The Shapescape Page

First time here.

Everything is connected wtih giant rings of cosmic force.
All of this adheres to the theories of quantum direction.  I was involved in other posts
at a differenting place, postings about
decay adn lack of . . . contemplation.
But this was a new kind of website.  And Freed didn't want to screw it up by posting lame things.  
So instead he decided that this was where
he would put it out to the world, channel
it through the web portal place.  He'd
been unaware that the writing aspect would
turn back on when he felt the need to be aware of the pain of life just then.  It was 
cold in the library.  He wanted to site an Italian, but the Italian didn't give him a 
footnoting feature.

So Quantum angle and quantum direction?  And quantum
distance and quantum energy.  Didn't
it all mean the same thing?

And if you lay it all out at that natural angle 
(related to the natural log, it's that 
simple) you lay it out and see
why Galaxies are configured like they are
and why it seems that blackholes 
exist at galaxie centers (though they don't really: it's just that all the light from all the stars
as they are movoing out from where they come all shine inward and as
       
energy = matter

then it seems like there is a black-hole-ish
thing when really it's just that all 
that light is trying to be there at once, and the 
passing through
of itself that
happens (in that quantum time, quantum angle, 
      
      quantum love

kind of way, which makes it understandably different
than what it had seemed to be before.
He was on this new mission that wouldn't
inflict pain
upon the land but give it a better sheen,
like the surrealism of television commercials.
He would write his gospel anonymously.
That would be his ticket to great success.
And there would be memoirs found on a grave (there 
already are)
So, people could read his happy rants
and understand that the only depression
comes from the mind.

"You understand, coo-coo-bird?" he asks himself.

what would Tree Hugger do here?

"Can't I get my Quantum-lotario tittleations
enschonced upon this prurient page?"  Asks
Freed to himself as he spies a vexingly
flexible eastern european woman spy (they'd
told him she was a spy.)
And now it's a meeting to meet the next
President?
"That hasn't been decided yet, as far as I know."
is what Freed told the fascist arrainging
the meeting.
"You got some severe f-in hangups, Bud.
It's gonna be all the major candidates and 
It's by remote feed so
No body needs to shake your hand
if you're afraid of germs
or even breath the same air.
You have to give this talk, Professor
Freed, to allow for the continuation
of your funding."
"What if I don't care anymore if I'm funded?
That I've found a way out?"
"You found a way out?  You're going to 
refuse a meeting with the leaders of 
the Free World because you've found a
way out?  Sometimes I wonder how you
manage to get your clearance?  You
seem nuttier than a fruit bat."
"A moon-bat." says Freed.
"You're a blogging fool.  I read all your
postings."
"Do me a favor, while you're out there
investigating.  Find out about Danny 
Intaglio."
"Who's he."
"It's a kid from New York City, a Puerto Rican kid, who's a friend of Tree."
"If he's Puerto Rican then I can tell you
right up front that he's a good kid."
"I can kind of tell that." says Freed.
"But there's something else.  There's something
wrong with him and I don't know what it is.
I have to mentor these kids, Carr, I have to tell these young minds
the real truth, Carr, you see, I can't lie
to them about the economy"
"You tell them the truth?"
"I tell them that . . . the truth about such
things is rarely what anyone thinks it is
and that that kind of truth is like a flock
of pidgeons."
"Are you going to write an essay about quantum angle and quantum distance and quantum direction?"  Carr asks.

Freed stops for a second.  He worries about the place
that they are at.
"How much about me do you really know, Carr?  When you slink back to where ever it
is that you are from, do you fit right in
at your place of being where ever it is that
you are?
You can't even know that much about yourself
so why do you think that you know it all down and factoidinal
about me?"

"As you say, about truth, Freed.  
Ya, I know the big T truth.
You know it too.
All things being from
That, avert your
eyes,
cover your head."

"Quantum Sheckana?" says Freed.

"Does God play dice?" asks Carr.

"OK, we're done then?"
"I'll find out what I can about the boy."

Old Secrets

The physical wearly natiure of
writing a classic physics textbook
of the quality that, in future years,
they will look back at as a model.
And Freed was lost in his 'being lost in loosing'
and had decided that change, even change
is not constant.
Nice how the mind can construct meaningless
canumdrums of speculative parodox
that have no meaning, just quantum rediculousnesses and minds
too small to understand that
the MC ECher thought loops around on itself,
it is, truely the hand drawing itself,
the thought thinking itself.
This thought loops around and forms a 
mobious paradox and doesn't even drink the
iced tea.
If only it had drank the iced tea it could
have been used as a surrealistic back drop
on some hypno-frequency commercial about a type of drug-company stock-lifting drug
that makes the stock plunge upon the
completion of studies that maybe should
have been done before the chemical was
released in pill form, 20 milligrams per hour at a cost
of $0.20 per milligram all paid for by
'medicate the masses', a free government program.  Free, not in the sense of liberating but free in the sense that the
government doesn't charge you for it but
makes you pay for it through your taxes.
That's what free means to these people.
It has nothing to do with Liberty.

The phone rings.
"Freed, are you not working on your article?"
"I'm blogging about Liberty." says Freed.
"Miss Liberty?"
"Ah, me thinks yee has your double-entondibles out
and snapping like a lobster boy would"
"Another television commericial hullicination?"
"No, I do not miss Liberty.  Liberty never
went away."
"So you are one of these coup-d'tat guys?"
"What does that even mean, Carr.  When
I agreed that it is best that I talk to you
I did it with full knowledge that you
have integrity.  It isn't my fault
that I'm a genius.  And I could dim my bulb
But I can't.  Because that is who I am
And just because I might have some deep
knowledge of Boddhi-quanta does not mean
that I would or should share the light
with you.
The path to eternal salvation does not
walk through the hollow halls of Berkeley.  Sure, you might be there, presence of God in all things . . .
but it doesn't have to go there.  It is
there because it is everywhere.
Salvation will still come to the world even if
I don't share the knowledge about how
easy it would be to blow it all up."

"So you think that science is dangerous."
"No, I think that people are dangerous.
And science just makes them more dangerous.
If Einstein had not worried that the
annaliation of civilized society would
not have happened suppose the German
Nazi's had been successful at their
solution, if Einstien hadn't been compelled
due to the facts as he knew them coming
in from letters from friends even it
it wasn't printed about in the newspapers that
were popular back in those days,
do you think he would have told the world
how to make a bomb that would
blow up a city?
That isn't what he was all about.
He didn't want to do that.
He was a man of peace.
He is not in hell because he invented the
Atom Bomb.  He is in Heaven.  He is in Heaven."
"Heaven or Hell, you decide in your mind
when you have your fantasy world afterlives 
of great fiction, as if." says Carr sarcastically.
"What I am needing to know, Freed
and the answer is up to you
Freed, what the hell, then
are you going to do, then
to help the wider cause?  If you won't
meet with the muckiest of the mucks and
you won't right your great treteese on
Physicality of quantum buddah or whatever,
then what, prey-tell, is it that we,
the funding authorities are supposed
to do with all of this?"
"I've got my tenure.  You could just leave
me alone."
"We can't leave you alone and you know that."
"Why don't you meet me, meet me for real, and we don't have to do these
over the secure line things
anymore."
"I can't risk revealing my true identity."
"Peter Liberty Carr-Gargancette, sometimes
known as Liberty Gargantuan, an alias
of yours.  You posted on slash-dot for
years until you got visited by . . . 
those who visit by 
and you became a member in good standing
1999, assigned to me, Tony
Freed on a Saturday in June
totally unexpected and you didn't know
what to make of me so you . . . well
you hacked into my computer and you
stole all my passwords.

but I use notebooks, so then you broke into
my appartment and photographed all my notebooks.
But I use a form of graphical representation
of my ideas and they are totally
incomprehensible to you.
Besides you don't have a degree in physics let alone astro physics."

"You write a novel about me in your head. 
Freed I know you are a good guy.
I want to keep covering for you, 
Lord knows we don't need any more
super bombs."
"You want to meet me I'll show you the 
real thing, Carr, the real thing, 
Mr. Liberty Carr.
But you wont
Because you are afraid."
"Afraid?"
Next Carr told about the boy from the college
who had befriended Tree.  They both decided
that the kid was not a risk and actually
would be a diverse addition to the excentric circle of friends so . . .
following the law of least interference
let it be what it is becoming.

Voyage to Unknown Stellars

After Carr finally agreed to meet Freed
Carr came to Oakland by plane and Freed
picked him up at the airport (actually just 
met him there) and Carr rented an automobile.  Then it was off to the golden sunset hills.  
Carr's plane had left Providence, RI in the early morning hours.
Carr had landed in Oakland at 12:34.  They were on the mountain behind Berkeley by
3:12.  By 4:20 there is no telling where they
will be.  Oh, demons of numerical meaning.  Such it was.
Carr was a short and handsome man with
an exceptionally pleasing smile who
had the scent of pheromones dripping
off him, or at least Freed felt
incredibly wonderful around him
which is something that Freed didn't mind
but that what he wasn't used to it.
He wasn't given over to man-crushes.  
Never had a problem with good looking
kids in his classrooms, and even
that Eastern European girl who was
trying to get him to tell her secrets (so
she could go and tell Vladimer?  If Vladimer really
wants to know the truth from me
I'll tell him just the same truth
that I'd tell George.  Not lies
but, really, Vlad, you know that tiss
better if the secret bomb things
never get said.
You know you don't really want to use
those bombs.  and I know the secret nightmares
you must be having are going to end when
you embrace the truth of God.  Can you tell an <fill in the name of fallacy ridden philosophy adherent> but an
<same name> won't listen.  Freed is filling this in with the word

    'atheist'

So now it is up the path and to the secret place and
Freed gets Carr to climb the tree (which Carr is sure he
has not done since he lived in Landon Road
in Atleboro SomeEasternStatetucky, a secret
road in a secret town not really named
Attleboro, or even Metheadthuan or  . . . 
Carr day dreams a lot.

So now it's like why are we here?
But Carr knows better than to ask.
He's seen stranger things than here before.
"I really can introduce you to people who
are your betters in many things just
as you are their betters in the fields
of metaphysics and mysticism and
loving buddah particles."
"Really can spare me the ass sucking." says Freed.
"You have the personality type of a bryne shrimp." says Carr.
"Do you want to go to the secret place or not?"
Because Freed is bringing Liberty Carr to the
place of lost world karma starts and
puppy dog eye implaintology be banned
horizons of flooding light of awareness
not light of broad-bank floatation safeties name
scotty-dog, not just scotty-dog statues or
scotty-dog nick-nacks but really happy 
and leapy and lick-your-facey scotty-dog
entertainment and childhood friends
who love you calling you from a dream
where you are all still young and still friends and Carr is having all of this
flashback and memories of climbing towards
the light of love and upper pathways to higher
craig quarrys of 
block marble cut out but left there on
account of econmoic collapses of years past
they ordered twenty metric ton blocks of solid whatever this white stone is and
Carr is here on this magic Berlin New Hampshire weekend gone off to 
Barre Vermont down Rt 2 on a lark for
Sunday with Grandma and Grandpa who live near the
giant quarry up there on that
oragne mountain, long weekend
flashback being taken away as
Professor Freed spins some knob spinner,
sets some jumbo-mumbo for the fleck thing (which
Carr can only hope to remember as the
acid flashback quality of this moment will
neither be captured on the flash-drive 
recorder hidden in his
flecktor cap (as issued by Office W of the <secret government funded entity that Carr works for, deniable, all of it>

Carr is getting air sick.
"Where are we.  How did we get here."
"You are here hovering over the 
gasp-view."
Carr lifts himself up from the floor.
It has all been obscured by him, somehow there are forces at work
here, some kind of animal intellegence
that is able to sift through the motives
of the risen souls (ascent by secret
elevator, just words written by a sagacious
puppy dog and written on the kind eye-lids
of happy dad-guys fathers of friends concerned
and letting you in by the back door to
dry out and lay down on another couch and
he calls your dad who descretely comes
and in the rain storm driving down
half-ice-laden roads (cause it is that rain
turns to snow
kind of evening, turned back to rain
but froze on the road kind of day.
Carr is having all of this acid flashback
stuff going on and rememberence of
disturbing events like wreaking an automobile,
rolling it, in Norwood on Rt 1 1987, grandmas old Dodge Polara (with the
vinal covered roof that had been 
pealing away and rust rot underneath).

