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Lucius
Posted on Thursday, November 17, 2005 - 04:20 am:   

Having trouble sleeping, I find myself considering the topic of true love and fiction, which have been mainstays of my life, its constants. All stories, in one way or another, are love stories. Even the misdeeds of the vilest, most despicable characters are preversions of love or, perhaps better said, are expressions of love's perversity, sublimations of love into acts of murder and violence. When I wrote Viator, I knew I was writing a love story, a very personal story, yet in the midst of writing, the underlying story, the personal love story, hit a bump and--perhaps partially as a result of this--I suffered a breakdown and was unable to finish the book to my satisfaction. Coming back to the book a year later, having added twenty thousand words thusfar, it's been a very weird experience. I'd been through a lot, clinical depression, the apparent loss of half my vision, and one would have thought that some bitterness might attach. Such was my assumption. I assumed that I would not finish the book as I had hoped, that it would be a hybrid of what I had felt and what I had undergone. I had not worked out an ending, I had no idea where the story was going. But as I proceeded I realized, I knew with absolute certainty that I was writing the book exactly as it was originally intended to be, as if the story had kept itself alive in the back of my brain through a year-long hiatus, without any oxygen to sustain it, without any sort of fuel, and was spinning itself out, desperate to get onto paper before it became exhausted. The power of narrative at work, or the power of love? Both, I think. The two have become so intertwinned in me during the writing of this book, I don't think I could ever write a story again without it being an act of love, of love given specifically. It's as if, like the lentivirus that bonds with my protagonist's DNA, a different sort of virus has bonded with my drive to tell, to narrate. We all tell stories about ourselves. We lie, we embellish, we embroider. We don't understand much. We're flimsy as the paper we're printed on. We have to tell these half-truths about ourselves to survive, to keep breathing. Those of us who don't do this are bad writers. More pertinently, the inner voice that captions our existence is a narrative voice, and is intimately involved in this process. We cannot look at ourselves without wearing a mask that helps to sustain the shape of an acceptable face. Viator, the narrative, no matter how "good" it is, has saved me from myself, from my base instincts, by expressing what I truly felt, what I feel, unadulterated by notions of injury or injured pride, unalloyed by any residue of pain, by showing me the purity of those feelings. In effect, I have become my narrative, entered into my own story and become inextricably bonded with it.

This is rough, and I don't know where it's going, but I'm going to leave it up and maybe add to it from time to time. Maybe it'll wind up meaning something.

Now...sleep.
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Lucius
Posted on Thursday, November 17, 2005 - 09:02 am:   

An exerpt from the rewrite:

