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A Rusty Part, 10/3/2014

This little guy intrigued me one morning, my Fred was considering it for a part to his latest sculpture, and I knew I better take its portrait before it got welded into place…which it did later that day.

(I couldn’t find a good photo of Relic (the Beast), it’s a work in progress.)

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Milkweed Leaf and Sunshine, 10/3/2014

Milkweed Leaf and Sunshine, 10/3/2014

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The Grandmother Tree, Evening Light, and Rooftops, 10/16/2014
(phone photo)

The Grandmother Tree, Evening Light, and Rooftops, 10/16/2014

(phone photo)

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The Grandfather Tree and the Evening Light, 10/16/2014
(phone photo)
It’s been such a gloomy string of days…seeing the light on our old maple as we arrived home one night made me happy…as I knew this light is so fleeting, I didn’t run inside to get my good camera so I used my phone before the moment passed. (It was much more glorious just seconds before, I was busy enjoying it with my eyes, something many of us forget to do…)

The Grandfather Tree and the Evening Light, 10/16/2014

(phone photo)

It’s been such a gloomy string of days…seeing the light on our old maple as we arrived home one night made me happy…as I knew this light is so fleeting, I didn’t run inside to get my good camera so I used my phone before the moment passed. (It was much more glorious just seconds before, I was busy enjoying it with my eyes, something many of us forget to do…)

Photoset

The eyes…oh those eyes! 10/18/2014

Some people have a jack-in-the-box…I have black-in-the-box…the Little Monster loves boxes from Amazon. (What kitty doesn’t love a box, any box?)

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Three Roses, 10/3/2014

Three Roses, 10/3/2014

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Roses, 10/3/2014

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The Mark on a Wall, 10/4/2014

The Mark on a Wall, 10/4/2014

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Since we’re getting close to Halloween, I thought I should talk about my novel, Dusty Waters, A Ghost Story because it is a ghost story of a literary sort—I always wanted to write a ghost story. So I did.

The makings for the book boiled around in my brain for a very long time and I finally started writing it down in that sweet spot of creativity around 2001-2002—so, she was a long time in the making, but there are parts of her that were created in my imagination when I was quite a young little sponge running around during endless summer days doing the usual kid stuff and making up stories to tell my friends was part of my something to do, my mind was busy, busier than my body! I’d always begin with my hand to my heart swearing it was true! And from there I did my duty as a storyteller, usually pissing off my friends because I suckered them into believing the long elaborate lie that I just told (it’s just a story you guys, sheesh!) My little ghost story, “Dusty Waters” is partly built upon the stories that I used to tell my friends on those summer nights spent trespassing on the porch of an empty house we fondly called “The Witches House”, smoking cigarettes and giggling ourselves silly…even running off screaming into the night once because the story I was telling just became too intense—something about a baby buried in the basement "…and her ghostly cries could be heard to this day" and perfectly timed (I couldn’t have planned it if I tried), a baby in the house next door started to have a good cry about a crappy diaper—OMG it was hi-lar-ious! We ran and ran and ran—I never forgot it. Once I began to write the book I made a home for the smaller stories in a larger story, the ghosts, the house, the girl born at the tail end of the baby boom generation, growing up with a war on the six o’clock news, the hippies at Woodstock (one of them happened to be her sister, she had a dirty, stinky good time, she returned home with stories and songs to share) and her brother’s guitar that she learned to pick songs from the strings, so a folksinger was born.
The book is a ghost story. I’m compelled to challenge any misunderstanding that anyone may have about my intentions to call it such. Yes, it is more than a ghost story, it’s not all about the ‘boo-factor’ of scary ghosts; it is a ghost story that is about life as much as it is about death and the afterlife. In life there are scarier things than ghosts, and most of the time, it’s the living who are scary—the dead are beyond the living, some are poor souls caught in their final moments, and some have chosen to remain where they are in the existence in between here and moving on to wait, to watch, to witness.
The ghost story is the story that is not going to be told in the official “biography” of Dusty Waters being written by her childhood friend Katharine Tierney. Dusty Water’s has the gift to see them (or is it a curse?) She has a healthy respect for them, she has the right to be annoyed that they pester her with their existence; at times she is in danger of losing her mind because of their constant presence—that for me is a scary idea. Part of her ‘growing up’ is making peace with this ability, trying to understand them—their ‘why’, their ‘how come’. Her eventual intervention to help them move on by resolving the things that have haunted them beyond their physical existence is a gift that only someone with a brave heart can step in with an extended hand. It is a book about belief—whether it is belief in the existence of ghosts or God—in the end, it is imperative to believe in one’s self.
This ghost story is also about the ghosts of the past, history is what haunts us in subtle ways, the war in Vietnam has haunted us, the present day echoes are metaphorical spirits, poltergeists shaking their fingers, clanking chains of memory, only some of us are willing to take notice, see the parallels and try to make a difference—while there are the naysayers who declare there are no such thing as ghosts.
With all said here, I’ll never apologize for misleading anyone into their own expectations. John Steinbeck said it best of all when he was writing East of Eden: “It will not be what anyone expects and so the expecters will not like it. And until it gets to people who don’t expect anything and are just willing to go along with the story, no one is likely to like this book.”
Goodness knows, when I started writing Dusty Waters, A Ghost Story I had no idea where it was going, self-doubts raged and waned throughout the process, every writer goes through this, and I made peace with it. I’ve put her out there to be read—there is a commitment in reading a book, more than looking at a picture that I made. To the ones who have already read it, I say “Thank you!” I really do appreciate it. If you haven’t read it yet, please feel free to take her for a test drive to see if you like what you read through the available samples via Goodreads and Amazon—she’s a different girl.
That’s it for now.
No wait…here’s a bit of novel trivia—Dusty’s birthday is on Halloween.
And…another bit of trivia—the photo for the book cover is from the Fox Sister’s homestead site in Hydesville, NY that I took back in the late 1980’s before it was torn down.
Okay, now I’m done.