Carr is finally focusing back on the
reality as it lays in front of him.  He sees the
view of the Sierra Nevada's that he had spied earlier in the day (on the
south side of the plane)
With the fog in the vallies so bright in the 
light of the sun and hte morning?
But it must be late afternoon and oughtent the sun be settling down into the
west below the peaceful ocean?
"What time of day is it?"
"Well, now, it is morning it it." says
Freed.  
"Has that much time passed?  Did I fall asleep?  Did you drug me?"
"Liberty, consider your self free.  Here we
are above the world to see the morning
break upon the high sierra's.  But
it is only minutes later from when we stepped
out of the tree into faith.
You stepped out from the bough of high winded
heights and into faith of believeing in me
and look what you can now see.  So where should we go forever?  There isn't any
clear answer to that for me, Carr.
I meet a nice guy who says that he is
at the pre-time time (before it all).
And this nice man is our protocessor.
He cares for us and prays for us and
lives outside of time (aliebit before it) so he can not understand our rivalrys and our wars.  It isn't tht he
knows of them and thinks that they are
wrong.  He can nieither know them nor
can he understand them and
imagines instead some other story to explain
the hate away, imagine that, some other
story that isn't this one but a better
one that is maybe written by the very person
reading it as he is living it, the thought that is thinking itself.
Can you imagine that, Liberty?
You have worked for the Government your
whole adult life,  I am discounting your
ten year video game phase while you were
addicted to . . . "
"How do you know so much about me?"
"Because I get to write your story."
"You do not."
"I did and I have."

Now Carr's head is spinning.
"OK, you are right.  You are Liberty and you 
live up to your name, Mr. Carr." says Freed.  "Well we are here, so you can climb down."
The doors of the elevator have swung open.  They are at a mid portion of that giant spruce tree that is outside of and in the back yard of Wael's neighboorhood at that place of annoying neighbors, somewhere outside of time adn
half way between the morning coffee and the
some dark black goopy drink that isn't coffee.
"Climb down." Freed instructs Carr.
Carr can't believe it.  It is overwhelming.  
but it isn't anything out side the realm
of well, here it is and it sure seems
real enough for me.
Beside, the elevator makes it easy, 
scoots you along, it can read you, it seems,
that engineered factor, ultimate comfort,
knows how to impart that feeling
of full safety.  You're all snuggled and
happy down inside the place of wombby
warmth.
And when it is time to leave
the elevator just turns all of those things
off so you know that it is time to leave
It will let you dangle from a thread but
it will not let you stay in your heart break and misery.  It
moves you forward
as you ride it to the places that it
takes you.
But once you are there it makes you
get out and walk around and breath in the air
of this place where you needed to be.
It makes you live inside of your creation and only gives you rest
when you are walking free and unencombered.
It doesn't want to own your or rule you
but it wants that you should be free.  That is what
Freed was figuring.  The Elevator
seems to be designed with Liberty in mind.
Human Liberty.

Force Fields

The Author at the Washington Monument

Washinton's Flags in the Sunset

  White House 
   framed with 
  two flags
   at sunset

Wierdo Structures of the Later Afternoon highway somewhere clouds large Pennsylvania

Did Freed have a chance now?  He'd told Carr all of his secrets.  So what was left?
Saturday?

Freed shivered and worried.  Did the
constant thought bubble zone wrapper
unvale and balloon out, giant bubble wraps
wrapping the far away mountains?  How did Freed 
get to this place of many loosings?  If he
got back onto meds it wouldn't take the edge 
off of the constant paranoid thoughts that leap at him.  Freed had hit the wrong keystroke and 
all of his posting was deleted away
That was scarey.  New interface.  New blog place.  He can write whatever
he wants to write.  No body can stop him.  

Would Freed just be signing off now?
If he just couldn't deal then what reason could he
use to not go to class?  The best that he would do is to fake his way through it.
Or he could stage some kind of nervous
breakdown type behavior, let the overwelaming
hulluciantions lead him to a dark place,
but he knew that the students and others
expected him to make it through the everyday
that makes other people tremble.  He would
be their rock and they would not fear
to loose their millions and billions 
unskinder in the froth of ups-ees and down-sees
of Wall STreet world week and loosing money
all day long.  It's too much.  He was their rock.
He knew this so he would make his brave
appearance.  The brave day arrives, 
sun shading it's peeking grin through
the far away mountains.  Maybe
if he took coffee?  That wasn't helping. 
He was not wanting to go out the door.  He ws
not wanting to even go out the bedroom
door and into the cold hallway that
he had never faced before in this story,
just leanings on concrete stairwells 
in far away San Jose skyland parking garages.
Finally a period.

