a Novel (WIP of course)

One of my aspirations in life is to write a complete novel.  It may take me years, but I have started one and maybe I will finish it one day.  I suppose that depends on how it develops.  They are quite organic things, I never really knew that until I began trying to write one.  Some of you (brother and sister) saw a very early draft that was really pretty dumb, this one has some substance to it I think (well..more than before).  Without further ado, here it is, and any feedback is certainly welcome.

Novel (untitled)

By Joshua James Farrow

Chapter UNO

Wood grain patterns shifted imperceptibly creating the fur of the mice who spoke to a small innocent child girl. A girl that had walked in minutes ago upon entering had felt at once the sudden primal urge to scream “Ahhh” and so she did. Yeah she yelled so high and long at those camouflaged floorboard rodents. She shrieked like a female cat under a fleecy blanket enjoying a nap and dreaming of an endless feast on plump mice that was suddenly awoken by the harshness of reality in the form of a large human foot to the tail.

Thenshe (the girl or the cat) abruptly left, quick like the almost unclockable time between phonetic pronunciation of then and she put together. The house with the tree-ring mice consciously uprooted itself and floated after her (the girl).

Terrible reeds and pines and weeds came with the house chasing her through dreams, which as everyone knows can be quite the haunt. For this she would be troubled in life and strangely, she would always hear it from strangers first. Strangers who would never see a floating house, mice sporting lignified fashion, or any of those things. She wanted to escape this dream, but it was not lucid. She would have to wait until morning to outrun her daemons.

Chapter DUES

Ma and Pa were waiting by the iceplace. They were naked, drinking iced tea on a hot winter’s night. The couple was waiting for their dues to come so they could die and live happily ever after after they paid them.

They were also waiting for their daughter, they had seen her scream and whispered quietly for her, “Please come, what is wrong?” It was a ghost’s whisper, like a feather rustling faintly through the wind in the middle of a city full of bustle, the sound was there but it was not. They knew she was asleep, but it was normal for her to be asleep and it was not abnormal to hear such screams. So though it was the norm they still felt a need to act like decent, caring parents and indulge their daughter, asking “What is wrong?” But they did so ever so silently so as not to wake there daughter from her life in her dreams. It was their kiss dressed as whisper. The essence of parenthood, to be there and to not be there, to provide the illusion of support but to allow for development. Things weren’t so different here.

Chapter ST. JAMES

Hallelujah. That’s what the group said in one pretty song of a word, a word with its own melody if said with the full spirit of the Lord. Pray God. Echoing beauty. Hallelujah.

James did not agree with them, but he didn’t mind them one bit and thought their innocence and apparent naivety made them quite cute.

The group helped the homeless, donated money, had endless faith, and was full of such pride that they would martyr if asked with just a cherry on top, no please necessary. They were also very strictly evangelical. Hallelujah.

James could see this in the way that they walked, and talked. He promptly decided that in order to avoid any awkwardness he would nonchalantly avert his eyes from them and walk another way, remaining indifferent to anything they spouted, both the preaching and cursing that came hidden in a single collective breath.

Walking, nay marching, and then running, chasing. Hallelujah.

Stones were thrown and then in the end much blood was spilt, this was the way of the crusader. James’ final thought during his final blood-gurgling troubled breath was “But sister, it’s the opposite of Hallelujah.” It came out as a whisper.

Chapter TREES

The dreamy girl, as of yet unnamed, is Annalina. Her mom had once been a nun at St. James’ church. The nunnery wasn’t for her mother however because she married her father, who had previously worked at the cannery. They built a quaint house out of trees in a forest canopy to escape the wild city. Here they had wild sex daily in any position they wanted until Annalina was born, this is the story her mother had told Annalina, and it was almost true. They still had sex.

Annalina met many strangers in her dreams, and she dreamed often preferring to sleep the day away in a world much more exciting than her home in the trees.

One such stranger was a very confused vehicle named Harold who has continuous access to an internet quote database while anywhere on the planet. Another was a very sane metaphysicist living with bozo inbreds. Harold and the sane metaphysicist named Jim met frequently in the rich landscape of their very different mindscapes.

They always told Annalina in a matter-of-factual manner that she would be troubled in life, and she always kindly replied that she would disregard their prophecy because she did not lead any life at all, she just slept.