"...It was as if he and Arlene existed in two different countries separated by an impalpable border--they were like ghosts to one another, having intermittent flashbacks of their life together, then lapsing into a doldrum, an atmosphere so deep and thick, there seemed no escape from it. He presumed that sooner or later they would escape this emotional doldrum, that Arlene would snap and throw him out, or else he would hook onto a freighter traveling south, or maybe west, maybe in Russia or Japan he could find a question to which he was the answer, taking a different route from Dhazi Brasse who, instead of exchanging one labyrinthine circumstance for another, traveled deeper into the city of his birth, deeper into his own labyrinthine structures, turning to otiar for solace after receiving an unsigned note from the palace, a note expressive of the woman's yearning, her regret at the constraints made another meeting between them unlikely, and, yes, he required a strong measure of solace after that, an unreasonable measure, surely, because the woman had been his lover for a single day, yet he had lived with women far longer and not been affected a tenth, not a hundredth as much as he had in this instance, and he supposed this was due to the fact that he and the woman had a history in other portions of the plenum (in Alaska, for one), so otiar served him well as a palliative, and each night he would take himself to a big ramshackle building, three stories with a tin roof and unpainted, weathered boards, on the outskirts of the city, where the roads gave way to trails at the base of a high green hill, surrounded by a litter of shanties, like a shabby sun at the center of a rundown solar system, a sign above the front porch with fat red letters, much faded, declaring the place to be The Star (the second T had been effaced) of a Thousand Journeys, and he would pay the price of a private room to a plump jaundiced woman of early middle age who had been at her station in the foyer since she was a child, sitting at a desk under a bare light bulb, rarely speaking except to announce in a croaking voice the list of prices, which had gone up considerably over the years, it was now thirty riales for a room with a woman, six for a spot on a mat in the common room, three for an evening's supply of the drug, and then, accompanied by a thin, pretty, dark-complected teenager wearing an indigo robe belted at the waist and with black hair into which crystals had been woven, hanging down in twists to hide her face as though behind a beaded curtain (she was the girl he always asked for, at any rate), he would go upstairs to a room scarcely larger than a closet, and she would light a candle, load his pipe and light it, too, and later take it from his nerveless fingers before it could fall, and she also gave him things to stare at and to touch--a mango seed, an antique, inch-tall Cuthura of rose gold (a religious figurine, the goddess of princesses and prostitutes, of all lonely women), and she would sometimes unbelt her robe, offer her meager breasts, like upturned saucers, the skin so soft he had the idea that a residue of their dusky surfaces remained on his fingertips long after he lifted his hand from them, and she permitted him to touch her other parts as well, but never did they have sex, never did he experience more than a flick of desire's whip, and then only at the approach of dawn, when she would smoke a pipe or two herself and curl up to sleep with her backside pressed against him. Mostly she was for him a source of color and texture, of objects and sensations that he used to concentrate his senses, to help nudge his consciousness out of the flesh, so he could drift across reality's borders and glimpse the adjoining planes, but after several encounters, imagining that they were becoming friends of a kind, he asked her name. Lastri, she said. She hailed from Lost Hakane, a village in the foothills of the Chanticleer Range. Yet several weeks later, when (still half in the arms of the drug, still roving the Alaskan coast, exploring the dissatisfactions of his alter ego) he asked again, forgetting that he had already received an answer, she told him her name was Bejo and that her home lay in the southern isles.
One night, after leaving the Star of a Thousand Journeys, instead of going straight home, he followed a trail of white sand and broken shell up into the hills and stood gazing out across the city with its meandering streets, its centuries-old houses of pepperstone and granite, black mastiffs howling atop slate roofs, violet-white lights efflorescing in rough-hewn windows, and, central of it all, the white dome of Snow Moon Palace, so studded with towers, it resembled an enormous glowing sea urchin, the whole thing girdled by balconies that served as promenades, and as he stood surveying the the city and the glittering sea beyond, he realized that if he were to penetrate this mystery, to understand the significance of his visions of the man in Alaska, then he needed to find the woman and make certain of her, determine her mind, because if what he felt was merely an illusion comprised of a plumdarba and a magical night, what was the point of risking his life further?, and he was tempted to let it go, to let this dream be a dream only, but a month later, following a period of consultation with an accomplished thief of his aquaintance, clad in a body stocking of chameleon silk that allowed him to blend in against every backdrop, he ascended a tower atop the palace that offered access to the quarters of the queen's retinue (as good a place as any to begin his search) and sprayed a hexagonal window of blue alarm glass with a mist that caused it to dissolve with an outpouring of tiny cries, rather than the ear-splitting shriek it would normally have emitted, and, once inside, he sprayed himself with another mist, coating both his clothing and his flesh with a film of molecular machines designed to confuse the eyes of men, generating images that would satisfy their expectations of his absence. His heart beat with the rhythms of a butterfly drum as he made his way to a room with a sunken pool at one end and upon whose walls were displayed a living mural of white boats passing on a lake of lapis lazuli with islands of emerald reeds, and from whose ceiling issued a music of flutes and whispers, sonic charms cast, it was said, by witches on their deathbeds, and there he waited several hours, watching the women at their bath and taking their ease alongside the pool. He spotted