Another Sunday night and dreading the alarm clock’s sound already. But did manage to visit an old friend and get 3 of the 4 movies I loaned him back. The missing one is a copy of “Last Year at Marienbad” – a $40 movie that seems to have disappeared, but I did get Fellini’s “Casanova,” Mike Figgis’ “Hotel” and  “Stoned” (the film about Brian Jones’ murder) back – so not a total waste. I brought some Kwak (Belgian beer) and my old pal had some absinthe and we imbibed. Left early and came home hoping to watch Fellini’s “The Clowns,” which I rented on iTunes. But was a little too late to start, so just watching Wisconsin in the NCAA basketball tournament while listening to some great Jazz on vinyl (Chick Corea, Jimmy McGriff, Stan Getz, Gerry Mulligan).

My health tests were not good. Well actually, they were pretty good except for my triglycerides, which are really high again. One of the suggestions to fix this issue, is to cut back or even quit drinking, so as of tomorrow, I am going to quit for a bit – a month maybe? and see how it goes. Going to miss my nightly glass or two or red wine, but…

And if this takes place then one should lie order cheap levitra down till feels better. Get more relax- Your body may not be getting enough power and your computer stops functioning correctly. 100mg viagra professional There appalachianmagazine.com cheapest viagra are a large number effective ways to treat uterine fibroids. This is what natural herbal compound icariin in horny goat weed does to help men levitra super active achieve erections. Still waiting to hear back from the sales agent to see if she has read “Crystal Falls” yet and wants to help me approach the appropriate parties in Hollywood to get this thing made. I am a complete idiot when it comes to verbal communication, so this would be a great step forward, but… reading my book seems to be the equivalent of a 1st grader trying to read Ulysses, I suspect less due my verbiage, but rather more due to the distractions inherent in our modern life.

Meanwhile, my friend who I obtained my movies back from is a talented videographer, but also seems to be of the alcoholic variety. He wanted me to send him the shooting script (which I plan on writing this week), but I am thinking that our time or working together is past. He has had his chance, but now his mindset is in a different area, and it is possible that tonight was the last time I may even see him. As a side note, none of the films I loved him were watched; nor was the copy of “The Seventh Seal” that I loaned him and found a year later covered in dust. Maybe we will party together again, but I think my next step with the book/film will require a more professional approach. It saddens me, but feels like a goodbye of sorts. I wish him well.

Really feeling old these days and I’m sure I’m not alone. Someone asked me my age at work the other day and when I told them, I even shocked myself; and I realized I had forgotten that with my upcoming birthday, I will have reached the incredible age of 57. This means I have outlived my father by 7 years and have about 17 years to go before I reach the age when my mother died. Although I am a little more conscious of diet and exercise than my parents were, I am hardly a workout warrior vegan. Many of my favorite pursuits involve sitting (reading, writing, film) and sitting is the new smoking – so I try to ride the exercise bike at home and read while I walk at work. Unfortunately, in the winter months that means walking inside and I nearly ran into 3 people just today. My annual health evaluation was also today and that is always a fun reminder. My blood pressure is a bit high and I dread the results of my cholesterol test.

Meanwhile, something clicked the other night and I found myself tearfully watching music videos from the ’80s. Aside from the fuzzy quality of the videos and the bouncy music (that I still love), I was struck by the youthful beauty of the young artists performing and how much they have changed over time. Age has not been kind to any of us, I’m afraid. My young fantasies of being in bed with all 5 Go-Go’s has been diminished – they are all still good-looking women, but that cute little impish devil Jane Wiedlin with gray hair is a somewhat deflating sight (and the lawsuits between them all somewhat destroys the image as well). I don’t mean to be shallow, but have you seen Bridget Bardot lately? And Monica Vitti has Alzheimer’s? (the guys are falling apart too (the handsome jocks at my high-school reunion are all bald and fat these days) I just blinked my eyes and my heroes are ghosts or on the cusp of the void, and I am not far behind them. It just isn’t fair. I know it is reality, but it isn’t fair to (as Dorothy Parker put it) waste youth on the young. And this death thing, just makes me spit. That’s one of the themes of my book “Crystal Falls” – the anger and denial at the knowledge of our own mortality.

