God the eternal scold
not the touchy-feely type
No wonder we’re so
lousy in relationships
denied parental approval
The times we needed
you offering stilted prayers
on sore bended knees
While you sulked in the
Aether using the ol’ guilt trip
to try and get your way
© 2016 Cliff Burns (All Rights Reserved)
“We are only able to continue our ravaging of the planet under the cover of pretense. How is it that we as a society take no action, when the awful artifacts of our way of life on this planet lay strewn all around us? How is it that we continue to hurtle toward an obvious abyss? It is only because we have been rendered blind and insensate. Underneath their numbers games, the banks and hedge funds are stripping wealth away from the masses and the planet. Behind every profit statement, behind every executive bonus, is a trail of wreckage: strip mines, debt slaves, pension cuts, hungry children, ruined lives, and ruined places. We all participate in this system, but can do so willingly only to the extent we do not feel, see, or know. To conduct a revolution of love, we must reconnect with the reality of our system and its victims. When we tear away the ideologies, the labels, and the rationalizations, we show ourselves the truth of what we are doing, and conscience awakens.”
-Charles Eisenstein, The More Beautiful World Our Hearts Know Is Possible
I make that commitment with, I confess, some serious misgivings. My absolute nightmare is emulating my hero, Orson Welles, who spent the vast majority of his time trying to beg, borrow or steal the money he needed to finance his pictures. He frequently bemoaned wasting his energy on this soul-destroying scut work when he could have been, y’know, making great movies. When he died, he left a string of unfinished projects and his body of work was far, far smaller than it should have been. That represents a crime against cinema itself.
I measure myself by the latest project in front of me—and that’s a major drawback. Once I finish a book or short story or poem I quickly lose interest, already eying the next challenge. I admit it: I have been completely negligent when it comes to plugging the ten books this press has released thus far. I send out review copies, write up some accompanying background material…and then pretty much forget about it. Onward and upward!
But I’m a sentient creature, I can learn, adapt, change. So during the past week I’ve signed up for both Smashwords and Wattpad, making a substantial selection of my writings available for free downloading and sampling on those sites (see: the “Links” sidebar to the right of this post). I’ve also contributed comments to a couple of writing forums and reached out to a few fellow indies.
As well, in the coming weeks, I’ll be giving you a step-by-step (blow by blow?) account of my efforts to publish the next Black Dog Press offering, a reprint of Righteous Blood, a volume featuring two terrifying novellas originally released by PS Publishing back in 2002. You wanna know how to publish a book, experience the joy and (mainly) torments of that process firsthand, well, keep watching this space.
I spent part of last autumn getting the text of Righteous Blood into shape, making sure there were no formatting glitches, etc. I also wrote a foreword and some end story notes. That part is pretty much ready to go. But I still need to find cover art, select an interior layout person (Chris Kent will once again handle cover design) and start the production ball rolling. My tentative release date is April 1st—better get a move on.
So…busy times. But I can’t forget to leaven all that labor with a little bit of fun.
Which means…see you at the first home game of this province’s new professional lacrosse team, the Saskatchewan Rush. I’ll be driving in to Saskatoon on Friday, attending the match with four of my favourite lads (including my two sons). The forecast is for cold weather but that doesn’t deter the hardy sports fans in this part of the world. Watch for me, I’ll be the guy in the yellow/gold Bruins hat, imbibing good, Canadian ale and grinning from ear to ear.
I love lacrosse. Fantastic game. Canada’s real national sport.
I’ve gone through my lists and compiled a roster of favourites–difficult, in many cases, to settle on a definitive order, impose a hierarchy of excellence. Every single selection brilliant in its own right and worthy of inclusion:
Bleeding Edge (Thomas Pynchon)
Purity (Jonathan Franzen)
Stoner (John Williams)
Fat City (Leonard Gardner)
The Book of Aron (Jim Shepard)
Number9Dream (David Mitchell)
Something Rich and Strange (Ron Rash) Short Stories
Gaps (Bohumil Hrabal)
Young Skins (Colin Barrett) Short Stories
The Normals (David Gilbert)
Payback (Gert Ledig)
As Far as the Eye Can See (Robert Bausch)
Cain’s Book (Alexander Trocchi)
The Commissariate of Enlightenment (Ken Kalfus)
Strong Motion (Jonathan Franzen)
All That Outer Space Allows (Ian Sales)
Highrise (J.G. Ballard)
Three Men in a Boat * (Jerome K. Jerome)
The Price of Inequality (Joseph Stiglitz)
The Ethnic Cleansing of Palestine (Ilan Pappé)
Theodore Rex (Edmund Morris)
Colonel Roosevelt (Edmund Morris)
The More Beautiful World Our Hearts Know is Possible (Charles Eisenstein)
Werner Herzog: Conversations (with Paul Cronin)
Orson Welles’ Last Movie: The Making of “The Other Side of the Wind” (Josh Karp)
