetfulness has caused domestic fisticuffs to be witnessed by normal nine to fivers during what the locals call happy-hour. And this is just a minor detail in our story, and so let us now shift back to the thievery:
Sounds of glass breaking, and it sounded great to mot’s ears. He, Mot, mot loved the sound of breaking glass. It was his favorite sound.
Sounds of crying echoes entering ears-tip-toeing-up-the-stairs, and metal falling to the ground.
Sounds of the kitchen floor.
Nigel heard feet walking back and forth-back-bark-whimper, and then he heard more glass breaking. These were the sounds of that particular night. The night before all hell broke loose and He didn’t know what to do, Nigel that is, and with not knowing what to do he walked out of the bedroom. More Echoes up the steps, echoes of the dog, echoes of Mot screaming like a madman in love with loud noises.
The sound of Mot saying that he,
that it was
“time to leave”, and
(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.
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.