half-a-dozen women who might have been the one he sought, but was exposed to so many naked breasts and bottoms, he could be certain of nothing, and was preparing to investigate some other portion of the palace, when Queen Kersen, clad in a white linen robe, walked by his hiding place and turned down a corridor, passing from his sight, and he knew by her languid pace, her carriage, her insouciant manner, that here was the woman whom he had brought home from the Issad, and that not only was he guilty of trespass, he would--should he follow through on his intent--be guilty of a crime worthy of a truly terrible punishment, as witness the two guards stationed at the entrance to the queen's apartment, women centuries old, anonymous as beetles in crystal masks and beryllium armor, condemned for an equally intrusive crime to sleep on foot beside the door, waking when stirred to arms by spell of circuitry, their lives alternating between brief outbursts of violence and far longer periods during which they inhabited a black dream designed to kill them over he course of a thousand years. They did not wake at his step and woke no more after he had passed, for he blessed them with a drop of poison in the crystal sockets of their sightless eyes. When the queen saw him enter, her mouth fell open and she took a backward step, yet she quickly recovered her poise and railed at him for putting both their lives in peril. She struck him on the cheek, and attempted to strike him a second time, but he forced her down upon her bed (whose gray silk coverlet and purple satin pillow with black pearls sewn at every corner had, it was said, been rendered from a peal of thunder by some unimaginable science), and asked if anger and fright reflected the extent of her feelings?, if she were not using them to hide some stronger emotion?, a question to which she responded by averting her eyes; and when he asked again, she continued to look away but said in a voice full of strain, I have learned to control such feelings, and urged him once again to leave, saying their situation was impossible, surely he understood that? I'll go, he said, if that's what you wish. But first you must listen to me, and he then proceeded to tell her how his heart had labored ever since their single night together (her face softened), how he passed his days and nights (her eyes narrowed at the mention of the Star of a Thousand Journeys), and of all he had been thinking, including his speculation that they had a history on other planes and his recurring visions of the man on the Alaskan coast--on hearing this, her face grew pointed with interest and she asked if a woman was involved, if she too desired to escape, and several further questions relating to Alaska, the nature of the place and so on. Once she had considered the information he provide, she said, Perhaps something can be done. I'll contact you within two weeks, or three.
That long? he asked.
Aggravated by his impatience, she said, It took four months to arrange our first meeting, and then, having inadvertantly given away this secret, she explained that she frequently traveled incognito and without the king's knowledge into the city, and had seen him on numerous occasions, seated in cafes, walking in Soji Simanere, at a concert on the beach...Did he recall it? The Society of Mirth had played. Mid-summer, the crowd clustered atop the rocks and gathered around fires along the sand, burning blue and green with tossed-in chemicals, and some people swimming or riding on the backs of torpid sea hags, who had spent themselves mating on the reef just off-shore. It was there he had at last claimed her heart by protecting a child from bullies (an incident faded from his memory) and not long thereafter she began to make the arrangements (among them, hiring a slender, black-haired dark-complected girl to place a device so small it could be inhaled into a tarry pellet of otiar, a device that, once it had passed into his bloodstream, offered the insistent suggestion that he stop in at the Issad on his way home) that led to a fixed contest of Steel and Reason and its subsequent rewards.
It was then you should have controlled your feelings, he said drily, though he understood now that her heart was as committed as his own, and felt that he could trust her to contact him, and so, reluctantly, he prepared to leave; but she caught at his arm and asked him to stay a little longer, saying that she had two hours before she was due at a dinner and it would be safer for him to wait, to leave after she had gone...And at that precise moment, the story, the narrative, stalled out, sputtered a few last images, a phrase or two, and died. Try as he might, Wilander could not resuscitate it. He would sit for hours each day in the Kali Bar, staring at a taxidermist's plaque on the wall above the mirror upon which was mounted the plastic head and shoulders of a middle-aged white man with an tortured, twisted mouth that had been stretched out of shape by the fishook protruding from the lower lip--this fraudulent trophy was now and then the target of a derisive insult or a flung bottle, representative of the native population's hatred of the white race, an attitude that had grown somewhat memorial in nature since whites no longer wanted anything from the Inupiat and came around only infrequently, visitations generally embodied by a group of Russian sailors standing at the shoreward end of the wharf, gazing dismayedly at the meager opportunities for fleshly pleasure afforded by Kaliaska and its squalid whores, and the handful of whites who lived there had been accepted, if not absorbed, into the body politic and weren't considered white except, perhaps, in times of tribal emergency; or he would look into the clouded, bespotted, decal-infested mirror and see himself at the bar alongside, for example, a couple of Inupiat men in plaid shirts, a paunchy Inupiat woman with graying hair in a down parka and a pink T-shirt with sequined music notes on the chest, all laughing, shoving and punching at one another, clumsy and fat as bears, and dim shadows at the tables behind them, mired in a bluish murk, a frozen depth, with Toby Keith singing somewhere close by; and he would focus on the nameless city, on the five anthropomorphic houses at the center of Soji Simanere, on some facet of his story, visualizing it in detail, using it as he would a mango seed or a Cuthura of rose gold.."
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Lucius
Posted on Thursday, November 17, 2005 - 09:07 am:   

