Moroccan Mountain Exile

01.08.2011 - THE SILENT SHOOT - THE WORK, writing room table, looking up

 

 

 

The Naked Blonde Writer today made an executive decision to retreat to the mountains of North Africa in order to give undivided attention to her works-in-progress; one being The Hollywood Bus Stop. The decision has been made due to the fact that TNBW cannot manage the daily requirements of social media while simultaneously producing good copy.
These North African mountains have no internet access; a geographical location chosen by design. She leaves tomorrow.
NB: no concern necessary: TNBW is in very safe hands.
Thus, no further posts are likely to be made until August. Sincere apologies forwarded to all those expecting a short story in the Death Series for Patreon. Your Humble Narrator is not physically or mentally robust enough to keep running around North Africa to find internet access when in such a remote location. Sometimes writers just have to disappear…
We trust this will be understood by all Avid Readers, Attentive Listeners and Glorious Voyeurs (you know who you are). 

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

 

Hollywood-in-Progress

1988 4

3 minute sample

The Shooting Script for Hollywood Bus Stop: Naked Reading the Second will be available as a PDF to patrons only from February 1st 2018. An MP3 audio recording of the script is also uploaded (55 minutes long). The manuscript itself looks set to exceed 50,000 words. Work on the project continues… Your Humble Narrator is reminded time and again that writing brings serenity to the otherwise chaotic mind.
NB: This reading will be available to subscribers only – 2018 is the year in which The Naked Blonde Writer can no longer work for free. 

“And even though literary investigation may bear no real fruit, I must continue to write this out for myriad reasons, not least of which is the fact that – even to this day – I still find it difficult to believe, even though I possess all the photographs and documents of verification – I still find it difficult to believe that what I am about to write really did happen in my life. In Hollywood, it really did happen… But this story, dearest reader, is not about me…”

–Hollywood Bus Stop, The Dark Side of Tinsel Town.

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.”

2018

P1030930Made in the 16th Century – circa 1777, this pocket watch is ticking beside me as I type. For the author who created a factory in the first novel which she named Tick Tock, for the inconquerability of Time, for the New Year now upon us, your humble narrator shall attempt to elaborate on this artefact in a literary manner commensurate with its beauty… to be continued…

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Literary Resolutions for 2018:

1; “If you are doing business with a religious sonnovabitch, get it in writing. His word isn’t worth shit, not with the ‘Good Lord’ telling him how to fuck you on the deal.” — William S. Burroughs.

2; “Do not cast your pearls before swine.” — Source Unknown, (tell me if you know).

3; “Above all else, Know Thyself.” — Socrates. Later developed by Shakespeare for the mouth of Polonius in Hamlet as, “this, above all else – to thine own self be true…”

 

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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