Tracks without the Hermit is a bio about the Winston I.L. Edwards transition through the filters of not enough sex, low quality drugs, & cassette mix tapes of rock 'n' roll.
Tracks without the Hermit: A bio of transition through the filters of
not enough sex, low quality drugs, & cassette mix tapes of rock 'n' roll.
By Winston I.L. Edwards
Quote from Book:
Though, I remember eating Chef Boyardee and watching “Return of Godzilla” on a milk crate at my Grandparent's apartment in Oakland, California. I had the option of a tray with legs, but I was bohemian. I could get right into every scene. What was this cat's bag? It seemed to me if I were that big; I'd be quite content. Holy Shit, look at Super X attack, the tanks, the soldiers, and all the screaming little folk! It's the environment,that's all. That's why He's so pissed; just like me. Environment! My anger is now transposed onto Godzilla. I think I figured something. Oh, Godzilla just blew Freud out of the water. Haven't told Ma yet. The 80's were strange. What was teen-hood like; if being a kid was that off key? What trampling squaller?
Excerpt
Tracks Without The Hermit :
A bio of transition through the filters of
not enough sex, low quality drugs,
& cassette mix tapes of rock 'n' roll.
by Winston I. L. Edwards
Chapters 1 & 2 Preview
Chapter 1
How does one write about himself? What clue comes down and declares "Hey, write...your a-once-around, never-been-before, never -will-be firecracker fit to slaughter, waiting for the nervous hand of Death!"
Can death hold you? Well, I'll write this; but the answer is en route. Perfecting lower expectations; I'll know the meaning of every fucked up act and purified forgery of my expanding puddle. The shell voluntarily constructed for preservation; was an idea loaned at the first notion of a womb. At the sense of self; I was scared from the get go. The hell was this trip? I want that oblivion back! Back where I was just a future act. I was here. Here in a belly woven in another belly few years before.
“Young girl you should've been studying or something!”.Questions, all I have now. How I don't fret for? When is irrelevant? Where, maybe secondary with what. Then there is why? It was all I pondered; buried in the cause.
Chapter 2
I got old budding anger. My memory seems delayed. I let go of moments, before I knew how to grasp. They are only specks up to a point. Up to maybe five-years old; do I have a vague episode of happy childhood (despite confusions). All forced recollections.
Though, I remember eating Chef Boyardee and watching Return of Godzilla on a milk crate at my Grandparent's apartment in Oakland, California. I had the option of a tray with legs, but I was bohemian. I could get right into every scene. What was this cat's bag? It seemed to me if I were that big; I'd be quite content. Holy Shit, look at Super X attack from all sides, the tanks, the soldiers, and all the screaming little folk! It's the environment, that's all! That's why He's so pissed; just like me. Environment! My anger is now transposed onto Godzilla. I think I figured something. Oh, Godzilla just blew Freud out of the water. Haven't told Ma yet. The 80's were strange. What was teen-hood like; if being a kid was that off key? What trampling squaller?
In the Era where educators could lay hands on you; I got disciplined in regular intervals. Then, could merrily look forward to the after party with Ma and a belt. Even today, yard sticks remain untrusted. Hyper and imaginative, I would get bored at the waking hour and let impulse stroll through until night. In a mall, I scaled a mannequin for kicks! I had to do something. I remember a hot teacher I had bearing a slight resemblance to Anita Baker -the Fox- who I heard religiously along with Miles, Jackson, and Stevie through the trusted BMW tape player and the stereo system.
In a dream, this teacher slid from a slide; that ended through a hole in a white brick wall. She slid out onto a bed of bubbles. Thick, beautiful coffee skin and a smile. I woke up with moist underwear. Woke up with questions having no one I could ask. Systematic propaganda, was what I tagged school to be. And no crush was sufficient enough to train up determined attention to programming. The kid with the bundle at the end of a stick I'd call a savage saint. That cat had balls. He was on the move man! What could you say to the dude? “Hey come back to our demands! Hey return to Babylon the mediocre! Where transformers, Madonna, migraines, and exploding space shuttles await.” What in the hell were they going up there for anyway? Were they fed up too? I knew I was clueless; but with all the brains and training, wouldn't you know not to get in the belly of a potential bomb? Why?
This book is a collection of short stories that depict events in Author's life while she lived in Romania, then in Greece, and last in America. It's a beautiful and very sincere account of a young woman's life and comming to age.
The experience of a young adult trying to figure out what they want to do for employment or education can be overwhelming. My book will give them insight to what it means to be a carpenter. And the progress unions have made in discrimination.
Get