Another excerpt:


"...Wilander stopped drinking shortly after this confrontation with Arlene, yet he continued to feel off-balance mentally, out of sorts physically, and unable to hold a thought in his head--it was as if time (or some other fundamental current) were no longer flowing in a smooth unbroken stream, but was tottering along on stiff legs, faltering, then stumbling forward in a sudden hurry, dragging him along the way an arthritic drunk might drag a sack of groceries on a sled, shaking up everything inside it. The one thing that quitting drinking achieved was a slight improvement in his living situation, but it was merely cosmetic, a matter of politesse; the union between he and Arlene had been severely weakened and the brittle good cheer and precision thank-yous and mind-passing-the-butters and can-I-bring-you-back-something-from-the-kitchens with which they tried to glaze over the damage could not withstand much stress; sooner or later it would crack and reveal the frail skeleton of the relationship, the ligaments nearly rotted away, ready to collapse into a heap of bones, and to put off that day, because he didn't have a clue what he would do, in which direction he would travel, and because, in spite of everything, his failures of the heart and spirit, he loved Arlene, and with part of his mind he wished he could forget the story, that they could skate past this bad patch...and yet he believed the story was somehow crucial, that it meant something, and unless it finished telling itself to him, he would always be lost, and maybe that wasn't the worst fate, to be lost in Alaska, to wind up falling over in a strip club in some godforsaken nowhere (as opposed to those embraced by god) a little southeast of Nome (and it seemed he was always imagining places where he might die, that he was searching for exactly the right spot), watching a scrawny, dish-faced skank with silicon breasts the proximate mass and shape of volley balls, the last twenty from his fifty K tucked into her G-string, preparing to show off her shaved treasure for the one-hundred and-seventy-seventh time that month to a group of pipeline workers, the priest from a nearby town in plainclothes disguise, a tragically ugly lesbian with a chest cold, an old geezer with a hundred dollars in his pocket destined for the lucky senorita who would also receive the benefit of the blue pill he'd just taken, a pair of gawking high school kids come to see the featured act (a dancer who could blow bubbles with her hoochie), the usual run of Native Americans, and the man sitting directly beneath her sacred crotch, toppling sideways off his stool, hoping to maintain life and breath until she pushed aside her cache-sex and revealed the mother of all mysteries, the hairless pink glory hallelujah that made the world go round, that however many times you saw it, you could never get enough...and how terrible would it be to die in that head, in that gruesomely normal sensibility? How debasing to lie down on an oft-puked-upon floor, staring toward a rainbow whiteness in the void, while a hardbitten waitress with a crop of inflamed acne on her butt, wearing a Merry Widow two bust-sizes too small, fondled your dying balls as she rummaged through your side pocket, hunting for a money clip? You could do worse. But he wanted more, he wanted to understand the difference between fate and the illusion of fate, if one there were. He wanted to know if any fucking thing happened for a reason, and so, to maintain the status quo, to prolong things with Arlene, to give himself time to consider these things, he began spending his days away from the TP, away from the Kali Bar, roaming the rocky beach, walking into the barrens east of town and kicking around whale bones, watching TV at Polar Bear Pizza, affecting interest in conversations with various of the patrons about the sea lion problem; fishing lures; snowmobile repair; camper conversion kits; the biggest moose I ever saw; do angels exist?; sick sled dogs; the weather; a real band was coming to town (not just Junior Aishanna's bunch); the annual winter games with the town of Kaktovik; who made the best reindeer jerky; how come there weren't any ugly people on reality shows (it was Wilander's contention that there were nothing but), an exchange that proved the Inupiat criteria for beauty was the byproduct of a dinged and dented general self-esteem..."
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Carole C
Posted on Thursday, November 17, 2005 - 09:57 am:   

Hey Lucius - thanks for writing that (your original post)- you just cheered me up!

