###
acknowledgements, disclaimers:
No matter how well a man knows himself, he does not know himself well enough, and it takes the input of others to flesh things out. The usual squads of family and friends were generally useless but they don't care about dedications anyway. They only offered mutterings of "Sure" or "Whatever" or "I don't care; I wanna sleep" before I left them alone, as they wished. But I thank them anyway. They put up with me and I guess that's something.
Insofar as the actual rollercoaster, I should first give thanks to Laurel Violet for bravely editing through dense undergrowths of sticky text to insure that most of its Ps and Qs aligned with its Zs and Ys. Secondly, to Joey Marez, whose sense of things visual managed to talk roof-crashing ideas out of the clouds and into a final approach of coherent cover design. And the bronze medal goes to Spot for being a researcher, reader, auxiliary editor and deep store of knowledge whose thoughts and insults kept me from beating my head against the wrong walls-life is too short for uninspired bruises (and he did conceive and create the audio file formats of the text!).
In no deliberate order, I need to thank: Tony Aguirre for providing guidance with the vernacular and translations of Espa?ol; Scott Gardner for handling similar requirements with Deutsch; Dave Crider for valuable information and a trashy world of valuable music; Janet Housden, who proved that a "civilian" could read and understand the story's split-level structure without needing to smash a liquor bottle over the author's head; Azriel Wolffe for lending mathematical perspective to the philosophical equations of misgivings above and beyond the black horizon; and, of course, there's no way to ignore the virtues of caffeine nor underestimate the value of the coffeehouses, late night restaurants, baristas, cooks, waitpersons and cops who put up with me when I was desperately trying to put up with myself.
If I were a lumberjack I'd be OK. If a carpenter I'd stock up on sandpaper, files, steel wool and hammers. If a rich man I'd buy a new old car, more hammers, lots of Rustoleum and welding rods. And if I were sane I'd sit down with a bottle of good whiskey. Reality is overrated, but still the only place to get a decent shot glass or scoop of ice, depending upon what the night requires. And if I were Philip K. Dick I'd remind, "It is sometimes an appropriate response to reality to go insane."
On that note?
?the author is a living being who has too often been tempted by imagination. Nights were usually not stormy, sometimes they were dark; mostly, they were calm. When the first character stepped onto the front porch, found the door unlocked, walked in and sat on the couch, the author took dictation on every word that was spoken. The party had started with a fever, swore never to end, and cleaning up afterward is always a bitch.
He owes a debt of gratitude to the words and music of many who helped him through the journey whether or not they've been credited within the text. Among them (and in the interests of disclosure) are:
Leonard Wibberley-the "wise writer" whose quote in chapter X came from his novel "The Mouse That Roared;"
Robert Earl Keen-whose song "The Road Goes on Forever (and the party never ends)" never failed to delineate the lines on the highway;
Butch Hancock-whose "Two Roads" followed not only the lines on the highway, but also the circles of life, knowing "You can drive all day and never leave Texas, you can drive all night and never leave home;"
Jo Carol Pierce-a bad girl upset by the truth on a highway that doesn't set you free, where vaginal angels know "?there's a snake in their rock pile" and who "?let these coyote witnesses try to explain (to the) diesel guitars and faraway bars. And has god got us by the twat or what?" which is only the beginning of knowledge;
David Halley-who stopped on the side of the same highway to realize that "Rain don't fall for the flowers if it's falling. Rain just falls;"
Dead Moon-whose night spelled D for disaster, and nightsticks marked the hazard on that highway;
and Spot-whose road taught that "Life is a travesty, more than an old joke."
Without their inspiration, this tome of misguided ideas might have vanished in time and space, perhaps saving the sanity of those who've elected to read it. There are no speed zones to heaven, just travelers leaving one gravity for the next. If not for stellar reentries, the twinklings of stars and the bendings of lights through planetary atmospheres would be far less interesting.
Knight.
Queen.
Earth.
Moon.
Goodnight, my love, wherever you are.
about the author:
G. S. Oldman describes himself as "a failed pilot" who will not divulge the number of Midwest motorcycles or skateboards he's wrecked. He once published poems and essays in zines that barely existed (good luck finding a Kafka's Krispy Kitchen or Satin Rouge D?pose), but eventually contributed to journals like Thrasher, No Mag, Forced Exposure, Flipside and Option. This is not to mention filling the spaces of X-rated prose and film scripts, all while clumsily keeping his clothes on. Thru the 1990s, he did time in the backrooms of arts and music promotion in Austin, TX (someone's gotta write those blurbs, bios and phony reviews) but after Hurricane Katrina, he decided "What the fuck!" and escaped back to the heartland where all hell did not break loose, and no one could blame any Gulf oil spills on him.
He now lives somewhere in Michigan plotting the next Polar Vortex.
Readers are invited to connect with the author at: www.gsoldman.com
? ? ?
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends