From my acre of the world...

I just finished reading The Grass is Singing a few days ago, it’s one of those books that is haunting…as a writer/reader I read both to be entertained and to learn the craft of writing…I love finding such books that stick in my head long after they are done, Doris Lessing is one of those fantastic writers who I wished that I had read a very long time ago, but it is never too late to discover her, she’s quite an amazing lady. Being a writer is a brave process of practice, patience, and persistence, it isn’t for the faint of heart and once published and it’s out there in the world, the book falls into the hands of lovers and haters, a writer then must have a thick skin for it. When she received some guff about The Golden Notebook for being “unfeminine” in her depiction of female anger and aggression, Lessing responded, “Apparently what many women were thinking, feeling, experiencing came as a great surprise.” Indeed, women are such surprising creatures—a woman writer especially so, when she writes something that is unexpected or perhaps seen as “unbecoming”—or some such nonsense, apparently being honest, speaking her mind, and telling it like it is unlady-like. Even after all this time… Whatever—

The Grass is Singing is one of those books that can be painful to read because of its honesty—the true story of what was—the brutal spell of an unforgiving history. I truly love Doris Lessing’s writing—after reading The Golden Notebook a few months ago, I decided I needed to start from the beginning and read her very first novel. She’s consistent, gritty and grim—honest—isn’t it strange that such authenticity can emerge from fiction? Stories that are made up and full of a writer’s lies—veiled truths scratching an autobiographical itch, not necessarily about oneself, but from the vein of being a witness of such things—such things that you can’t make up because they really do happen. To write it down and put it out there is one way to tell the truth no matter how painful—the unfairness maddening. There’s a distinctive warmth that comes through in her work that makes it as unique as her DNA—this warmth is from her passion for writing, and there is patience in her prose. She insists that there is beauty in the ugliness of life and she wants to share it with her readers. The reality of women’s lives have not been glossed over here—not a man is left unsullied—the characters are flawed and true, no one is perfect (even the population who think they are the shit-don’t-stink cream-o’-the-crop, are far from perfect human beings.) Her stories about Africa fascinate me because it is so raw out there—the land and people have been so incredibly wounded by time, nature, conquerors, dictators, and ignorance. Doris Lessing packs so much power in words from page one to the last—this book is a rare beauty. (Shhh—listen, the grass is singing.)

Looking beyond my acre of the world - but there was fog that day, 3/10/2013

I raked a few words together, like just right now, tonight - words that have been on my mind for days, yet many have been there for years. So I put them out here, they are raw, a poe-em of sorts, in need of refining. Its name is “Vexation.”

I am vexed. It is all commonplace at first glance—as it should be—
The sky is blue—or gray depending on the weather—there is snow
now—grass will come later—the bare bones of trees have
buds waiting to burst, but when I take a careful look
around—I know better than that.
I could wake up screaming some times,
but I don’t. Screaming solves nothing. What will be—
will be. Indeed. Where do I dare to look?
No blood.
There or there. No—wait—
wait for it—maybe? Ah, no, I’m wrong.
It’s a photograph of trauma—the latest life drama
right there on the front page—right there on the television
and there on the latest gadget screen. Where to look first?
Don’t blink.
Don’t look away. Dang, it’s another train wreck of yet
another individual
blowing their wad—their existence—
constituted misery—making a mess for others to clean up.
So much loss happened long before the aftermath.
Someone dropped the ball between here and there.
Shit, they didn’t look both ways. Don’t you know by now?
Stop – Look - Listen for the two sides to the story.
Don’t you see? Can’t you see?
Amend—make amends—amendments—
Adjust yourself—ourselves—
in keeping with the situation.
Running around putting out fires,
it’s all gone before you know it—
before you knew you had it.
Don’t blink
or you’ll miss it.
Just a moment—a moment of being. Be.
I wonder ‘how come’. What the fuck, right? Seriously.
Some days I feel like I’m running a marathon while standing still.
Beleaguered. Belabored. Be. Been.
The cold Winter wind that lingers on the Spring equinox breath
is disheartening. My feet are chilled, but I’ll get over it.
Some are sure it’s just a phase we’re in—adjusting.
The world is appalling to me—these days
I am vexed
by it all. Tired. Dead dog tired
of the latest ‘it’ thing. It is—it was—it will be—
It and the many things ‘it’ is—or possibly
can be.
My head can just about pop off my body from thinking—
listening to it all. Whose side are you on—you chose.
Right or left—wrong or right. My country ‘tis of thee—
What happened to my sweet land of liberty? Of thee I—
Of thee… See? I can’t even sing the words—my vexation runs deep.
So I chose to laugh at the way things are—shake my head
in wonder of it all. Disbelief—how come—how now,
dear old brown cow.
I hope to be safe
here on my acre of the world—my home sweet home—
the one place I can call my own—there are no guarantees of that either—no matter what I do—
staying out of it while being in the middle of it all.
No wonder I’m so vexed.

LJW 3/20/2013

Photos I found…my first book signing at Fat Cats in Johnson City, NY, 5/2/2009

Really…those poor old glasses bit the dust, I loved them until they fell apart and were beyond repair…oh, they got me through many hair-pulling edits of that little ghost story I’m holding in my hands…

As I reflect on it four years after its publication, I still love it, and have found the reactions of readers very interesting—no surprises—it’s one of those ‘love it’ or ‘hate it’ books. Dusty Waters, A Ghost Story is a literary fiction novel, it is not the usual ghost story with a haunted house—oh, yes, Tanglewood is very haunted, but it’s a ghost story as much about life as it is about death. It’s a coming of age story and a story about coming to terms with the past. Dusty Waters, as a little girl with a gift of seeing ghosts, is haunted by the spirits drifting in the hallways of her ancestral home, and haunted by the past containing a family history, a nation’s history, and a generation’s history, as well as her personal story. Dusty Waters, as a woman, standing well over six feet tall, wild curly hair with big feet and a big nose, is a folksinger in the tradition of folksingers of the Boomer generation with a growling voice like Janis Joplin, but her guitar is tuned with the Punk edge of the Gen-X kids who show up at her concerts looking to hear songs about the truth of “what was” and presently that “it goes like this.” She pulls no punches as she belts out her songs, but in her own personal life, she’s barely scratching the surface of being honest with herself. She’s scared to go home to face the ghosts that haunt her there, and scared to live without them. Coming home at last, she has steeled herself to sit down with her friend, Katharine, to tell her story for the official biography of the folksinger—but there are parts of that story she will never tell a soul—except maybe one, but she lost him along the way and needs to go find him.

