Why did I Write a Science Fiction Novel


, ,

To the science fiction writer and the greater command of language, few subjects could have appeared to possess more futuristic capability than the use of robots with artificial intelligence. If this is desireable (sic), then I use this word as an archaic but expressive term. Here old world language has the opportunity of displaying a more interesting narrative style when the adventure is spun as futuristic, while in fact robots and AI are real now and not so legendary. One might call forward the powers of science and technology to awaken sympathies of readers with a leaning toward science fiction, however, I think this would ultimately fail. To this note I assembled chapter after chapter more like a distinguished artist creates today in contemporary and supportive style, in an effort to show off an intimate guesswork of a blending of the arts, science and technology. I will let the readers decide that it was a blending and not collision that I had in mind.

The differences between what a writer wrote and what a reader read may be considerable, however, in the custom of critique the similarities may be as striking. On a whole, I think, this attempt at originality cannot be easily contested, because I have taken an idea and put it into form in a mode of treating the future as a subject of artistic endeavor, relying on my understanding of science and technology of the past through the present, whereby I am (responsibly) reasoning beyond the tool using requisite knowledge. I hope that this will serve as proof that my goal was to be a diligent enquirer, intimately acquainted with such that this contemporary attempt has been fabricated judiciously, and augmented as a pretty good tale in all probability.

Those who knew me during my stay among three decades of advanced technology platforms might recall, that I did this all along. But now, this is the first time that compositional technique allows me to be a master of ceremony going forward.



Marshal the Words of an Instrument in late September


, , , ,


Business Blast September 2017

This is a new release for September 2017. This is one wild travel odyssey: container ships taking on a cruise ship vibe, locally and internationally, visits to a forbidden place, a life long friendship, and then the woman they both wanted, dominating perhaps lessening with the tides to come.

Continuum Discerned New Release


, , , ,

Am I noble? Certainly, and why not. Being single again may weaken me in the initial phase, but given the all important attraction of what can become, and why and because, well this certainly may offer me several successful avenues as well. You see, I have wanted to sell this property and head south for the longest time. My most pressing dilemma is a lack of steady sun, and the need to obtain more while moving closer to my favorite Pacific coastline, and the best in northern California: when valor overcomes and the succession of affection is first hand and foremost, I have to recognize me as the source of my being done as soon as I arrive (everything else is an interim phase).

This is humor; this is a parody.

New Release: Conciliatory Arbitration


, , , ,

Conciliatory Arbitration is an anthology of sorts. It can be argued that an anthology is not an ascertained fact. The writer examines the cause of the natural occurrence and decides which was embedded and that which touches the edge in awkward places. I suppose I viewed this force as an accident while another might conclude that it was nature’s will. Either way the anthology is preserved by nothing less than vision and how it subdues.


Still Life to Absorb Attention


THAT WHICH SATISFIES me most is a fine still life; to discern the the role they play these miniature stories of fate leave pleasurable impressions requiring scrutiny and prolonged curiosity. The unique consequence of a good still life is that it is a statement alone describing everything natural, in fact as an essay, poetry or prose. One finds everything simple, smaller and lesser, a horizontal line holds all movement, tops and bottoms represent the sky and then the horizon; surely this is realism enough to anyones imagination. Was that what I drank last night?


Those who enter suddenly into the still life are likely to mingle as I do now. One thing setting off another: this appears to be my bias alone: everything admirable enough when it moves, bound by the superb cropping of photographer and designer. If this conveys well, to wipe my face of the perspiration while I contemplate until I become less bewildered, all objects turning my eyes, toward the comprehensible arrangement of objects in front of someone’s camera: a simple bowl of fruit.


It is perilous to look at them as lesser compositions, and yet I feel obliged to meet the dare: at my impulse and at my temptation: turning my head away would be the equivalence of aesthetic bankruptcy. I confess this fact: are you able to see its captured moment, as an inhabitant to its universe, and each time something becomes more shapeless until I look back, to compare and contrast this conscious effort as all encompassing. Other art is instinctively worth valuing, with continued fortune I behold that I have switched to logic and reason; this scenario has landed, surrendering rights to any other sovereign domain that these still life sustain: some in color and others in black and white. Is this what I will drink tomorrow.


