PSA #2: BLOOD MERIDAN
If you have ever wondered about the hype over the Cotmac McCarthy book Blood Meridian ----at once hailed as the greatest historically accurate western ever written, and a novel so gore soaked and violent that all attempts to adapt it into a film have completely failed--- and want to know more before you read, or if you are like me and already know you cannot handle the violence, cruelty, and utter desolation of the novel but still want to know what it is about,
THIS IS FOR YOU.
Watch a little or watch a lot if you are interested into this novel at all this is the video for you.
This channel offers also the greatest analysis of TV movie, and video game villains I have ever seen and I am completely addicted.
Any and every villain you can imagine is analyzed and broken down for their motivations and everything else, in videos that spanned between 20 minutes and 4 hours!!
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I love mixing fact and fiction; it brings an otherwise elusive reality to fictional work.
In this book, ‘Within the Invisible Pentacle’, everything I have written is the truth, except the bits which are made up.
Below is an excerpt from, ‘April’s Dragonfly’.
Can you discern which is which?
Can you pick the threads of fact from the fictional prose? . .
... I was a naive sixteen-year-old boy, full of bullshit and bravado. It was not really my fault.
It was natures.
Nature had begun to flood my body with testosterone. My voice was changing slowly, the higher-pitched tones giving way to lower octaves. Although at times they tended to alternate, doing battle with one another, making it sound as if I was yodeling rather than speaking.
Hairs were beginning to grow in all sorts of places; armpits, groin, around my nipples. But it was those on my legs that caused me the most discomfort.
I found myself almost constantly raking my skin, scratching, and itching. It was like having a nest of fleas living in my trousers.
I also found I was looking at girls in a different way. Especially a girl in my class. She is called ‘April’.
You see, April has breasts.
I do not mean those little pokey-out bud things young girls possess, those small mounds which see them cajoling their mothers to buy them ‘training bras’.
No. Aprils were real breasts, larger than a girl of her age should have to carry, larger than nature should have endowed a young lady of her stature.
I was, of course, not the only one to have noticed April had bloomed over the summer holidays.
Unfortunately, as is the way of children of such age, children fighting to come to terms with puberty, with their emotions, with life; anything which was different, anything outstanding like April's bosom, became a target for ridicule.
Banter grew into mockery, into harassment, and badgering. It is not planned that way. It 'just happens' like that.
We children knew not how to control our tongues, or when to shut down, close off the snide, stupid, hurtful, and idiotic remarks. You see, for each one of us, there was more at stake than April's boobs.
We were learning about social interactions, acceptance, and relationships. We were finding our places among our peers.
As beautiful as April was, her looks did not protect her from this spiteful behaviour.
Many times, I saw her crying after a diatribe of innuendo, or a prolonged tirade of belittlement. The shame of all this was, many of those abusing April would have loved to have held her close, kissed her soft cheeks, become her friend.
Myself included.
Somewhere inside of me the beginnings of the testosterone, which was now coursing through my veins, hinted at sex.
But this was not adult sex.
At this stage in my life, I had just learnt how to masturbate satisfactorily. The very thought of actually ‘doing it’ was just a wild dream. A fantasy incumbent with doubt, fear, and embarrassment.
It was that uncertainty, the misgiving, along with the improbability of possible attainment, which created much angst, which in turn spewed forth as abuse and cruelty. Such is the way of the childish mind.
I am ashamed to admit; I too spoke cruelly to April on occasion. Less maybe than most, but that is no excuse, none whatsoever.
The problem being, I was one boy among many, one boy in a classful, one boy in a group of friends, a gang if you wish. I was surrounded by those who I grew up with, those I knew, and those who knew me.
I too would have been bullied, intimidated, and tormented should I not join in with the pack, if I showed any signs of what may have been considered a weakness. So, I called out, I jostled, and chided April too.
Inside, I felt sick and hurt. I was revolted by my own actions, yet I knew of no way to stop, to extricate myself without becoming an outcast, and a victim.
As I said at the beginning of this, my account of those days, I was full of bullshit and bravado.
It is that fact which led me into a much deeper quagmire of personal perplexity and self-loathing…
Within the Invisible Pentacle is a collection of thirty-two short, and not so short, stories of varying genres.
To read more order your copy of ‘Within the Invisible Pentacle’, today UK, https://amzn.to/3soBDQJ
Other countries, https://bit.ly/WTIPpw
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