The Four Chambers of Xiao-tep -- The First Chamber

I've been meditating upon a lot of things lately. Counted amongst those things is the next Xiao-tep tale. As I've said elsewhere, this is be the final The Children of Gods novel wherein Xiao-tep will be featured as a prominent character. He will evolve quite a bit, starting fairly early on in the novel. There have always been hints of Morihei Ueshiba-sensei within Xiao-tep and that should become immensely clear within this forthcoming novel. For those not in the know, Morihei Ueshiba was a master martial artist and founder of Aikido. It is said he had a moment of discovery and enlightenment one day wherein he came to understand that martial arts is not about fighting, but mastery of self so one may become centered and, ultimately, learn to love the world.

I would not compare myself to such an exalted sensei as Morihei Ueshiba, but my meditations have been similarly inclined as his thoughts.

I've made quite a few good friends in a very short period of time lately. Each has come forward to express care, concern and friendship to me in intimate ways -- from saying they don't want to ever lose me to simply hugging me whenever they've seen me. It's a beautiful thing to have friends.

I'll also be in California in just about 28 weeks. I'll see some friends I've not seen in 4 years; some I've not seen in 7 years; and a couple I've not seen in something like 14 years. I'm looking forward to seeing them all, to checking in with them in person, to sharing time and smiles together, to telling them I love them.

I've found my center recently in the simple statement I made within the personal essay titled "I Am My Pen". Now my task in life is shifting towards simply loving the world.

Xiao-tep will soon do the same.

Takin' Care of Business

I'm taking this week off. Last week was pretty rough on me. Actually, March has been pretty rough on me. I'm a 'lil afraid of getting burnt out on writing so last Sunday I decided not to write this week, but to take this week off. This includes not blogging anything major. Therefore, I'm blogging this week a recap of my future plans for writing. Here they are:

1.) Finish typing up the latest science fiction novel, Silent Night, in March

2) Perhaps start working on a script in March

3.) Begin writing the next fantasy wuxia The Children of Gods novel in April

4) Publish Issue #14 of If - E - Zine(tm) on May 13th.

5) Continue to work on the fantasy wuxia novel

6.) Finish the fantasy wuxia novel in October

That's it for now.

Love, peace and respect.

~ Charles

P.S.: I also now have ANOTHER Twitter account. I'll try actually using this one. To tell you the truth: I can't stand Twitter, but it provides me with more coverage. Check it out:

http://twitter.com/charlesshaver

Confessions of a Demon

I'm scared of what's wrong with me. I don't know why. I've walked through so much crap without scathing, without blinking, without hesitation and with furious purpose. But now, with blood tests showing oxygen low and red blood cells high, I'm worried.

Fear is death. I'm running. "Heart and lung failure" is something I've known was possible all my life. But now that I've heard it distinctly, directly, not just possibly, I am running, afraid. What does one write about when afraid? Weakness, I suppose. I don't think I'm afraid of appearing weak in front of others. I'm simply afraid of being weak in any respect. Weakness, for me, is not shortcomings of character or moral obligations; but rather an incapacity to exercise influence over one's current condition. That's me now. If my house is dirty, I clean it. If my car is leaking transmission fluid, I replace a gasket. But what do I do when my heart and lungs may be failing?

I guess, so far, I run. I'm two weeks out from finding a solution or ultimate cause. I'm two weeks out from being able to know what to do. I've two weeks yet of weakness. And I hate it.

I think it's raining.

I've got a ton of typing to do.

Too many bills are piling up this month.

I envy Henry Miller and his ability to explore every avenue with every man, woman and bottle that comes his way without regard or concern to the aftermath. Of course, I'm not finished with Tropic of Cancer. Of course, he didn't have medical insurance. Of course, he wasn't weak.

Ir perhaps he was. He speaks of weakness a great deal. Weakness and impatience. But he writes with such strength in voice, I hardly notice. Perhaps he, like me, is strongest with words. Perhaps he's all too good a liar.

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

It's seven in the morning and I'm writing about fear. I'm either an incredible writer, or an incredible coward.

Leave me alone.

Watching My Life in Something Like High-Speed Slow-Motion

Dreamed of the Watchmen last night. Saw the movie at midnight. I was pleased with it. I think most people might be. Everything is a blur right now. Watchmen. Medicine. Waking. Trashmen outside roaring through the neighborhood. I'm sick without the luxury of lying in bed. Doctors found low oxygen in me. My heart and lungs may be failing, finally. I have oxygen tanks strewn about the house. I can't hear in my left ear. Mucinex box on the floor beside me. Ultrasound Monday. Lung specialist Wednesday. Hematologist two weeks from Monday. Cardiologist two weeks from Wednesday. Spent 4.5 hours in doctors offices last Friday. Came home to friends that stayed until after I left. Had a class Saturday out in Otisville that started at 8 AM. I was out the door before 7. Class didn't break for lunch until 2:30. Class was over at 6 PM. Saw my niece. Got picked up. Went to eat. Didn't get home until after midnight. I'm still recovering. Went downtown yesterday. It's a week later now and it's all a blur. Like watching my life outside of myself in something like high-speed slow-motion.

Toby wants a script. Brandon wants a script. I want a script. I want to type up more of Silent Nights today. I won't. I want to sell something and pay off a bill. I won't. Not any time soon. Today I'll watch TV, maybe play some video games. I should get back to Fallout 3, but I won't. Too much thought. Too much thinking. Will most likely play Forza 2 all day instead. Mindless.

Making friends recently. Making friends makes me want to write. Making friends makes me realize the use of making friends. Friends are escape. Escape from self. From reality. From troubles. Friends are a good movie. An enjoyable distraction. "Human coupling", as Dr. Manhattan would say. I don't want to run from myself with these friends, with any friends. I want reassurance. I want love. I want to love and be loved. I could live in squalor the rest of my life, but not if JoJo's at my side. I write for her. I write to get us out of here, out of debt. Not that our debt is immense by most standards, but still. Though she is still my purpose, there are others. Come gather 'round friends, wherever you roam. Let me tell you a story. A good story well told has incredible value. Every day the streets of the cities and towns and dirty villages across the globe play out tales never to be told. Some are good. Some horribly boring and unsatisfying. I am a mythmaker. But I recognize my smallness in the face of the universe. I tell true tales. My mind cannot compete. Everything I write has some depth of reality in it. Silent Nights, for instance, draws from a conversation I had more than a decade ago, a conversation about God. But not everything within is reality. Within us. Within my stories. Within my life. I am delusional about events in my life. Mediocre roles play out as poignant moments in my head. We are our myths.

I love through my words. It's all I know. They are the footprints I'll leave behind. When humanity is at the brink of its destruction, my words will call out through time and space and say, "We were here. And though we've hurt one another immensely, it was largely good. Let me tell you a story."

I want my words to love as I have and will love. I want my words to live as I have and will live. I want my friends not for escape. I want friends for reflections. For ruminations. For purpose.

"The role of the artist I now understood as that of revealing through the world-surfaces the implicit forms of the soul, and the great agent to assist the artist was the myth." -- Jospeh Campbell

Today I will not write. I must rest. But tomorrow will be a new day.