As Kate Bush puts it so beautifully in “Running Up that Hill” – I would love to make a deal with God and trade places and see how she likes it.

During puberty, a teenager face different change viagra 100mg pfizer in body, behavior, mentality and sexual feelings began to appear which take the form of masturbation and sexual intercourse. The main causes of erectile dysfunction include diseases cialis online sales deeprootsmag.org affecting blood flow, such as atherosclerosis; diabetes; nerve disorders; psychological factors such as stress, anxiety or relationship difficulties. Feel free to place the order any of your suitable time. best viagra india As most of viagra no prescription mastercard substitutes are compounds which relaxed blood vessels and thus increases the blood flow to penis so as to provide men with needed energy & stamina to body for required erection. That said, I’m really not feeling bad physically. And 60 is the new 40. A little stiff, a bit less energy maybe, but there is always that twinge of fear whenever there is a new pain or new spot on the skin. The madness isn’t something I would wish on my worst enemy, yet aging and dying is a fact of existence. Do we accept gracefully or refuse to go gently into the good night? Is it any wonder the world is insane.

Wrote a song called Temple of Ages once – just an instrumental, no lyrics (yet) but was thinking about the body as a temple and how it houses your being in all of its roles and ages throughout your lifetime. It is interesting to ponder, as I suspect many people do.

Frankly, I am almost not as fearful of bodily disease as I am of the mental aspect of it, where I just become bored, lonely and isolated from the world to the point where I basically will myself to die (or take measures) because I have no connection to anything or anyone anymore. My “friends” are basically non-existent, and I remember with such longing how I used to spend hours with like-minded people discussing Art, Literature, Music, Life, etc… and engaging in sparkling give and take. I guess Facebook is about the only recourse these days, but that just seems so impersonal and overwhelming. One of the reasons I am writing this blog is in an attempt to make connections with people around the world who may be in the same boat that I am, so please feel free to drop me a line sometime. From the messages I receive my only readers are those who wish to help me get a front page on Google or who have a line of cosmetics to sell me. Although with the lines in my face getting deeper by the minute, I could use the latter, I would really prefer to hear from interesting people who just want to chat. And of course, anyone who can help me make the movie version of Crystal Falls, please step to the front of the line. ; )

I am still here, and has the situation improved? Only marginally. At the depths of the slough of Despondency, I was assured improvements would be forthcoming, but the advance has been minimal at best and I despair of any appreciable upgrade even at a glacial pace in the future: it is just the nature of the game. And at my age, I am one of the lucky ones.

Have been a sluggard in my reading lately. After a full day of dealing with minutia and then perusing the fine print of our complicated tax paperwork, tedious guides to filmmaking contracts and user manuals for software and hardware upgrades when I get home, the last thing I want to do is force myself to read something I can hardly endure. I am currently slogging through a non-fiction book that, although the facts are interesting, has managed to reduce an extremely lively period of history into a list of addresses and birth certificates (my professors at Northwestern would be thrilled). Two recent attempts to lighten up by reading “pulp” fiction novels I loved when I was in my teens, has helped remind me that we are unable to recapture our Youth, and I have found it impossible to overcome the juvenile writing style and colonial and sexist themes inherent in these works. I still have my “Anatomy of Melancholy,” which is my preferred bedside reading, but even forays into recent award-winning popular fiction (as endorsed by a trend-setting arbiter of taste and talk show host) have left me flat. Picked up Jane Austen’s “Northanger Abbey” today and immediately felt myself to be right at home. I remember a friend in college lamenting that she had been born in the wrong era for literature and I know exactly how she felt.

