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My first book, when I was building my whispers into braver words. It is to a past, to a moment so lovely the heart of everything tightened and claimed
It is impossible for me to describe my books. They are a collection of mercury and have each story as a peek through so many eyes that have traveled planets cross a still dark airless room. i can say one story is about a boy deformed that leads surely to a consideration he may have gotten what he deserved and while you are feeling pretty awful for coming to that conclusion, you might wonder about the story involving the whole of the Korean war being fought across the blue street in the aqua house. A solving of one of the spookier urban legend from when I was a teenager concerning a baby crying all night long in a retirement home where no children were allowed, heard by one woman.
The concept of Candles is every story is meant to light me back home to a love who left me, but whom I never left, from the opening drive down a country road in snow, the library enters in and books and magic and fear and days away and a long memory piece about the most upside down, cinematic, important and cherished 2 years of my life. I was young and in trying to go back I have grown old. In the process I've written over 400 stories and I tried to find home everywhere I looked. From a foolish man standing on a corner in Manhatten just knowing love will come rushing up to him, and she does; to a satire based on Jim Thompson's magnificent work, to Miss Gray's Ghost, I've plowed every bit of imagination I have. It all comes to a desire to find those winter woods. Each of the rest of my books are me running through landscapes as hopeful, as frightening as I can make them. I said in a previous introduction I fell in love when I was 21 and suddenly my life has a theme. I stray in my stories it seems, but each one sings a song of closer than before. This is me speaking through as many characters as I can conjure.. Candles was my first step. Maybe you'd like to join me along the way.
Song For Joel
November, and on mirror winding
To Joel of cambric shirt,
And heavy jeans.
In snow, like chalk drawn
On school blackboards,
My windows, all
Frost and snow flake shadow,
Windshield wipers trying at least
To move the snow away.
Sunday and gray.
Sweet as Forever November.
Turning slippery on ice.
No, go slow. Breathe deeply.
The daggers of tender day.
No farm houses save Joel's
along the way.
Trees bare, black, snow laden,
As the fields.
My breathe visible,
Me, intensely happy.
Think of it, Joel there waiting.
At the windows of his room,
All quiet folded wings of prayer,
As he leans forward,
Breathes on the glass. Smiles winter.
Deep fascinated brown pools of eyes.
Milky skin and soft trill laughter.
Dressed all Joel warm,
Dream of November.
His eyes looking down the road.
Timing by his huge clock wrist watch.
His hair gold and shoulder length.
His arms thin, his legs tall.
I am so young. The fabric of our song
I approach his small farm.
And there in the yard he is now.
In his cowboy fringe heavy jacket.
Joel, snowflakes on his golden heavy hair.
I pull in the drive way.
Joel waves at me,
Shy, but very brave.
Me, thinking, amazed;
He has been waiting impatiently
At this moment at least
I turn off the car, open the door,
We walk to each other.
I say, "Hi Joel, isn't it cold and snowy today?"
He smiles, waves,
Says my name.
I am home.