The Haiku as Descriptor


, , , ,

Haiku: it consists of only a certain number of lines and syllables; brush strokes one supposes; but in each word or stroke there is a yet to be discovered revelation that bears witness to the illuminating moment along its entire length. It is not surprising that what attracts me to the haiku is its personality, and the supreme pleasure of being impressed by its simplicity without provocation.

A Dream Of Empty Distance


, , ,

Is it all real
I have been thinking
For a minute or so,
A experience prolonged,
One of those dreams
Departing from normal,
Exploring an empty room
And more inclined to stay a while

It is surely bewitching traveling along side of the river for most of the morning, knowing that I have another half to return. At a rare place I was able to turn off to see a crumpling brick building with enough flair that it warrants investigation. Of course it is kind of grotesque at first glance and I really meant to keep on going. But there was something worth watching for a while longer; hanging on to every side of the building my sights are bound to make sure I have witnessed enough of it.


Sure it was enough: an open door, opaque windows, a seemingly electric vibe that causes me to gasp. Now I am too lost in it; looking long enough and not having found anything else to linger over. This was my concerted plan: neither staying or being raptured about it, though it strikes me nonetheless. It has the same advantage of theater, except that nothing of it moves at all.


This one in particular holds its own: at any rate, I have not been moved to leave the area just yet. I want to have something to say about them: poetry or prose: the admission reaches deeply inside and I am at a more polite juncture. They need to be explained, this position a splendid one, converging lines holding steady from north to west.

There is at this moment nothing else to hold my interest, with the exception of rows of vines nauseatingly repeating. I just drove by several thousand at a glance, more or less resolute, and there is another ten thousand to go. Would the loss of any one of them mean that I might not be drinking wine tonight?


Nothing resists the invader’s mind; there is nothing to do but stop counting rows and explore the inside of this building for real. The passage from outside to inside is child’s play. There are rectangular opening at the beginning and end of this building, sidings held up in place by reinforcement, and the lines of full pained windows cut clean allowing ample sunlight to stream in.

This is the transient nature of transitioning from nature to artificial formation and back again. Step out, stepping back in it is though I am enveloped in a valley between steady brick walls. There is nothing narrow about this place; everything is changing with the reflections and shadows on the floor. It is a landscape: abandoned at all: the indefensible.

One arrives, one leaves. I saw more of this the longer I stayed: empty space with the freedom to become something, separate from the sky above and the ground below, letting me pursue it. It is even fooling me into believing that it is a middle distance between the sky and the ground, existing by and for itself.


My experience is not to be confuse for a greater conversation. I remained because I could not put my finger on leaving. I have long been accustomed to hanging around because I have a camera and a voice recorder, and staying just long enough that it could have gone either way.

This was my concerted plan. And in the greater ending I exchange my farewell greeting and leave with a lazy tolerance of business at hand. Sometimes it is just as hard to arouse me as it is to subdue.

The Air in Paris

The Air in Paris is a subjective view of growing older and knowing that cut-off point. Science is driving life to the point where one hundred years old is becoming the norm. Should it; it would seems that this should still be a matter of personal taste; left alone it is a marketing driven idea. The facts then, are as follows: restlessness is an art form, conscience is a means of shepherding, and laughter in the face of death is a genuine ideal. Undoubtedly modern medicine, if called upon often enough, is an act which can be used to perform a symbiotic dance in the business of living longer than fully expected. Whether or not we should prolong life is a whole different set of question and answers, so it might appear in this century at an extreme. We should certainly strive to have as many answers to this one pressing question, regardless of the reality if living longer brings happiness and dying slower brings a more sure closure. One supposes one would have more time to subjectively conclude one way or the other, if the long or the short of it is good or bad by attitude, belief and value alone, or taken together. But what if we do this in mass?


A Desert Odyssey


, , ,

The Palm Desert area is a strange place. On the contrary I have discovered that it is a mix of surprise elements that I cherish and ponder as impossible at the same time. You see dryness and a lot of nothingness at first glance. After all, this used to be a literal sea. But look closer and impossibly longer and one is exposed to an interesting enough ecological niche to withstand the heat of a never ending, endless summer. We rose daily to wonderful sun rises, long hot afternoons, and most impressive sun sets. Enjoy this pictorial and prose summary of our slow trip to a place we had never visited before.