Fruit candy?  He had some in a bowl so he
put some in his pocket.
For some reason he stopped and bought a
dozen donuts.  Not that he'd eat
them, he wouldn't.  But it would distract
the kids so that they wouldn't know.
But wouldn't they see?  How could they not just tell?  All they'd have to do is stare
at him and he would snap, like a prezel snack,
the whack genius quantum malarchy sayer
(teaching these young lambkin minds said
malarchy).
"Maybe I'll give a talk on refusing the cup?" thinks Freed..

But, no, he gets there.  The kids don't
realize anything.  Even Tree and Frank are
leaving him alone, they don't ask questions.
He sees them smiling knowingly, but it isn't
any secret code that Freed knows.
They can't know that Freed has entered the
altered land (fear and loathing . . . well
that is just the start of what Freed feels . . .
but that is flattering himself)

"I will not discuss quantum buddha.
I will not discuss quantum love.
I will not discuss quantum Jesus.
I will not say will not any more."
"How do these thoughts get here" he wonders.
Despite is overbearing intellegence concerning
matter, physics, and energy Freed
had very little practicle experience
in having friends or people who 'got your back.'
So if he didn't understand that Tree and Frank
both had watched out for him them maybe
Freed suffers from a form  of narciscism.
But, no, it wasn't that.  They just didn't
know is what Freed figures.

Freed gives a lecture about field theory and 
extreame bubble processes.
"Imagine this membraine of nucleoclonic
force eminating like a giant soap bubble, gallaxies wide." he says, and then
he waves a soap bubble wand.  hundreds of bubbles come streaming from the 
bubble wand.  A stream of air from a fan
pushes them out into the room where they 
flood amoung the students.

"Each of those bubbles could be a model for
a whole universe lost in quantum time
where none of it even exists if you
cancel it all out, like white light but
it is all the colors that you ever see
anywhere." says Freed.

"don't imagine that a super collider is
going to solve all the puzzles and riddles
of the universe." lectures Freed.  "Many of those mysteries
don't need to be known by us.  Many of
them might actually terrify us and
alarm us.  If you meet your anti-matter
self do you even exist."
And at some point, and this was something that
Freed had done in years past, He pulls 
out a pumpkin mask and holds it in front
of his face.
"Imagine that the universe" and here is where he trusts the cardboard pumpkin head in front of his face "is wearing a mask."  He holds it there for a few seconds for effect.  "And you can't know what
it really looks like becuase in its intellegence
it makes it self look like a cardboard
pumpkin mask.
It doesn't want to scare you, so it wears a 
cardboard pumpkin mask."