Yes, yes, shameless self-promotion…sorry! But I gotta do it from time to time just in case you might want to read it someday. I’m an indie author and my books are indie published, I’m on my own in this little adventure. Dusty Waters is available as a paperback original via Amazon.com and as an e-book for Kindle and NOOK. 

Water meets sky in a symmetrical composition of blue. The intense cerulean aloft fades as it descends toward the sharp-edged horizon — below is an impressionist study comprised of reflected golden sunlight and shimmering continuous motion. The undulating surface mirrors the brilliant sky above and meshes with what lies below the surface, the color shifts from gray to blue to green. The polished cobblestones of muted hues clatter with a joyous laughter within the white-capped ridges that rush forward, as a final stroke onto a windy shore of light-capturing sand. The soft fringe of beach is strewn with prehistoric driftwood bones, and other peculiar artifacts that are brought forth, or reclaimed by the waves. Patience and a practiced eye will catch sight of colored gems hidden amongst the sand, stones, and waves. Broken shards, reshaped by the elements and time, once considered refuse, are now seen as precious and rare to find. Beach glass, sea glass, washed glass, betrayed by its transparent nature, revealed in sunlight among common pebbles, they become treasure found or forever lost, crushed by stones and smoothed by water—they regress into grains of sand, they evolve and return to whence they came. – from page 1 of Washed Glass, an unpublished novel by Laura J. W. Ryan

There are people in our country who can’t figure out why so many people around the world hate America. At the age of six, I couldn’t comprehend why anyone would hate us, especially with Lady Liberty holding up her torch in the New York Harbor with her promise of freedom for the tired, the poor, and the huddled masses—but now that I’m all grown up—I can understand why. As I line up our presidents from my short history—Johnson, Nixon, Ford, Carter, Reagan, Bush, Clinton, and then Junior Bush—there are people out there baffled by the animosity toward our country because they don’t want to believe the worst in others—especially the ones in charge. If there is a lesson to learn in all of this, it is important to know your history—all of it, not just the whitewashed parts that they tell you in school. Take the time to look up some of those important dates they expect you to memorize for college entrance exams. Read about what was going on at the time, not just the great achievements of great men, read about the injustices and the ignorance, read about the arts—there’s a lot of history in those paintings hanging in the Louvre, the monuments in Rome, even the pyramids in Egypt. Read literature, especially guys like Shakespeare, he can tell you a thing or two if you use your head and think about what he’s saying—read between the lines. It is important to read what’s out there—it is food for the mind. If you happen to read the Bible from cover to cover, don’t accept it as gospel, and please don’t take it literally. Always keep in mind that it has been translated from a few ancient languages before English. Keep in mind who did the translation, and investigate who has been implementing the word of God and what political agenda inspired them. The Bible offers a written backbone for the things that are happening now, don’t view it as a prophesy of things to come—history has a bad habit of repeating itself—politicians and nations with special interests have manipulated an entire region, trying to mold it into something it will never be. Between you, me, and the post at Coogee Beach that some might say looks like the Virgin Mary in the right light, history tends to repeat itself, just like some people like to tell the same fucking story over and over and over again—and I’ve heard this story all before, only this time we are Rome. Be sensible, don’t let yourself be spoon-fed rhetoric, pick up a newspaper, watch the news—the journalists are documenting the present for history later. Please, for your sake, arm yourself with knowledge—there is no bliss in ignorance. Apathy is the overrated protection of that rock you’re hiding under—your apathy is a crime against yourself, and it is a crime against society.

–pages 105-106, from the novel, Dusty Waters, A Ghost Story by Laura J. W. Ryan, Field Stone Press, ©2007.

I write about ghosts in this novel, it isn’t a traditional ghost story in the paranormal sense of genre, so don’t go into it expecting a “boo”…yes, there are ghosts and a haunted house in it…but I also tap into the metaphorical ghosts…the that haunt us from the past…yeah, it’s about that…it’s a book about the living as much as it is about the dead.

Night Haze, 2007 (pencil drawing from sketchbook)

My essay on Free Will and Determinism was just posted at Red Lemonade this morning…

I thought this little drawing fit the essay nicely…

My novel, The Fractured Hues of White Light is now available on Kindle.

The cover art is one of my paintings, “Walking on the Sun” an acrylic wash on BFK Rives paper, 12 x 10 inches. The cover design is by my Fred.

It is a literary fiction novel about Samantha Ryder, a young autistic woman who is an artist; it is because of her handicap that she often fails to articulate her emotions with an appropriate demonstration, so the complex emotion of love is an enigma. Ironically, the ‘normal people’ who surround her are just as incapable of communicating their feelings, creating a sense of isolation full of things left unsaid.

It’s a big book…it took years to write, years to edit, and years to get it published…writing novels is just one of the things I do…must do.

In spite of the bright yellow cover it is a bit dark…but with dark there is light, so it’s not bad stuff happening all the time…it’s just a story.

Ghost to Ghost…front matter from Dusty Waters, a ghost story