(Strangely, I am listening to Portishead, a band from Bath while reading a story that takes place in Bath – weird how things work)

They improve athletic performance, promote longevity, side effects viagra and increase immunity against viruses. What are the dosage directions of kamagra levitra discount gold cheap online for sale? The dosage found exists is different powers such 25, 60 & 100 mg, which ought to be taken 1 hour earlier of sexual deed. And if you have any doubts whether or not your case deserves medical attention and advice, here is a short bio of one of the most famous serial killers that the world has ever known: Jack the Ripper is the best known pseudonym given to an unidentified serial killer active in the largely impoverished districts in and around Whitechapel, London, in 1888. viagra 100mg The team, led by professors Daniel Langleben and An-Li cialis no prescription cheap Wang, hypothesized that chronic opioid abuse may affect people’s brain response to baby schema. Speaking of Jane, I am so saddened that such a brilliant mind never married. I know the feminists would d insist that one does not “need” a man, but I get the sense that she wished she could find someone suitable – there is a slight hint of longing in her work. I fanaticize about going back in time and marrying her (her dinner-table conversation must have been wonderful), but then would she have written her great works had she been distracted by family concerns? And would she accept, not only this loser as her consort, but also losing her fame (after her death of course) and the affect her work has had on the world, if she were made aware of it? This is assuming that being married to me would cause her to stop writing, but one wonders if she would have chosen to give up her art (or diminish it) to play the part of the typical wife of that time. And would she be as loveable, if she never wrote her books? Would make for an interesting book/movie (although this may have already been done – shoot me if I am unaware) – once one gets over the time-travel aspect.

I don’t really watch TV, so have tried watching some movies recently. (Yes, I should be working around the clock getting my film made, but my brain needs some R&R at times) Watched “Blow Up” last night. I remember seeing bits of it when I was young and not having it make much sense to me. From what I understand, Antonioni ran so far over budget that he was unable to film an actual explanation of the murder and had to leave things open and unexplained, thus creating a unique work of Art and helping usher in a whole new way of looking things in film and Art in general. Reminds me of “Mullholland Drive” where David Lynch was able to take footage from a failed TV series and assemble it into a compelling movie. “Happy Accidents” as Bob Ross might say. This approach can sometimes, I think, be used as a cop-out, and it isn’t always my cup of tea, but when it does work, it can open up dimensions to an open-minded observer.

Been feeling the creative bug myself lately. I get real antsy when I am stuck reading manuals and filling out tax forms, so have slipped in a bit of music recording and I am quite pleased with the results. I’ll try to upload some files one of these days. Unfortunately, my forays into this area are seen as a waste of time as they do not generate any financial return, nor do they seem to gain an audience or please anyone. Kind of like my books (heh heh). Such is the life of the Artist. Right, Jane?

Would it be a terrible thing to do another blog at this time?  Just finished re-reading Ian Hunter’s Diary of a Rock n’ Roll Star and it put me in an introspective mood. My frame of mind has been teetering between suicidal rage (caused by my mind-numbing day gig) to euphoria (Yo-yo Days indeed), as I managed to finish the final draft of the screenplay version of Crystal Falls. Have received considerable pats on the back via Facebook, mostly from people I barely know, and one misguided friend indicated that he hoped to see my play at the Steppenwolf Theater soon (?!) Meanwhile, one of my best friends  – and one I am counting on for musical assistance with the soundtrack – has sunk into such a deep funk that my enquiries are greeted with silence, or at best, one word replies. Another former good friend is apparently revisiting our former home town this summer, but he has not bothered to let me know. I have obviously offended many and most during my lifetime.

The saga continues with my job, and now after 4 months of being given perhaps 2-weeks-worth of work, meetings are being held left and right to try and give my job some sort of form and/or direction before I melt away into a pile of goo. I presume my zombie-like appearance has given them an indication of my mindset, and I am willing to bolt at any given moment – preferably with another job in hand for my poor wife’s sake, but… well-meaning people they may be, the endless meetings to discuss minutia in minute detail are like sandpaper on my balls, and I think their efforts may well be too little, too late. I find it difficult to slow my thoughts and attempting to follow the paced, tortured logic is, at times, akin to swimming in baked beans.