Chapter In Between
Authors Angst Ridden Review (Aug 19, 2008)
OK, readers.  We are at a cusp in our story.  I could channel my feelings.  You'd all just want to barf.  Like it matters, all the angst I feel from being unemployed.  I look for jobs and there are not any that are a match.  I'm too damn picky.  I won't work in biotech.  I don't like startups.  I don't care about IPO's.  I realize that most 401K plans don't vest for two or three years.  They aren't giving out anything.  
The truth is that I am at an impass.  I started a whole bunch of different stories but couldn't focus enough on any of them to create anything that seems compelling.  Maybe I will devolve some of these into a collection of various stories.  I wanted to write about normal people, take away my whole 'is it a dream, is it an hullcination, is it really happening' and give just descriptions of interactions.  So there were three related stories (that are supposed to interweave).  These three related stories center around a mariage.  
But I couldn't keep the stories coherent.  And the artistic process that I do is such that each of these is like a portroit.  I am finding that if I don't just focus on one story then all of the  ones that are current (what I am writing) just bleed into each other.  I loose focus. 
So I gave up on these marrige stories (after having writen through a lot of it in my mind, but not putting it down while meditating on it in random subconscious ways).  I suppose I will go back to it at some point and make these all cohere so that there is something real.  Basically if I say what it is 'going to be' it will never actually become anything more in that I will have let the air out of it.  For this reasons notes about a novel are usually not really worth anything.  They are story board ideas or some such nonsense.  It is often not desirable to go back to some rancid story idea and try and repair the mistakes of some furrious weeks of banging on the keyboard.  The best that I do at times is that I reread it and correct the spelling and glaring grammatical errors (that are unreadable) or add punctuation (to help people read it).
But often I do add things that make the story something else.  I find that I don't want to do this, though.  It feels too much like painting over something.  I just don't see the point in fixating on a story that is already done if I have fresh story ideas that need to get into the word processor.  
But other times there is nothing flowing in my story man's finngers.  I can type and it will be lame crap.  That is probably why I haven't put in a new 'below the page' since the first of august (it is now the 19th, 1AM , Aug 2008).
And so then what is the choice of what I write?  Sometimes it is just that I have inspiration and I just write what I do.  That is how this novel started.  Now I am about 45 pages in.  Before this I was working on The Brazilian.  Strange thing about that is that I already know how it will end.  I just don't know how it is going to get there.  And I wrote an alternative ending already (which is darker then what I am going to make the ending).  And again, it is dangerous to bring all of this up.  I difuse my energies.
So, readers, I could go into my inner angst.  It might be amusing to some.  It might be troubling to others.  Tehre are dark forces at work in our modern age and I don't want to have the secret elevator taking you, dear readers, to any dark place that isn't going to ultimately result in your enlightenment and entertainment (who knew enlightenment could be so entertaining).
In any case the hard part of keeping up the effort, during this time of emotinal distress due to my lack of employment (and income) is causeing me a lot of angst.  To cure this angst sometimes I write.  Other times when i feel particularly over whelmed I lay down and meditate and read Emmet Fox and The Bible (particularly uplifting psalms and the new testament).
I know that all of this angst will pass.  And in the meantime I can at least pretend that I not going to keep taking my secret elevator to the dark places.  Maybe I go to those places anyway just so I can warn you, dear reader, away from them?  I have a friend who can only neighsay whatever he imagines that I hold dear.  If I have a furvent belief (as he precieves) he must debunk it.  His behavior gets more annoying and beligerent the drunker that he gets.  And then he is just snarling controversy, and trying to poke holes into whatever he thinks that I hold dear.  And when I am all angst ridden (like today) I just don't want to hear it.  And my immediate jumping back at him seemed to shunt the beligerent effect.
OK, so we have a professor who is crazy or a time-travelling avatar.  I don't say mystic because Freed doesn't really get the whole Rumi St. Francis eternity of love thing.  Freed is a lonely man, too, I suppose.  I imagined while driving today that maybe I would take the novel to a dark place.  I'd have Freed captured and tortured to revela the deep secrets that he khows.  But I don't want to describe torture.  I'd, instead, describe his behavior and his additudes and how it has changed him. 
OK.  No, it wouldn't be OK.  Why?  Because it would be so inauthentic as to be either blatent propaganda (against torture, so maybe that isn't bad) or just amatureish tripe that no one will want to read.  And then I would need to research torture techniques:  a course of study distateful and putrid.  Or I would need ot learn about the effects of torture.  I know a mental health professional who protested against a certain psychiatric orgainization becasue they took money to develop enhanced torture techniques.  I could have him explain to me what the effects are.
So here I am in my own secret elevator.  I am looking down on the way that this novel might go.  I could make it dark and hard to finish, morbid and depressing like The Bell Jar (by Sylvia Plath).  But I'm just not that Goth.  I don't want my readers jumping in front of the Riverside trolly or leaping from Echo Bridge (moon sperm).

