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*** SPECIAL FEATURE - July 2014 ***
About the Book
Coerced into partaking in a tryst, Julia soon found her agreement to be a severe miscalculation. Locked now in a battle of will and lascivious demands with the handsome Adonis himself, the simplicity of lust quickly spiraled into rivalry, as both drudged further in their quest to outwit, outlast and outmaneuver the other.
An Unorthodox Journey
Early to bed, early to rise, that’s the persistent mantra your parents sung almost daily, while you, locked in the maddening throes of thriving, this at a time when we actually begged, quite earnestly at that, its hastened presence, struggle with the seedlings of the new exhilarating things you can now do. Walking two blocks to your best friend’s house, wow! An accomplishment well deserving of the praise, compliments on which we fed. From anticipation to an ever changing apex, tirelessly seething with excitement of having clambered to an age of understanding, one where you’re more fitly able to regard the world around us. An adjunct to the dividends of maturing, yet all the while our imagination tilted and swerved into arenas far too vast to master even in our own heads.
Remember falling victim to our imaginations when we took an innocent statement made by two grownups clasped in the bubbling zeal of conversation, only to form a very real, very literal picture in our minds? As a child, I once overhead my mother talking about a place called Water House, I knew nothing of its existence or of what it was, but my overactive, steroid equivalent, though under developed brain ran fully with a picture. I imagined a place completely made of water, the houses, roads, furniture and, dare I say, even the foods. Now, don’t ask me how this came to be, or even why, just that it obviously had to be as imagined, vowed surely by its name, and no amount of explaining could dampen that image except the full witnessing of. Where, sadly, you find naught but disappointment. How can the cold structure of a mere building compete with the cinematic musing of a child? The peculiar antics of an idle juvenile you say? Perhaps, though perhaps not, since my mind, of its own accord, still fly forward to the anarchic beat of its own drum. When is a picture just a picture? The truth, never. Although it may not always take you on an unplanned ride, the truth of the matter is that something, as simple as what seemed the widening of a gate, more often than not, is always attached.
Nonetheless, no one warned what having an endless array of pictures or the constant whispers, snickers and jabbering spliced nicely with a kaleidoscope-like scenery meant. Early to bed, yes, if you’re lucky and the voices let you. Do they simmer to a slumber while you sleep? Not likely, like an annoying sister that never stops but pause in her monologue only to refresh, so too their tarry or the extent of a cessation you’re granted between rants. If perfection is your goal, then their whispers can be labeled no less than an outright demand. And etiquette, as in the simplicity of a proposition, one so menial in its offer as “may I”, are to no avail. No “would you care for” precede the stubborn intrusions, each prancing through your thoughts as one would had they been stricken with some wild, prehistoric, incurable, unmanageable disease. Do this, the voices order while in the middle of a doze. Change the sentence to one more striking, they persist just between a half second pause needed to catch your breath. Do you argue or do you fight? Simply put, no. Obedience is your only guaranteed source of rest. Do as you’re bided and the jaunt converts to a much smoother ride, so the determine lectures clarify after a while.
In time, days melded into each other, shortening their lengthy granting from twenty-four to ten, while the solitude of night dwindles ever thin. To bed they tell you. The early bird catches the worm, but fail to enlighten further on the perils of an over active brain. An impassioned bird who now garner no rest? What happens when the hunter becomes the hunted? Remember as child when you’re given the dreaded pleasure of writing an essay? Remember how disgruntled the prospect made us, or how we sat pondering what to write for days until at last an idea sprung forward like the flipping of a switch? Prominent and vast like an imagined knight glittering in shining armor, there to save the day? Well, imagine if that switch never reverts back to its lethargic self and your knight never leaves. What then of your rest?
After years of near reluctant dictations and enough boxes of notes to wall my entire house, Dites Oui: Say Yes is the result of a full acceptance of my eccentric self, a partnership with the voices if you will. One I gave myself over to wholeheartedly. Through the protracted process and on most nights, midnight saw me staggering down a darken hall to fall drunkard-like into bed, only to awake in three or four hours, returning to my desk like a pre-programed robot. In a schizophrenic haze, I scribbled on whatever sat handy to be had, forming a decoupage of notes across my desk that was far beyond the comprehension of the compulsive neat freak that I am or should I now say was? Sleep, exercise, hobbies and even the heady enjoyment of some passions grew slowly to a thing of the past. Twelve hours at my desk were viewed as a short day, and whatever the need that saw me extricated from my beautiful rectangle lectern, my return was eminent. It was an obsession, a thrill, a dread and a blooming all in one. A fervent affair that no opiates could ever fulfill or even at its best granting ever supplant. Something spliced in the flawless sequencing of my DNA that cannot nor will not dim. It is the who in an accurate definition that makes me who I am, and the light that brightens every darken crypt ever made. Its love at its purest, its most sensual and at its best. A love I’m driven to share, one I now freely and gleefully past to you.
Early to bed, early to rise, that’s the persistent mantra your parents sung almost daily, while you, locked in the maddening throes of thriving, this at a time when we actually begged, quite earnestly at that, its hastened presence, struggle with the seedlings of the new exhilarating things you can now do. Walking two blocks to your best friend’s house, wow! An accomplishment well deserving of the praise, compliments on which we fed. From anticipation to an ever changing apex, tirelessly seething with excitement of having clambered to an age of understanding, one where you’re more fitly able to regard the world around us. An adjunct to the dividends of maturing, yet all the while our imagination tilted and swerved into arenas far too vast to master even in our own heads.