Arms: The Culture and Credo of the Gun (A.J. Somerset)
My Father and Myself (J.R. Ackerley)
When in Disgrace (Budd Boetticher)
“Hard to Be a God” (Directed by Aleksei German)
“Amores Perros” * (Dir. Alejandro Inarritu)
“Leviathan” (Dir. Andrey Zuyagintsev)
“Sightseers” (Dir. Ben Wheatley)
“Valerie and Her Week of Wonders” (Dir. Jaromil Jires)
“Blue Ruin” (Dir. Jeremy Saulnier)
“Winter Sleep” (Dir. Nuri Bilge Ceylan)
“Gomorrah” (Dir. Matteo Garrone)
“Amarcord” (Dir. Federico Fellini)
“Boyhood” (Dir. Richard Linklater)
“L’il QuinQuin” (Dir. Bruno Dumont)
“Time Crimes” (Dir. Nacho Vigalondo)
“The Devil’s Backbone” (Dir. Guillermo del Toro)
“The Enigma of Kaspar Hauser” (Dir. Werner Herzog)
“What We Do in the Shadows” (Dir. Taika Waititi; Jermaine Clement)
“Berberian Sound Studio” * (Dir. Peter Strickland)
“2001: A Space Odyssey” * (Dir. Stanley Kubrick)
“Chinatown” * (Dir. Roman Polanski)
“Closely Watched Trains” (Dir. Jiri Menzel)
“Jodorowsky’s ‘Dune'” (Dir. Frank Pavich)
“Wild Tales” (Dir. Damian Szifron)
“Satyricon” (Dir. Federico Fellini)
“Ex Machina” (Dir. Alex Garland)
“Land of Silence and Darkness” (Dir. Werner Herzog)
“Stroszek” (Dir. Werner Herzog)
“Nightcrawler” (Dir. Dan Gilroy)
“Her” (Dir. Spike Jonze)
“Maps to the Stars” (Dir. David Cronenberg)
PLAYLIST (Musical Favourites)
Tom Morello “The Nightwatchman” (World Wide Protest Songs)
Ty Segall “Manipulator”
Porcupine Tree “Up the Down Staircase”
Pere Ubu “Raygun Suitcase”
The Stooges “Raw Power”
Paul Banks “The Base”
Merle Haggard “I Am What I Am”
J.D. Crowe and the New South “Lefty’s Old Guitar”
Best Comedy: Bill Hicks “Salvation: Live at Oxford”
“Rick & Morty” (Seasons 1 & 2)
“True Detective” (Series 1)
“The Mighty Boosh” (Series 1-3)
- Denotes “Previously Read” or “Previously Viewed”
When we were young we
killed time indiscriminately
savagely using swords and
laser beams slaughtering it
by the hour with hyper-active
games mindless babble or just
lying on our backs making
shapes out of obliging clouds
Now time flees from us while
we are sleeping or otherwise
occupied each new morning
revealing the extent of the
damage and no matter how often
how hard we try to save or slow
time it runs down runs out always
too soon never long enough
© Cliff Burns, 2015 (All Rights Reserved)
I’d count Gene among my first heroes, along with Bobby Orr, Neil Armstrong and William Shatner (“Captain Kirk”). The Yorkton TV station used to play old Gene Autry serials early Saturday morning and I can recall watching them on our cube-shaped black and white television. Listening to his Texas twang is like a trip down Memory Lane on an air conditioned tour bus with an open bar. Sherron, sadly, does not share my affection for the singin’ cowboy–if she hears “Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer” one more time, she’s going to string me up at high noon.
It’s finally starting feel like Christmas around here. Usually, I’m a lot more excited and pumped for the arrival of St. Nick, but with both of our lads grown up and moved away, there isn’t the same kind of ambience. Ah, well. They’ll both be joining us for the holidays, along with Liam’s wife, Erica, who has learned to tolerate our goofy, stubbornly immature family and their strange antics. This 105-year old house will be rocking with music and laughter.
Frequent visitors to this blog will know that, despite my cruel, cynical outer veneer, I am a sucker for Christmas. This time of year finds me very reflective, emotional and sentimental. It doesn’t last long, thankfully, by New Year’s Day I’m back to my cranky, hard-bitten mindset…but for awhile, a week-ten days, the world doesn’t seem quite as bleak and hopeless.
This year, I think I’ll confine myself to a few words of gratitude directed toward the the Vast Active Living Intelligence System (VALIS) operating in this universe, the timeless, inscrutable force directing and inspiring us, trying to help us achieve our great Destiny. When I’m really on, working at a high level, fully immersed in my writing, I can sense the proximity of that force, that consciousness, feel like I’m part of some eternal, infinite continuum. That is…intoxicating. Nothing like it. It’s why I put up with the physical, mental and psychic pain that accompanies the artistic life, the despair, the anonymity, societal indifference. Anything for a few, fleeting moments of contact/collaboration with the Ineffable.
Throughout autumn, I worked on one short story after another–over eighty (80) pages of prose. Why? There are few decent fiction markets any more and they’re so inundated with submissions, it’s hardly worth the effort of sending anything their way. The short story format is nearly as dead as the dodo…or poetry, for that matter. So why bother? Search me, you’d have to ask my Muse for the answer to that one and she’s famously enigmatic and unhelpful.
I write, therefore I am… (apologies to Rene Descartes).
For me, nothing else matters but words on paper, regardless of the genre, length, marketability, whatever. Just keep my pen moving across the page, the flow of words uninterrupted.
Keep the words coming.
My prayer for the past thirty+ years…and for 2016, as well.
Drop by once in awhile, see where all those words are taking me.
Some very odd soul journeys ahead.