Naked Reading Review

Blackout Still Photo by Malena Barron - my favourite

A new review from a new viewer of The Naked Reading. It’s intricacy prompted me to post it here:

On Wednesday, February 21, 2018, 11:55:49 PM GMT, William Ford wrote:

From the opening moment to the last, a challenge to the animal within to silence it’s desire for sensual gratification to allow the intellect to receive and resolve in the minds eye the pictures and the personalities painted by the sometimes harsh but always intricate brush strokes of words.

The eye of the beholder at first overwhelms that of the mind because the ieye is taken by the unashamed presence, the boldness, the nerves of steel and fiercely defiant Naked Blonde Writer through her actions seeming to be saying “Well, here I am, look then, that’s what you’re here for isn’t it?” And look the eye does, the inner animal roused, then calmed by the incongruity of the scenario to the average dumb straight male gaze, that is a part of the spectrum of every dumb male observer, even those claiming to be capable of utterly separating the animal and intellectual response (ie liars or those ashamed to acknowledge their own dumb beast and it’s necessarily detached from conscious thought impulsive responses).

The distance between observer and observed created by video lets the viewer run the gamut of looking, excited, wondering whether he should be looking, should he feel ashamed, calming his societal programming that he should feel shame and having it dawn on him that the reader is not ashamed, nor does she tease, nor does she seem to care about the myriad of potential reactions she may be provoking, so whatever, observing voyeur or cowed boy, this really is about the words. Sensationalism too partly, for this is not ‘the done thing’ but with her past life acknowledged in the manner of the reading the sensationalism tramscends the ‘omg a naked woman reading!’ provocative concept and becomes a demonstration of the art in the words. There is no attempt to dress up or romanticise the lives described in Blackout.

Literally and figuratively exposing, exploring, unflinchingly observing humanity and opening herself up to being unflinchingly observed bodily while the words she reads pierce and puncture the popular myth of the welcome supposedly kept in the hillsides of Wales…where the spirit of the individual can and will be worn away like the once abundant natural resources deep underground, if the individual allows that. The spirit of the individual wanting more for him/herself than the preordained soul destruction all around them is the friction that creates the spark within. The desire to express, to show what one is, what one has about them. The reader shows herself, her art, her spirit but not all that she is for this is her show, her stage, her insight, her words, her Self, to reveal on whatever literal or artistic level she sees fit, and damn you or damn me, if we presume anything, even in the course of responding in an effusive, wordy splurge of outright admiration. Astonishing. Thank you.

Childhood Archived Words

2clackArchived works written before the age of fifteen have just been published for patrons on Patreon. Please consider becoming a patron to assist in the completion of Hollywood Bus Stop – a Naked Reading of the introduction shall be filmed soon for patrons, 1 hour in length. An audio recording of the same introduction is also now available on Patreon: patronize

The childhood writings are for dedicated Naked Blonde Writer readers who are interested in seeing the early stages of our works and may therefore judge how well we have developed as an artist. . . childhood writing

 

Midnight Writer

P1030934Midnight marks the start of another insomniacal session in servitude to The Mighty Pen… this clock tick-tocks beside me… a delicate refrain… it has served humanity some two hundred and forty years and shall surely continue on long after I am gone… unless the work can acquire immortality… who was holding this pocket watch in 1777… another writer… awake late at night in the delicious solitude of the suicide hours only real writers can truly take on without sinking into profound despair… ticking is a quiet assurance against the Kafkaesque critic creeping up the stairs… I must resist… I must finish this first draft of The Dark Side of Tinsel Town… despite perpetual poverty, a writer’s destiny… ours is not to question why… just “write it, damn you” Joyce used to say, “what else are you good for?” … to the manuscript as if to the front, let two hundred years of time tick along beside my lines… I remember T.S. Eliot writing, “Midnight shakes the memory, Like a madman shakes a dead geranium.”

Psychic night with Robert Browning

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Photo by Anthony Jones, April 21, 2017

It was very late. I was in a room full of books; books which had not been touched for years. I love the smell of old books and that gorgeous loneliness which comes in the very early hours when the world is silent, safely surrounded by all those pages, written by all those brilliant minds and hearts who dared to leave messages for us… I chose at random; took out the first book which seemed to call for a look. It was a collection by the beautiful Robert Browning… I began to read. There was no sound except the camera clicking… the photographer stood over my shoulder when suddenly I saw the date of publication: of all the choices in the room, I had taken a book published on the exact same date on which I was now reading it – 154 years later… dead writers, living writers… a psychic universe… writers are telepathic… I didn’t choose the book that night; that book chose me.

The Naked Blonde Writer’s favourite Browning poem: My Last Duchess.

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Blackout: an Alcoholic’s Fantasy

The following review was given to me last week. I am hereby posting it due to the very intelligent interpretation expressed within.

30th July 2017. Review for Blackout by Boyd Clack, Cardiff. 

I read Blackout in two sittings.  It tells the story of a young Valleys woman who meets the son of the amoral owner of the factory in which she and all the other women in the town work.  She is unaware of who the son is.  He has come to stay in a mountainside cottage which his father bought to live in when setting the factory up many years before.  The son is a somewhat deluded would be rock star and the cottage is filled with recording equipment on which he intends to create the album that will break him in the business.  He thinks the girl’s attitude and singing voice are perfect for his vision and she, excited at the idea, goes along with it.  The story itself is interesting and well told but in my reading of it the story became ephemeral to what I saw as the core subject matter.  The girl’s life, her relationships with her friends, fellow drinkers in the local pub, and her mother from whom she is alienated, indeed her entire perception of reality is filtered through the brain of an alcoholic.  I have some experience of such all consuming dependency and know that it creates another world, a parallel reality that slowly takes over the old reality to become the new true reality.  What Blackout does so well is to illustrate this quasi reality in a mundane setting.  I once frequented a pub that I thought to be a wonderful sparkling place full of glittering lights and fascinating people for several months then went there sober one evening to see it  for what it was, a seedy depressing dump peopled by fellow losers.  Blackout shows the facade of such a ‘glittering’ world with the dream of a new life and love and fame but I was aware that none of it was real, that it was the delusion of a stage of drug addiction.  It is this that gives the novel its power.  It is this that raises it above proletarian reportage.  It is this that gripped me.  Boyd Clack.  (Playboy of the Rhondda Valley; Poet Laureate of Despair.) X    

Blackout on Audio. Week 16: The End.

week 16 the end
97 Seconds

…every candle had burned out… And Bronwen was trapped inside a very strange dream… They were searching the mountain… for Tessa… Quick, quick, Rupert was saying, hurry up, please, there’s no more time. All of us are waiting… Everyone: except Tessa. God knows where Tessa had gone… …she better say sorry, ‘cos I’m not fuckin’ sorry… She’ll have a shock now when she hears… Bronwen grinned from ear to ear…
Because one of these days Tessa would have to learn that a mother is a mother and, surely, Tessa must know deep down inside that whatever a mother does is never really wrong?

 -THE END-
South Wales, U.K., 2010
Blackout – The Dark Side of the Valleys. Written & Read by Tracy Williams
Excerpts from Chapter 40.
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