Remember falling victim to our imaginations when we took an innocent statement made by two grownups clasped in the bubbling zeal of conversation, only to form a very real, very literal picture in our minds? As a child, I once overhead my mother talking about a place called Water House, I knew nothing of its existence or of what it was, but my overactive, steroid equivalent, though under developed brain ran fully with a picture. I imagined a place completely made of water, the houses, roads, furniture and, dare I say, even the foods. Now, don’t ask me how this came to be, or even why, just that it obviously had to be as imagined, vowed surely by its name, and no amount of explaining could dampen that image except the full witnessing of. Where, sadly, you find naught but disappointment. How can the cold structure of a mere building compete with the cinematic musing of a child? The peculiar antics of an idle juvenile you say? Perhaps, though perhaps not, since my mind, of its own accord, still fly forward to the anarchic beat of its own drum. When is a picture just a picture? The truth, never. Although it may not always take you on an unplanned ride, the truth of the matter is that something, as simple as what seemed the widening of a gate, more often than not, is always attached.
Nonetheless, no one warned what having an endless array of pictures or the constant whispers, snickers and jabbering spliced nicely with a kaleidoscope-like scenery meant. Early to bed, yes, if you’re lucky and the voices let you. Do they simmer to a slumber while you sleep? Not likely, like an annoying sister that never stops but pause in her monologue only to refresh, so too their tarry or the extent of a cessation you’re granted between rants. If perfection is your goal, then their whispers can be labeled no less than an outright demand. And etiquette, as in the simplicity of a proposition, one so menial in its offer as “may I”, are to no avail. No “would you care for” precede the stubborn intrusions, each prancing through your thoughts as one would had they been stricken with some wild, prehistoric, incurable, unmanageable disease. Do this, the voices order while in the middle of a doze. Change the sentence to one more striking, they persist just between a half second pause needed to catch your breath. Do you argue or do you fight? Simply put, no. Obedience is your only guaranteed source of rest. Do as you’re bided and the jaunt converts to a much smoother ride, so the determine lectures clarify after a while.
In time, days melded into each other, shortening their lengthy granting from twenty-four to ten, while the solitude of night dwindles ever thin. To bed they tell you. The early bird catches the worm, but fail to enlighten further on the perils of an over active brain. An impassioned bird who now garner no rest? What happens when the hunter becomes the hunted? Remember as child when you’re given the dreaded pleasure of writing an essay? Remember how disgruntled the prospect made us, or how we sat pondering what to write for days until at last an idea sprung forward like the flipping of a switch? Prominent and vast like an imagined knight glittering in shining armor, there to save the day? Well, imagine if that switch never reverts back to its lethargic self and your knight never leaves. What then of your rest?
After years of near reluctant dictations and enough boxes of notes to wall my entire house, Dites Oui: Say Yes is the result of a full acceptance of my eccentric self, a partnership with the voices if you will. One I gave myself over to wholeheartedly. Through the protracted process and on most nights, midnight saw me staggering down a darken hall to fall drunkard-like into bed, only to awake in three or four hours, returning to my desk like a pre-programed robot. In a schizophrenic haze, I scribbled on whatever sat handy to be had, forming a decoupage of notes across my desk that was far beyond the comprehension of the compulsive neat freak that I am or should I now say was? Sleep, exercise, hobbies and even the heady enjoyment of some passions grew slowly to a thing of the past. Twelve hours at my desk were viewed as a short day, and whatever the need that saw me extricated from my beautiful rectangle lectern, my return was eminent. It was an obsession, a thrill, a dread and a blooming all in one. A fervent affair that no opiates could ever fulfill or even at its best granting ever supplant. Something spliced in the flawless sequencing of my DNA that cannot nor will not dim. It is the who in an accurate definition that makes me who I am, and the light that brightens every darken crypt ever made. Its love at its purest, its most sensual and at its best. A love I’m driven to share, one I now freely and gleefully past to you.
About the Author
A ravenous reader with equal passion for travel and the plotting of anything new, my love of words seemed, at times, a blotch on the very core of my DNA, and has been the recurrent source of many jests from my children—the title nerd has been established more than once. Yet the sound, meaning and inference, cannot be more beautiful than those in the notes of a newly toned word, or in the coupling of such to lay forth a vision. With as little as a single word we can open the world to those around us, garner a smile or lay bare intrigue. Yes, such morpheme can wrought a symphony when showcased at its best, doth those cords strum you as it does me? Then smile, as I am with you. Salacious and sweet, it wrung further forward as your key.
As you can see, I’m clearly odd in my thinking, odd in my views and downright peculiar in my descriptive and the structure in which I write. Among my many faults, a fact I’m sure you’ve already surmised, emotions are my perpetual weakness. I’m wooed by it, seduced and persuaded by it, touched and enthralled by the various colliery of it all. Whatever the scenario or the plot that charged through my thoughts, the emotional furor in each turn scramble just as eagerly through, be it harsh or be it sweet, the significance is still the same. It’s the medicine I search for when I read, it’s the way I interact with my children and, in many aspect, the way I live my life.
Giveaway
1 Paperback Copy for US Residents
1 Digital Copy for International Readers
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