Despite my onerous schedule (more on that later) I continue to send resumes out in desperation to find a job that doesn’t make me want to slit my wrists. Earlier today, Linked-in indicated that my profile was being viewed by a hiring manager for a recent position I had applied for (writing articles and blogs), and I experienced a moment’s hope that all is not lost. Have not heard a word since, so probably they see the bags under my eyes and say fughitaboutit. Or maybe they read my stuff – after all Hunter S. Thompson and Lester Bangs are dead. At least we’ll always have Twilight.

Too bad, because I have a pretty great and varied background across creative fields and straight –ahead business, intelligence, talent and hard-working and could be an asset (and an ass) to any company. That said, every company I have worked for has sucked, (yes, I loved working at the magazine, but they sucked too because they laid me off) and I am clearly not suited for the corporate world.

Now after another exhausting day spent not even pretending to be busy, I have to commute home in dreadful traffic an hour and then make dinner, do laundry, dishes,  etc… (wife is out of town this work which is both good and bad) before I need to focus on my real life. I am usually about 5 or 6 radio shows ahead and I am down to 2, so in a bit of a panic mode. Trying to do a bit here and there – settled on the songs for 3 shows last night; will load them all tonight (hopefully!), and try to do a massive recording session of voice on all 3 tomorrow night. Will have to mix and download at a later date – maybe the weekend. I should put them on this site, but that is another thing I haven’t gotten to yet, so here is the podcast link: expressionsofjazz.podbean.com. Also lost some photos on the site and should add some of my new music, but… Was also hoping to record my earlier novel The Courier as a book on disc, but obviously not going to have enough time. Spent an hour last night trying to figure out how to reset sample rates to get it done, so not a total loss, but did end up missing my pal Shawn’s radio show and felt very bad about it. Going to try the audiobook route again in two weeks when Melody is back to Dallas.

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I haven’t even mentioned I have to check in with my translator to see if they have started translating The Courier into French, find a new cinematographer (I have mostly given up on my so-called friend who is talented and only lives 10 minutes away, but is seemingly unable to meet if the Bulls are playing, the moon is full, the moon isn’t full…(he’s sick this week) – but, I have a good lead on someone, I think, through Stage 32), storyboarding and writing the shooting script for Crystal Falls, trying to reach my brother regarding the surprise inheritance that just as surprisingly has been rescinded (see previous entries) , as well as the big one: finding investors and/or people willing to give me a hand with the project.

Well, as my Grandma used to say, “If I were a car, I’d be a Rambler,” (No, she never said that, and if she did I wouldn’t know because I never knew either of them) but guess I’d better go. Stay tuned to the misadventures of Brad, the deluded pursuer of anonymity and poverty.

But before I go, what ever happened to that rock n’ roll attitude? Died with the music, I guess. Ronnie Raygun and the Greed Cult killed it while we were busy loading our bongs. I  miss it, and man do we ever need it these days,

Had the weirdest dream last night…

I was in Soho (I presumed it was London, but could have as easily been NYC).

I was wandering around through these back alleys and old industrial buildings that had been converted into art studios.

I had a number of people with me and wherever we went I told people I was David Bowie. Naturally, they didn’t believe me. They would point out that I didn’t look like him and didn’t talk like him, but then I would open my mouth and sing and I sounded just like him and so then most of them agreed that I was David Bowie.

I woke up….but….

I was still in the dream. So I decided to go see David Bowie and tell him about my dream.
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I went to a party. There were many rooms. People were sitting around tables and asking me if I knew where Bowie was.

I went from room to room.

In one room was a old ugly man and disgusting old woman – the woman had a hideous black wig. People were bowing and genuflecting before them. I presumed it was the King and Queen, so I did the same. They wanted me sign what I believed to be a guestbook, but it turned out to be a newspaper subscription to The Times.