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Fireworks I-IV

Last night was a great night; there were fireworks in downtown Augusta that I watched from an old cathedral style Methodist church’s parking lot right next door to my old Post-Civil War/Victorian style apartment. After transcribing the 4 one minute recordings I made on my cell phone to my journal and now onto the blog for you (all 2 or 3 of you ;), it is needless to say that I was not in a normal state of mind, but you will see for yourself:

“Fireworks create dandelions…roses, and orchids of light. And spiders drift across the sky, the remnants of beautiful explosions. The spiders are pale grey on a deep black and they grow with the light, proportionally. I love the spiders, the light in the sky. Even with all this…there’s still…life goes on behind me. Sirens blare and cars drive by. Truly is an awesome sight, to see the bugs of light, fly high, on and on…”

“We got fireworks; we got fire…The blasts of explosion after explosion. Bullet wounds of light. The sound trails behind (the light), as if to be a tortoise and a hare. Spider webs in front of me as if it was strewn from the clouds above of artificial smoke. Still the bugs continue to grow in three dimensional arrays, …(mumbling)…look like the spider, and the web, and the forest, palm trees, and evergreens. So beautiful, but still life goes…”

“There is a car parked behind me where a couple sits. Ugh, I feel embarrassed talking, satisfying at the same time. (Fireworks loudly go off in the background, and here I yell over them into the phone) An array, or a volley! A volley of fire after fire. Now it’s like clouds. Stratusphere, stratus clouds. Not cumulus, stratus…or maybe cumuloningus, I think…cumuloningus…nimbus. And now the light forms planets and stars, warping them from trillions of light years away for our viewing on Earth. This is my last recording for now, the Sun is appearing, (…mumbling…) the artificial Sun.”

“Creativity always comes in a flash of light. Yeah it does… Smiling bugs fluttering across the night sky, away from their brothers and sisters, to form shapes and inspire humans. Children, and adults. It’s phlatonic…photonic happiness. That’s what it is… A chemical reaction, a series…”

G 14h16, D 16 on a surely out of tune bass.

For the first time in my life, tonight the guitar worked for me.  The clear, powerful, beautiful, steady sound is exuded from Fender Rad, rippling through the air in majestic waves.

The bassy beast and I were not at war, but at peace.  Three notes creating near-endless aural, musical complexity.  Rythym entrancing, one with everything, rocking OUT.  Fingers sore but you ignore it, in the zone, euphoric and gratifying.  I understand what it means to create tonight.  It was so simple, just had to let go.


“Science is by and large concerned with what is, not what we should do or how we should behave.  Science can inform these discussions, but cannot decide them.”

I think science can most definitely decide them.  Once the subject has been studied to exhaustion, then mastered intellectually, then regurgitated in a layman’s translation for the public, it begins to be decided (sometimes  a 10-1000 year process).  Until it is decided, people have very passionate discussions trying to convince one another through clever argumentative techniques that they are the correct ones.  Eventually science wins out, once the majority of the public is educated and it becomes common knowledge, the issue is no longer argued with any sort of passion (plants having feelings, the sun being a God, women being inferior, evolution, etc.).  It is true that not all subjects up for discussions have scientific “answers,” however (God?).

The Stranger Garden (oldie but a goodie)

The Stranger Garden, home to someone new
Among the stones and leaves that turn to dust;
Cherry-lipped, a flower coloured rust.
The cold ripples, a mirror formed by dew,
The underwater shyness that copies you:
A bashful boy, a scholar shamed by lust,
A painful starve for nothing more than trust.
And this, a word across the daunting blue:
A shout kept down by miles of doubt and woes,
With empty hands, it floats around the bend
To winter town, where no one ever goes.
The lightest sound, it died to fight the wind.
An icy breeze: a kiss dressed as a whisper.
No-confidence men, they always miss her.

Thanks to Zach Farrow (Gypsy Lines) for some help on this one awhile back.

All’s not fair

Even the most renowned of artists on occassion produce shit, utter shit.  Helpless to the muse’s wishings, writing whatever comes out of the mind.  The mind is a country, some parts barren and the people uneducated, some parts metropolis and refined.  Sometimes tangents lead to seemingly boring farms, or deserts.  The best, the most creative, find beauty even in these landscapes.  Transform a locale that no one would ever even think to know into a bustling mental masterpiece.  The obvious routes, places, and things have all been talked about, gobbled up for centuries as fast as they come into existence.  The deserted, the abstract, they are the hardest to milk for artistic beauty but are the most satisfying, for you pioneered the way.

Nostalgia, in the water

Shadows sculpt frozen daggers that hang over home’s front porch, in wait,
The Sun, ancient and naive, helps a slippery black death expand its borders,
Night progresses, innocent waters are rigidly bound, their free will oppressed by
the cold,
All of this, from a day’s beautiful snowfall.

Errant rays of light paint monochromatic bands onto canvas; a dynamic, fluid prism,
The Moon, dull yet wondrous, elegantly reflects the mark of its fiery life-giver into a puddle,
Where life is there and it is not, a random dance of microflora and fauna, invisible yet possible
with warmth,
All of this, from a night’s dreary rainstorm.