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Lucius
Posted on Thursday, November 17, 2005 - 10:10 am:   

God, Carole...I don't know how that would cheer anyone up, but I'm glad it did. The excerpts sort of illustrate what I was saying, and I'm going to keep posting on this thread, even if no one reads it, because there's something I need to understand about the process of narrative, how it proceeds from and winds about the threads of a life. I appreciate you post. Made me feel good.
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Bruce
Posted on Thursday, November 17, 2005 - 10:20 am:   

Lucius, this is terrific stuff. Very much looking forward to the new version of Viator.

I haven't been by your board for some time and read with huge dismay the trouble you're having with your eyesight. Is there any improvement?
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Lucius
Posted on Thursday, November 17, 2005 - 10:56 am:   

Not as yet, but it appears help is on the way. Fingers crossed.

Glad you liked the new stuff.
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John Picacio
Posted on Thursday, November 17, 2005 - 12:41 pm:   

Hey, Lucius --

I'm not sure how to articulate what that first salvo you wrote at the top of this thread really says to me. It's the kind of stuff that is at the heart of all great art to me though....and I mean that in terms of the art of words, pictures, everything. It's completely inspiring to me. Very inspiring. I wouldn't say it cheered me up, but I can see why Carole would say such a thing.

I don't want to diminish your search with further platitudes from me. But you're going places where I think a lot of folks don't dare or can't dream or both....better for me to shut up rather than risk derailing you. It's a beautiful thing to behold though from out here.

You already know how highly I think of VIATOR, and I loved it for its rough edges just as much as for its perfections. But this new work may open new doors altogether.....who knows where they go, but the fact that those doors may not have been opened before and now can't be ignored may be the greatest triumph of all...

Go, man, go.....
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Lucius
Posted on Thursday, November 17, 2005 - 01:03 pm:   

John...I really do appreciate your comments and if this new thing does work out, it's in part due to the beautiful green depths I see in your cover for the book.

Mil gracias, dude.
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AT
Posted on Thursday, November 17, 2005 - 01:47 pm:   

Loved what you wrote here, Lucius.
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AT
Posted on Thursday, November 17, 2005 - 01:52 pm:   

'Loved' should be 'love'. Especially /i{I knew with absolute certainty that I was writing the book exactly as it was originally intended to be.}
As for your sight, can it be helped with a lens implant?
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Lucius
Posted on Thursday, November 17, 2005 - 01:53 pm:   

Merci, AT ...

:-)
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Lucius
Posted on Thursday, November 17, 2005 - 02:06 pm:   

We're at the point where we're investigating various procedures, but no decision has been made as yet...but I trust my doctor and if it doesn't work out, hey I look better with a patch. :-)
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JV
Posted on Thursday, November 17, 2005 - 02:07 pm:   

Great stuff, Lucius. And appreciate it as an antidote to that retarded Terry Brooks discussion.

JeffV
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Lucius
Posted on Thursday, November 17, 2005 - 02:11 pm:   

:-)

Yeah, I bailed on that discussion. I was starting to really care.

Thanks, Jeff.
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StephenB
Posted on Thursday, November 17, 2005 - 03:01 pm:   

Hey, Lucius. I haven't read Viator yet, but I'll get to it soon, and read it again in paperback. I think this is exactly what some of your readers are looking for. That raw purity of feeling seeping through your brilliantly refined style.

That's too bad about your eye. I was hoping that it'd heal by now. But there's still plenty of time, so don;t sweat it. Have you looked into other options, through eye specialists? (I know you like your doctor, but it couldn't hurt).
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Lucius
Posted on Thursday, November 17, 2005 - 03:14 pm:   

Specialists have been consulted. The doctor I referred to is one such.

Thanks for the kind words...
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StephenB
Posted on Thursday, November 17, 2005 - 03:24 pm:   

No need to thank me. I'm just being honest.:-) Thanks for being a great guy.

