kindling

Ima disgruntled poet, a half-time painter, a philosopher and a man who looks at his feces in great detail taking gross pride in his decrepit hobby. After seven years of business ownership, suburban living, following societal expectations and standards, entrepreneurial endeavors, self help books, seminars, silver-tongued speech trainers, selling the religion of language, so called gurus, teachers, preachers, and overall lies piled on lies I turn to the holy contour of life. I have taken to Rattlesnake Hill as a refuge from the pains that ail me as to heal myself and methinks healing the world which methinks is a perfect mirror reflection of my own bored out rotted soul decaying from snake cop treachery that seeks only control- control!

In my first novel Notes from Rattlesnake Hill, due for publication and ripe—I describe a “frozen moment” I experienced while in artistic ecstasy when I arrived on Rattlesnake Hill with instant apropos I began to reflect on his life as if I had just died and it was flashing in strobes as I recorded what I saw using a list of words I randomly picked out of a stack of books on my desk at the time and then wrote them in separate columns and shuffled them then sat them side by side now a juxtaposed map of language in which my story was improvised using the words as a sort of connect the dot puzzle or wind instrument as to defeat my own personal mythologies I knew would show up as I recorded the vision. I spent five months writing continuous raw and blood dripping prose that punches you along the way juking back and forth, jabbing and hitting you with blunt body shots that sting through your spine and leave you shaking like a scared child in a nightmare, finally I knock you out with a blind sided power stroke and it’s worth every minute of action! My intention is not to make you feel better just to make you feel something and you will with Notes from Rattlesnake Hill.

Notes from Rattlesnake Hill:

(A synopsis)

Oliver Deacon was a certified brainwashing agent when he was last conscious of himself…when he last had memories, hopes, personal ambition, moral standards or any standards for that matter. Since that time Oliver has taken a vacation at the other end of eternity (wherever that may be) and a rudely honest Rattlesnake has become of him. In Oliver’s place he has burned every bridge for Oliver and as the serpent works through him, moving his pen, spending all his money on Jonnie Walker Red, huge sacks of Tea and writing sporadic prose in secret notebooks, poetic random collages of wicked contrasts and uncontrolled folly. For five months Oliver is nowhere to be found. (Probably out whacking his pud!) Now this peculiar serpent has used him as a host and possibly made something of his life, getting rid of his television, his high fructose corn syrup, his toothpaste and deodorant. He awakens to find himself naked and shivering and shaking—his teeth rattling in an old cold cabin in the middle of the woods nested on a hillside amongst rock formations and thick overgrown vines and brush. Now Oliver is out of money and hasn’t received a paycheck from the brain washing warranty program for two months after the Rattler quit his job for him and took to the hills. His bank account has been emptied and replaced with the Notes from Rattlesnake Hill which is all that is left of him.

I like to write as if, if I don’t my soul will darken every day of my life and burn dirty, roaring out black smoke forever—as to put a fire out or more accurately to burn out a fire and let it engulf itself to the end. I moved out of my suburban home in late July of 2008 to live in an old cabin on 25 acres of timberland in the hills of Jefferson county Kansas near where the first conflicts leading to the Civil War took place known as Bleeding Kansas. I vow not ever to return as long as the world is still in turmoil—I just won’t be a part of the madness anymore. I want only to live simply, efficiently and in moderation. I have “work” to do on Rattlesnake Hill and the world will reflect that work when it is done. The work I have to do requires that I have little distractions as to maintain an experimental order. Notes from Rattlesnake Hill describes my arrival at Rattlesnake Hill, how I got there and the work I am to do.

I was working on a 120 day project in solitude at Rattlesnake Hill in preparations for my next literary endeavor when I wrote this. I am living a simple life in the woods, learning how to bake bread, hunt and live more efficiently and in moderation as he is an insidious creature of habitual excess in all ways. The only thing is now I need more time to write which means I need money to pay my bills and shit…so I will just start putting my shit out for free and see what happens? I doubt anything will come of it, but a lot of things I doubted would happen did and I’m tired of working and slaving for nothing—considering I don’t want anything, why should I slave or work? Why can’t I just create what I want to create without all this obstacles in my way? All these bullshit marketing masters and their stupid how-to books—I won’t blow the whistle, nobody else needs to take care of my dirty work. I am not calling anyone out to anyone else I am picking a fight with you personally rather. I am talking about your mind and my mind, head-to-head and horn-to-horn, cage match, to the death match, the loser gets beheaded and drug through the streets match. Isn’t this what you’ve been looking for in a book? Surely, you’re also tired of all this missionary style literary relief writing. Here is all you need to know: Forget everything you ever knew and only catalogue in you brain what you read on this blog from now on.