I finally found the room where Bowie was sitting at a table full of other people and walked right up to him. He smiled and said – “Oh here’s the photographer” and handed me my Canon Rebel camera. I said “no,” and handed it back to him, telling him it was his and that we must both own the same model. I told him I no longer pursued photography as my primary art. He just smiled and said he understood.

I told him about my dream and he just smiled. I said that I knew he had many other people to attend to and thanked him for his time and left. As I reached the door, someone stopped me (I thought it was a butler?) He was holding a camera, saying David said you forgot your camera. I said, no that’s David’s, and he said “no, David says he wants you to have it.” I took it in my hands and was surprised to discover that it was now a vintage box camera. So I took it, left and woke up.

Well, it has been quite a delay in writing. I did write a blog several weeks ago and had the system crash and lost everything – didn’t feel like reposting and didn’t really have anything of interest to say anyway. Not that I have much to say tonight, but I admit to feeling obligated to provide a status.

Had an investor offer to finance an unspecified amount toward shooting a film version of Crystal Falls, so I dropped everything on the sequel, Bone Lake, and started writing a screenplay based on the novel instead. The first draft took about three weeks and, despite some severe chopping, came out at 189 pages – below the original 267 pages of the book, but well over the standard 120 page count for screenplays. After taking a week off, reading some screenplays and viewing foreign films, a second attempt took another week and got it done to 159 pages. Had signed on a marketing person to assist me in hitting up the Hollywood players, and was about to dig in on another attempt to carve the screenplay down to at least 140 pages when I received the gut wrenching news that an expected inheritance of approximately $50,000, that I was going to use as my Hollywood fund, is not to be (a very long, sad and convoluted story that I won’t detail).

This occurrence has shaken my belief and I have lost a great deal of enthusiasm for the project. It isn’t dead yet, and I will get back on editing again shortly, but not having those funds that would have allowed me and my marketing person to travel back and forth is a severe blow.
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Meanwhile, my new job has not turned out to be what I was hoping for. I hoped it would at least be stable and get me through the winter with my sanity intact. Alas, although I am not buried with work as at my last position, I am being driven equally crazy by my lack of work. I do not suffer boredom well.

So, where to go from here? Hopefully I can regain some balance soon. I am taking a few days off – no Facebook, no work on the radio show (the only bright spot – although it is uncertain if anyone is actually listening) – and watching stuff like Song of the Thin Man, reruns of Mr. Robot and listening to Sinatra and odd vinyl I have collected and never listened to. Have to buck up give it another shot. Later.

Well, started the new job this week and have been dealing with getting acclimated. Seems like I should enjoy it once I am up and running, but right now still getting computer set up, phone installed, and remembering where the bathrooms are.

The radio show finally got on the air last week after two false starts and sounds pretty good to me anyway. Every Thursday night, but you can check out the podcasts. Not sure anyone is listening, but that’s par for the course for me these days. Up to nearly 20,000 words on my “Crystal Lakes” sequel “Bone Lake,” but still have a very long ways to go to reach the 75-90,000 words needed. Had to give up guitar and piano and weight-lifting, at least for the week, as the tendonitis in my elbow is back. So there you have it, but wanted to tell you my crazy dream from last night.

I was a Nazi officer who had done bad things. This was the end of WWII and there were crowds of people I had terrorized who were trying to get me in particularly gruesome fashion (I was played by Russell Crowe too, by the way). We were surrounded and my partner tried to make a break for the truck and was killed. I escaped into a library, where I made my way to the third floor and climbed a pillar up to the ceiling where there was a space to hide in. I then swung up and into the heating duct, where I hid for three days while they searched for me. The searchers where led by the this terrible, yet attractive, blond lady.

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Oh did I forget to mention: the populace had been stricken with some type of mutation virus and were turning into monsters on top of everything else.

So I find my son and I give him a passport and instructions to find my brother in America if something happens to me. We see this big group of people around a bonfire and decide to slip into the crowd to hide. But before we get there, the blond woman and her minions confront us. I tell my son to run and make a direct attack on the woman, killing her before her goons killed me. I died satisfied because I was a terrible creep anyway, and my sacrifice would allow my son to survive. And then I woke up.