Glad to hear your problems haven't submerged you into a bitter sea. Sometimes bad things can be good... at least for some people, sometimes.
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AliceB
Posted on Thursday, November 17, 2005 - 03:34 pm:   

Lucius, thank you for sharing--both your insight and your work. It's stuff to mull over and keep reading--the best kind.

Alice
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Lucius
Posted on Thursday, November 17, 2005 - 03:46 pm:   

Hey...Thanks, Alice. "Preciate it a lot.
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Robert
Posted on Thursday, November 17, 2005 - 03:51 pm:   

Interesting comments and excerpts. You've increased my interest in the rewrites now.

I hope things improve with your vision.
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Lucius
Posted on Thursday, November 17, 2005 - 03:59 pm:   

Thanks, Robert. The rewrite's the book completed.
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PM
Posted on Thursday, November 17, 2005 - 06:03 pm:   

One has no choice but to write.

It's good to read that the rewrite is helping to express and to perhaps gain closure.
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Lucius
Posted on Thursday, November 17, 2005 - 06:25 pm:   

Closure is not the point. I suppose it would take reading the rewrite to determine the exact meaning.
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PM
Posted on Thursday, November 17, 2005 - 07:14 pm:   

Closure inasmuch as there was a need/want/wish to revisit and rewrite. Perhaps "completion" would have been a better choice than "closure"...

If it were me and it's not me obviously, I would gain satisfaction in rewriting...assuming that the second effort was more desirable.

And I get the impression that the rewrite is working well and that there's a greater satisfaction with this material. Not that it's a happy journey to revisit and think of emotionally difficult things/times.

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Lucius
Posted on Thursday, November 17, 2005 - 07:19 pm:   

Oh, okay. Gotcha.

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Nels
Posted on Friday, November 18, 2005 - 03:05 am:   

Intriguing stuff, man. I loved the excerpts; colour me worried about your eye. Take care o'yourself, please?

All the best,
Nels.

PS: Recently moved, and rediscovered/reread my old copy of "The Jaguar Hunter". There's some stuff in there that'll stand, Lucius. A long time. Thanks.
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StephenB
Posted on Friday, November 18, 2005 - 05:13 am:   

I'm a little crazy and so are you.:-) Hopefully you'll get it right this time.

PM: You're Patrick. I'm on to you buddy. Dom't mind what I say.
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Lucius
Posted on Friday, November 18, 2005 - 05:15 am:   

Hey, Nels....Thank you, I'm trying to take care.

Funny sidebar. Floyd Mayweather's fighting Sharmba Mitchell here on Saturday. and to show how deep in the provinces Portland is, the TV ads have been calling him Floyd Merriweather -- pretty savvy, getting the name of arguably the best fighter in the world wrong. Anyway, they just figured it out yesterday and changed them, when Floyd caught one and threatened, with his usual politesse, to pull out. I've got a press pass and am going to the weigh in this PM.
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Nels
Posted on Friday, November 18, 2005 - 08:27 am:   

Classic. Floyd threw a tantrum about getting his name wrong? That doesn't sound a BIT like him, ahahaha... You couldn't make it up, could you?

Off-topic, but it always amused me that Mitchell looks like a ten stone bodybuilder and fights like a giant wuss.
All the best,

Nels
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Lucius
Posted on Friday, November 18, 2005 - 08:53 am:   

Oh, yeah. FLoyd's a piece of work. He's a proto-thug. Helluva if a fighter, though. Like to see him and Hatton.

Yeah, Sharmba's a curiosity,,,,He's shot now, though. Floyd;s just got mop-up work to do.
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Nels
Posted on Friday, November 18, 2005 - 09:11 am:   

Wish I was there to see Floyd mop Sharmba up. Have a good one..
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Stephen
Posted on Friday, November 18, 2005 - 10:42 am:   

Yeah, forget what I said. I was drunk I tells you.
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ben peek
Posted on Friday, November 18, 2005 - 09:05 pm:   

that's good stuff, man. i'm looking forward to seeing the new version of VIATOR.
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Lucius
Posted on Friday, November 18, 2005 - 10:42 pm:   

