From a Porch, With Earphones. . . .

“I saw a meme today, on some social site or another, which basically said ‘turn off the news and love your neighbor.’   It sounded like excellent advice.  I now have a black eye and a few restraining orders pending against me.”

“Mona Lisa must’ve had the highway blues. . . you can tell by the way she smiles.”

God almighty, that Bob Dylan.  I think about the level, about the plane of existence, he must occupy, differing at different times, and I sometimes shed a tear over it.  There are some things that just. . . some music that. . . I can’t. . . I simply digress.  It’s like liquid Kerouac, distilled through filters of Eliot and Pound above a blue-flame of Faulkner, with guitar.  That’s what I say.  But the man himself would say simply Guthrie, only in a past life and not this one.  Never this one, because for talent like Dylan, this one hasn’t even been solidified yet.  We’ll know more about 2017 Bob Dylan in 2021, after time to digest it and spit out some sort of media-conforming descriptors.  Rest assured, those descriptors will be trendy at the time.

Anyway, good evening out there in Blog-and-BlogReader-Land.  I hope all fares well with each and every one of  you.  As for me, yesterday was a bust, which put immense pressure on today.  But it’s all gonna be okay now, because I surpassed the 2600 and hit 3148.  I won’t spend too much time patting myself on the back, though.  Is it really an achievement when you had it coming?

Instead, I’ll spend my time (and by time I simply mean my post) whining, because everyone loves to hear some whining.  It must be true, or half the news wouldn’t exist and if that happened, that other half of the news would seem so stale and utterly factual.  I saw a meme today, on some social site or another, which basically said “turn off the news and love your neighbor.”   It sounded like excellent advice.  I now have a black eye and a few restraining orders pending against me.

I kid, of course.

So, what is it I’m whining about?

Basically just that I have committed myself, for now, to this series. . . this oceanic adventure thing.  And I want to also explore other things, other avenues.  I want to “stream out” as I call it, like Faulkner, like Eliot.  Like the words of Bob Dylan.  Oh hellz naw I’m not claiming I have even 0.5% of their talent.

I’m just saying I have that desire. . . that almost trendy-hipster desire, to sit outside at some downtown café in the near-future Autumn and just write about whatever the hell.  There’s a crisp-ness to it.  A literal coolness, palpable to the skin first and the spirit inevitably.  Autumn.  The best.  A cigarette.  A friend or two perhaps.  An afternoon of un-obligated freedom that rolls over into evening like a slow train from the Smokeys.  That Nashville meets New Orleans vibe.

Sometimes I wonder what I’m doing. . . what I’ve gotten myself into.  I enjoy the oceanic adventure genre.  It has a uniqueness to it, and I do love my characters.  When I first conceived of the series, I saw it as virtually limitless in terms of the directions it could go and the plot-lines that were possible.  I still think that’s true.  There’s a certain beauty to that, all its own.  But sometimes, just sometimes. . . it can be like pancakes.  I want that first bite excitement back.

I’ll get it.  I know this.  The series is still a blast. . .  to imagine, to work on.  First-World problems, man.  It’s time to veg out with some 3DS.  It would seem that the fate of all of Valentia is in my hands.

Author: Benjamin Brunson

Benjamin Brunson (born 1975) started writing at the age of 7, when his father encouraged his pounding out of stories about a certain movie archaeologist on a family typewriter. He grew up in an era when action movies were iconic, and comic books were a mere 75 cents and available at every grocery store and corner gas station. His imagination was further fueled by a mother who introduced him to books and reading at an early age, eventually gifting him with copies of Treasure Island and 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. That same mother would also bestow upon him a deep love and respect for the ocean and a good storm. Brunson would go on to participate in a creative writing magnet school program in his high school years in Montgomery, Alabama, where he became co-editor of the program’s literary magazine under the tutelage of Jerry Lawrence. At Auburn University, he majored in English and Literature, and quickly landed a spot as the film critic for the campus newspaper. The professors he would encounter in his collegiate career, namely Dr. Oliver Billingslea and Dr. Suzie Paul, would inspire him and help shape and steer his lifelong dream of creating fiction. In 2003, a major television network would cancel Brunson’s favorite sci-fi show about a group of ragtag misfits who, aboard a cargo spacecraft, took on various odd jobs in order to cull out a living and keep on flying. Feeling as if a deep void had been created in his life from the loss of the show, Brunson channeled his love for the ocean and began scribbling the notes for a handful of newly created characters and locations. These notes would, fourteen years later, form the basis for his monthly oceanic adventure saga, Blue Daunia.

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