Chapter In Between Authors Angst Ridden Review (Aug 19, 2008) OK, readers. We are at a cusp in our story. I could channel my feelings. You'd all just want to barf. Like it matters, all the angst I feel from being unemployed. I look for jobs and there are not any that are a match. I'm too damn picky. I won't work in biotech. I don't like startups. I don't care about IPO's. I realize that most 401K plans don't vest for two or three years. They aren't giving out anything. The truth is that I am at an impass. I started a whole bunch of different stories but couldn't focus enough on any of them to create anything that seems compelling. Maybe I will devolve some of these into a collection of various stories. I wanted to write about normal people, take away my whole 'is it a dream, is it an hullcination, is it really happening' and give just descriptions of interactions. So there were three related stories (that are supposed to interweave). These three related stories center around a mariage. But I couldn't keep the stories coherent. And the artistic process that I do is such that each of these is like a portroit. I am finding that if I don't just focus on one story then all of the ones that are current (what I am writing) just bleed into each other. I loose focus. So I gave up on these marrige stories (after having writen through a lot of it in my mind, but not putting it down while meditating on it in random subconscious ways). I suppose I will go back to it at some point and make these all cohere so that there is something real. Basically if I say what it is 'going to be' it will never actually become anything more in that I will have let the air out of it. For this reasons notes about a novel are usually not really worth anything. They are story board ideas or some such nonsense. It is often not desirable to go back to some rancid story idea and try and repair the mistakes of some furrious weeks of banging on the keyboard. The best that I do at times is that I reread it and correct the spelling and glaring grammatical errors (that are unreadable) or add punctuation (to help people read it). But often I do add things that make the story something else. I find that I don't want to do this, though. It feels too much like painting over something. I just don't see the point in fixating on a story that is already done if I have fresh story ideas that need to get into the word processor. But other times there is nothing flowing in my story man's finngers. I can type and it will be lame crap. That is probably why I haven't put in a new 'below the page' since the first of august (it is now the 19th, 1AM , Aug 2008). And so then what is the choice of what I write? Sometimes it is just that I have inspiration and I just write what I do. That is how this novel started. Now I am about 45 pages in. Before this I was working on The Brazilian. Strange thing about that is that I already know how it will end. I just don't know how it is going to get there. And I wrote an alternative ending already (which is darker then what I am going to make the ending). And again, it is dangerous to bring all of this up. I difuse my energies. So, readers, I could go into my inner angst. It might be amusing to some. It might be troubling to others. Tehre are dark forces at work in our modern age and I don't want to have the secret elevator taking you, dear readers, to any dark place that isn't going to ultimately result in your enlightenment and entertainment (who knew enlightenment could be so entertaining). In any case the hard part of keeping up the effort, during this time of emotinal distress due to my lack of employment (and income) is causeing me a lot of angst. To cure this angst sometimes I write. Other times when i feel particularly over whelmed I lay down and meditate and read Emmet Fox and The Bible (particularly uplifting psalms and the new testament). I know that all of this angst will pass. And in the meantime I can at least pretend that I not going to keep taking my secret elevator to the dark places. Maybe I go to those places anyway just so I can warn you, dear reader, away from them? I have a friend who can only neighsay whatever he imagines that I hold dear. If I have a furvent belief (as he precieves) he must debunk it. His behavior gets more annoying and beligerent the drunker that he gets. And then he is just snarling controversy, and trying to poke holes into whatever he thinks that I hold dear. And when I am all angst ridden (like today) I just don't want to hear it. And my immediate jumping back at him seemed to shunt the beligerent effect. OK, so we have a professor who is crazy or a time-travelling avatar. I don't say mystic because Freed doesn't really get the whole Rumi St. Francis eternity of love thing. Freed is a lonely man, too, I suppose. I imagined while driving today that maybe I would take the novel to a dark place. I'd have Freed captured and tortured to revela the deep secrets that he khows. But I don't want to describe torture. I'd, instead, describe his behavior and his additudes and how it has changed him. OK. No, it wouldn't be OK. Why? Because it would be so inauthentic as to be either blatent propaganda (against torture, so maybe that isn't bad) or just amatureish tripe that no one will want to read. And then I would need to research torture techniques: a course of study distateful and putrid. Or I would need ot learn about the effects of torture. I know a mental health professional who protested against a certain psychiatric orgainization becasue they took money to develop enhanced torture techniques. I could have him explain to me what the effects are. So here I am in my own secret elevator. I am looking down on the way that this novel might go. I could make it dark and hard to finish, morbid and depressing like The Bell Jar (by Sylvia Plath). But I'm just not that Goth. I don't want my readers jumping in front of the Riverside trolly or leaping from Echo Bridge (moon sperm).

hello terry