Thanks Ben.....I really was fucked up the first time round. It was like finishing an Everest climb, I was crawling at the end.
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ben peek
Posted on Saturday, November 19, 2005 - 01:10 am:   

doesn't sound like it was any fun. i'm sorry to hear about the eye, too. (but patches are cool ;))

you know, i got to admit, i'm a bit surprised i'm as interested as i am to see the new version. i'd only just started reading VIATOR when you first announced the rewrite, so i wasn't sure how i'd view it by the end, y'know? but i didn't think the end worked, and hearing you talk about it here and the stuff round the time of writing has put me on board for it.
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Lucius
Posted on Saturday, November 19, 2005 - 06:38 am:   

My plan is working. :-) At any rate, it's cleaned up a bit throughout and and ends after Chapter 14, instead of after 10.
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AliceB
Posted on Saturday, November 19, 2005 - 07:09 am:   

I may have missed this, but is there a release date yet for the revised version? I'll be standing in line.
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Lucius
Posted on Saturday, November 19, 2005 - 07:53 am:   

No, not yet. It's probably a ways off since the publisher has some has some hardbacks left and wants to sell those...thorougly unreasonable, in my view. Probably early '07. :-(
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PM
Posted on Saturday, November 19, 2005 - 04:53 pm:   

I've been wondering if boxing would get it's own new thread...
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Olivia
Posted on Saturday, November 19, 2005 - 05:55 pm:   

Lucius:


Lovely, but sounds a bit like you are channeling "The Man who killed the Deer" in your own genre though.

Perhaps its because you are in a similar place?

Jungian perhaps - I don't know.

All the best

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Lucius
Posted on Saturday, November 19, 2005 - 11:11 pm:   

Olivia, I looked the man who killed the deer up on Amazon and I can't tell what similarities between my book and it there are going by the descriptions. The subject matter? Indians are in my book, but don't really feature except as background. Stylistically, I always wanted to do something using really long sentences and was specifically inspired by the work of Josef Svorecky, which I read long ago. I'll get the man who killed the deer, but I don't think I'll read it till I'm finished. Thanks.
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Stephen
Posted on Tuesday, January 10, 2006 - 04:15 pm:   

I have a question, for you and anyone else. It's about being in love. Do you find that when you're in love it inspires your fiction? Or is it more of a distraction? Or both?

By the way, I've just started Louisiana Breakdown.
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Lucius
Posted on Tuesday, January 10, 2006 - 06:03 pm:   

I'm always in love so I couldn't tell you....
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Stephen
Posted on Tuesday, January 10, 2006 - 06:26 pm:   

Nice..
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PM
Posted on Wednesday, January 11, 2006 - 12:36 am:   

Lucius, that raises a good point.

When we think of being in love we tend to associate that with being happy.

Perhaps this is what Stephen has in mind.

When "love" is new and intense it can be a distraction. Think of one thinking continually of their lover. But clearly the nature of this intensity changes over time.

So this would impact one's writing just as it does other areas in one's life.
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Lucius
Posted on Wednesday, January 11, 2006 - 06:56 am:   

You don't know me, PM. I'm always intense, always distracted...
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Robert
Posted on Wednesday, January 11, 2006 - 11:58 am:   

Sometimes I've found love a distraction from writing music. Probably most of the time it was a distraction. I found much of my inspiration comes from being unhappy with my life and wanting to be someplace else. Love usually kept me from being unhappy, so it distracted me. But I've recently been more inspired by it.
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StephenB
Posted on Wednesday, January 11, 2006 - 01:38 pm:   

I like your answer. Love has its ups and downs, peaks and valleys, no? (either way, if that's how you love, it's intense and distracting).

Kinda like being insane. Some mad high.
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PM
Posted on Wednesday, January 11, 2006 - 04:54 pm:   

No derision intended but Lucius surely you're aware that your emotional being isn't reflective of humanity as a whole.

Maybe the drugs have contributed :-)

Have you not observed though that for many that love does begin with an intensity and that changes over time in a relationship? Our language is weak as we still consider that as being in love but the distractive element tends to lessen. Though we would still say that we love and we wouldn't say that we loved any less than we once did.

There's a relationship tip Stephen --- never a good idea to suggest that you love someone less than you once did --- if the goal is to maintain the relationship.

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