Since we’re getting close to Halloween, I thought I should talk about my novel, Dusty Waters, A Ghost Story because it is a ghost story of a literary sort—I always wanted to write a ghost story. So I did.

The makings for the book boiled around in my brain for a very long time and I finally started writing it down in that sweet spot of creativity around 2001-2002—so, she was a long time in the making, but there are parts of her that were created in my imagination when I was quite a young little sponge running around during endless summer days doing the usual kid stuff and making up stories to tell my friends was part of my something to do, my mind was busy, busier than my body! I’d always begin with my hand to my heart swearing it was true! And from there I did my duty as a storyteller, usually pissing off my friends because I suckered them into believing the long elaborate lie that I just told (it’s just a story you guys, sheesh!) My little ghost story, “Dusty Waters” is partly built upon the stories that I used to tell my friends on those summer nights spent trespassing on the porch of an empty house we fondly called “The Witches House”, smoking cigarettes and giggling ourselves silly…even running off screaming into the night once because the story I was telling just became too intense—something about a baby buried in the basement "…and her ghostly cries could be heard to this day" and perfectly timed (I couldn’t have planned it if I tried), a baby in the house next door started to have a good cry about a crappy diaper—OMG it was hi-lar-ious! We ran and ran and ran—I never forgot it. Once I began to write the book I made a home for the smaller stories in a larger story, the ghosts, the house, the girl born at the tail end of the baby boom generation, growing up with a war on the six o’clock news, the hippies at Woodstock (one of them happened to be her sister, she had a dirty, stinky good time, she returned home with stories and songs to share) and her brother’s guitar that she learned to pick songs from the strings, so a folksinger was born.

The book is a ghost story. I’m compelled to challenge any misunderstanding that anyone may have about my intentions to call it such. Yes, it is more than a ghost story, it’s not all about the ‘boo-factor’ of scary ghosts; it is a ghost story that is about life as much as it is about death and the afterlife. In life there are scarier things than ghosts, and most of the time, it’s the living who are scary—the dead are beyond the living, some are poor souls caught in their final moments, and some have chosen to remain where they are in the existence in between here and moving on to wait, to watch, to witness.

The ghost story is the story that is not going to be told in the official “biography” of Dusty Waters being written by her childhood friend Katharine Tierney. Dusty Water’s has the gift to see them (or is it a curse?) She has a healthy respect for them, she has the right to be annoyed that they pester her with their existence; at times she is in danger of losing her mind because of their constant presence—that for me is a scary idea. Part of her ‘growing up’ is making peace with this ability, trying to understand them—their ‘why’, their ‘how come’. Her eventual intervention to help them move on by resolving the things that have haunted them beyond their physical existence is a gift that only someone with a brave heart can step in with an extended hand. It is a book about belief—whether it is belief in the existence of ghosts or God—in the end, it is imperative to believe in one’s self.

This ghost story is also about the ghosts of the past, history is what haunts us in subtle ways, the war in Vietnam has haunted us, the present day echoes are metaphorical spirits, poltergeists shaking their fingers, clanking chains of memory, only some of us are willing to take notice, see the parallels and try to make a difference—while there are the naysayers who declare there are no such thing as ghosts.

With all said here, I’ll never apologize for misleading anyone into their own expectations. John Steinbeck said it best of all when he was writing East of Eden: “It will not be what anyone expects and so the expecters will not like it. And until it gets to people who don’t expect anything and are just willing to go along with the story, no one is likely to like this book.”

Goodness knows, when I started writing Dusty Waters, A Ghost Story I had no idea where it was going, self-doubts raged and waned throughout the process, every writer goes through this, and I made peace with it. I’ve put her out there to be read—there is a commitment in reading a book, more than looking at a picture that I made. To the ones who have already read it, I say “Thank you!” I really do appreciate it. If you haven’t read it yet, please feel free to take her for a test drive to see if you like what you read through the available samples via Goodreads and Amazon—she’s a different girl.

That’s it for now.

No wait…here’s a bit of novel trivia—Dusty’s birthday is on Halloween.

And…another bit of trivia—the photo for the book cover is from the Fox Sister’s homestead site in Hydesville, NY that I took back in the late 1980’s before it was torn down.

Okay, now I’m done.

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A Rose, 10/3/2014

A Rose, 10/3/2014