So what do you think? Movie possibility or just an insight into my psychological issues. Ha Ha!

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Took the week off from work to get a lot of writing and music done and instead found myself sinking into loneliness, depression, boredom and fear. Not that I have not been productive, I have actually gotten some decent work done on the sequel to Crystal Falls (Bone Lake),  and have managed to write and record several musical pieces, done some house cleaning and yard work, watched an excellent comedy (the film version of The Good Soldier Schweik) and took a strenuous bike ride as well, but still have found myself plagued by the feeling of hopelessness and severe isolation.

Decided this morning to put on a movie that is one of the best I have seen in many years, and it has truly struck a nerve with me upon my reviewing. The film is Andrei Tarkovsky’s Nostalghia and this was my second viewing. I heartily suggest checking this film out if you are an artist or writer (or even if not) because it is a work of art that, like any great art, will change the way you look at the world. As with much of Tarkovsky’s work, I found the second viewing even more pleasurable. The shock of the surprising elements interjected into what is an extremely slow-paced atmosphere doesn’t fully register the first time, and his incredible technical achievements can be more fully appreciated upon reflection. His staging of the scenes, the original camerawork, the direction of the excellent actors, the lighting and sound effects are simply stunning, and the story, albeit deceptively simple, is one of breathtaking insight.

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Patience in the throes of suffering, perseverance when confronted with adversity, a sense of hope amidst all doubt and the final, albeit strangely and sadly subdued, victory of beauty and art over the dehumanization and evil of modern society: these are the dreams Tarkovsky left us with, and if many find them melancholy and dour, I find peace and sustenence within his message.

Overdid it yesterday cleaning the garage and my dust allergies have laid me low today. Nonetheless, we took one of the grandsons to the pool, where my wife and son swim and play with the kid, while I read Camus on the side. This time it was Lyrical and Critical Essays loaned to me by a person at work who saw me reading The Rebel, and who has been accosting me with literary interjections ever since. He is a strange, gnome-like little fellow, who has a bad hip and walks with a cane and who could not finish The Red and the Black because Julien’s scheming at seduction upset his sensitive nature, and who refuses to read either of my books (he admittedly does not know they are mine) because he believes them to be science fiction?!?!

The pool we are at is one very near our house and is a quaint tree-lined resort where people park their campers and trailers and spend part of the summer, or even perhaps the whole summer simply relaxing in the sun and shade. The people at the pool generally seemed to all know each other and seem to be in preparation of a large lunch celebration together. Not exactly friendly, they are not hostile either, but rather indifferent to an invasion of “townies,” and strangely, they all seemed to be moulded by the same untalented artist out of a similar batch of earthy, leaden clay. Mostly misshapen, middle-aged or older with short, dumpy, lumpy bodies complete with sagging bulges of flesh, wrinkles and scars, they form quite the contrast to usual youthful G-string and Speedo, bikini-clad exhibitionists you see at the popular swimming/tanning pools or on television in the movies. This rag-tag group even contains a mentally-disabled woman and a fellow with one leg riding around in a motorized wheelchair. It is quite the sight, and many would find it repulsive, but I feel quite at home and comfortable in these surroundings.

For you know, I love the sun and have taken every opportunity to get out in it before the season changes to winter far too soon. Others have been complaining about the humidity, but I find the air conditioning inside bothers me much worse. Instead, I have been spending as much time as I can in the sun and then moving to the shade and back, taking in equal proportions of warmth on my creaky bones and the fresh breeze under the trees, or in this case, beach umbrella, and I find that Camus’ reflections on life and death suit my current temperament nicely.

Not all is placid and at peace; I have tangles I must sort out: I have a possibility of a move to a different job that would mean less stress and more opportunity, but possibly less freedom and more of a “corporate” structure and atmosphere. I don’t believe there is much of a decision to make here as my current position has become quite untenable due to many reasons, and I have few, if any friends left among coworkers. Meanwhile, my book promotion ideas are being forced to evolve, and I have had some recent disappointment regarding friends, who wield some influence in social media, who have reacted positively to Crystal Falls, but who did not take the next step of even mentioning it to their followers, leaving me to wonder whether they really liked it, or of they just kind of liked it to be nice to me. Maybe they are unaware that a simple notice online could do much good, but I find that unlikely, and I am left to ponder the nature of friendship and my future as a writer.

Maybe, I think,  I need to just KISS — kept it simple stupid. Maybe I need to dumb my writing down even for the smartest of my friends and associates? One of my best friends and his wife recently touted All The Light We Cannot See for its genius — not for the story and writing, but for the fact that every chapter is exactly two pages long. And while I had already read and enjoyed the Pulitzer Prize-winning ATLWCS (as much as one can “enjoy” a novel of unrelenting sadness), and I felt that it dealt with many of the same issues that Crystal Falls dealt with (man’s inhumanity to man, the nature of evil, life and death, etc…), in the end I thought my book was better. Better story, more interesting story, more complete characters, more twists, more interconnections and dare I say it, better writing (and even some humor in its sad tragedy). OK, I’m prejudiced, but… the jewel in the sea vs the buried treasure?  You decide. The prize-winner was just built on a grander scale (Europe in WWII) — which was what the Pulitzer Committee said they were looking for. Apparently, none of these small town tales need apply, despite the universality of the story.

Patients with this buy levitra viagra disease can suffering from many physical problems such as backache, neck pain and many others, perhaps which aren’t otherwise taken care by steady health care. If you don’t want to live unhappy sexual life with your partner then don’t live with ED, get the proper treatment and medication by the hep 100mg tablets of viagra http://djpaulkom.tv/meet-da-mafia-6ix-get-your-v-i-6ix-mixer-meet-greet-tickets-now/ of medicinal care. Gupta, having the qualifications of M.B.B.S., viagra in stores djpaulkom.tv M.D., P.G.D.S. No djpaulkom.tv cheap viagra no prescription surgery helps in making the disorder vanish from the person. But I was a little freaked out by their assertion — maybe my chapters were too long for modern readers? I did a detailed study and determined my average page length per chapter was around 4 pages long, which doesn’t seem terribly onerous on the reader. My longest chapter by far was 11-1/2 pages and only 4 were 8 or more (out of 53). Many chapters were 2 , 2-1/2, 3 or 3-1/2 pages long and one was even a half a page. I actually liked the fact there were both shorter and longer chapters, but then I prefer variety and variation over imposed robotic regularity. Imposing a 2-page rule for every chapter to me seems like an interesting idea in theory, but in practice seemed forced and unnatural at times.  Life doesn’t work that way, why should novels?

Just finished re-reading Hardy’s “Return of the Native” (re-reading your favorite books every decade is a real treat that I highly suggest, as you never read them the same way) and took a peek at his chapter lengths. Despite writing for serialization, Hardy’s chapter lengths are all over the place, with the appropriate length for the appropriate subject. Hardy also goes into great detail and use beautiful language in describing the heath, something many modern readers would find boring. I used a similar strategy in three brief segments and was told I should follow the lead of a great new writer he had heard of — Ernest Hemingway and write with more brevity (the person with the suggestion was the aforementioned friend, who is admittedly a hater of most fiction). Obviously you can’t please anyone and have to please yourself (thank you Ricky Nelson) but it would be nice to receive some appreciation somewhere, somehow. (What, you think you’re better than Van Gogh? Right.)

Well, I must quit writing this blog now, My nose and eyes will not stop running and I often launch into violent bouts of sneezing. Camus says illness is a preparation for death that both reminds us of our love of life, of both sunshine and shade, while making us more willing to accept to painlessness of nonexistence. Sitting in the shade of the umbrella and watching the grotesque, yet satisfying parade of life unfold and go limping by, I cannot agree more.