Art Show

October 5th 5-8 PM, I will be showing my newest art work at Trinity Episcopal Church across from Pocatello High School. If you are going to be around please stop by.

Meditations on Maintenance Book Cover

Guest writer Contributes a Poem: Altar

Altar

               Her trinkets and personal possessions scattered the

tattered chest

                Treasures brought back from her spiritual quest…

                Young Buddha heard the late night drums and the Ying Yang symbol draped her neck as she

wandered amidst songs to Hare Krishna

                Hippy Highway heard the gentle jingles from angels ‘round her ankle and the soothing

incense smells cradled her to sleep.

                And here I am enthralled by the story of her scattered altar

                This sister who I may have passed late at night looking for a warm fire and sweet sounds

of a lilting mandolin

                Who knew my heart was still floating freely in the magical bitter roots and an occasional, “We love you!” chorus

                As I vowed to nestle collected wares from my own spiritual adventure

                So sacred and divine as this carefully traded scarf that once adorned my dreaded hair whispers those memories

                Of the peace I longed for chanted in those rhythmic drums

                And soothing yoga over-looking the expansive valley

                As I delicately place the lotus and energetic rocks upon my tapestry of moons

and stars

                a top my own tattered chest that contently becomes the altar I bow to.

                                                                                                                                                                 

Copyright Heather Corbet 2006

New Sample for Memoirs of a Super Criminal

Here is a sample from my novel: Memoirs of a Super Criminal. This sample is not in the free sample down load, so it is a little extra something.

"There is just one more thing. I have to do this.” El Mag stated.

“One more thing? What thing? We are all set. We are in the clear. I have checked and double-checked. We are clear, or will be soon. It is over.” Dyna said exacerbated.

“It is not over, not yet. I learned something. And… and I did not tell you about it,” El Mag hung his head. “I did not want to keep it from you, but I did. I felt like I had to until we were clear, but now I have to deal with it.”

“With what? What the hell is it that you have been keeping from me?” Dyna was beginning to get mad.

“Armageddon. He has been hunting me. He wants to use me as an example. I am one of, no, the last one of, the old school of criminals. He has made it his mission to bring me down one way or another. He won’t stop until I am… well whatever he does to me.”

Concern creased the brow of Dyna. This was deep and he should have not kept it from her, but she tried to understand. “Why now? Why you and not Danny?”

“Why me? Because I have been at it for over thirty years. Danny is behind the scenes. If they caught him it would devastate the criminal community but the public would not care. But me? Thirty years of headlines. Armageddon wants to set an example. Eventually everyone gets caught. But I think I have it figured out. I can beat him.”

“You can beat him? All of a sudden you can beat him. No one can beat him. He will beat you and if you assault him then he will make sure you don’t get up. Ever!” Dyna had moved from mad to furious in seconds. She wanted to punch something, something big and hard.

“I know. But if I don’t then we will never have peace. Then all that we have done, our whole lives, is meaningless. I can do it.”

“Now you care about meaning. Now you want to stand on some principles.” Dyna nearly spat the words out.

“No, nothing like that. We have built a life together. A life that we wanted. I am not ready for that to end. I don’t want to go into hiding. I want to be clear of it all. We have the money to take care of what we have to. But that will not give us peace.”

“Our life is not about peace. Or meaning. You are right, we did create something out of the mainstream. We lived the life we wanted. And we almost lost it all. But we made it past that. Isn’t that enough? Let’s just go.”

“With Armageddon, there is no place to go. He will always be on the prowl. Hunting. I have to stand against him. I have to fight him for my life, our life, our way of living,” El Mag said, wanting Dyna to understand.

“Bullshit. Lets just go and he will always be busy with some criminal somewhere. You know how it is. Heroes are always sidetracked by the next crisis. They never follow up. Out of sight, out of mind. You always said that.”

“I know. So maybe he won’t get around to it. But, we will always have to live looking over our backs. I don’t want that life. I want to be free of it all.”

“Then fight him when he comes for you, for us. I will stand by your side and punch him until his head explodes.”

The passion in Dyna’s statements made El Mag laugh. She gave him that stern look, but then also smiled. She knew that he was determined. She read it in his eyes. They looked at each other for a few moments. They both knew it had to be this way. Not only for them to be free, but also for Armageddon, a sanctioned bully, to be taken down a notch.

“Ok. Ok. I assume you have a plan,” Dyna gave in.

Copyright 2011 David Corbet
Excerpt from Memoirs of a Super Criminal available on Kindle and Nook

On the Edge

I walk on the edge

of humanity

Masking my insanity

as normalcy.

Not giving in to

the whispering fears

Of voices in my head

            calling out "Don’t Fall."

I respond with a smile

and hold tighter to that edge.

I walk on the edge

of icy cliffs

Clinging with pickax

            as to life itself.

Not giving in to

the whispering fears

Of voices in my head

calling out "Don’t Fall."

I respond with a smile

and hold tighter to that edge.

I walk on the edge

of space

Sucking air in a helmet

            as the world spins below.

Not giving in to

the whispering fears

Of voices in my head

            calling out "Don’t Fall."

I respond with a smile

and hold tighter to that edge.

I walk on the edge

of words

Expressing without clarity

as I discover my rhythm.

Not giving in to

the whispering fears

Of voices in my head

calling out "Don’t Fall."

I respond with a smile

and release myself over the edge.


Poem is from "One Year in the Mountains"
Copyright David Corbet

Walking the Coast

The coast.

A beach, not the sandy vacation beach of suntans, bikinis and kids with sandcastles.

The beach with the cold water, rough rocks and seagulls that crap on everything and everyone, including the drift wood logs that some poor shmuck keeps trying to turn into bonfires. That beach, that coast.

A man walks, no, shuffles along. His feet prints are two long ruts dragged in the sand. Follow those ruts back and you will run out of time before you run out of rut.

On closer inspection it is evident that the man is old, aged, ancient and beyond. He moves one foot and then the other, and again and again and again. It is not a step as much as a plowing the fields, but no corn will grow here. He left the corn far behind and a long time ago. Maybe so long ago that is was not yet corn as we know it in the hundreds of varieties, but rather just the maize of the ancients. That is old, but not nearly as old as this poor individual who shuffles along. But don’t be deceived he is not the poor fool who tries to build bonfires out of water soaked logs. No, he is far wiser then that. He is the one who sees the future and the past and knows the prophecies, not those cheap bible house prophecies about Babylon and dragons and the end of it all with trumpets and hosannas, no the prophecies he knows are far more profound. They are the kind that the Farmers Almanac wishes they had. They are prophecies of knowing those things that no human mind should know. They are knowing the number of rain drops which fall in the Amazon every hour and the number of the grains of sands on the shores, which he is very thoroughly checking at this moment. The corn has been counted, the stars have been counted, the rain has been counted and now the sand will be counted. Good luck, ancient man. We await your verdict with apathy. 

Copyright Protected David Corbet 2012

Red With Delight

The tomato festival was a big hit with the local towns people. Of course they had never seen a tomato before, they had not even seen anything red before and to eat it was a pure satanic delight. For this was the land of the righteous and anything and everything that could be in some way related to the devil was strictly outlawed and abandoned centuries ago, including all shades of the color red. In fact the color wheels in High School art class had only two primaries and one secondary color, the color brown was nearly impossible to duplicate in the class, and orange and purple were relegate to nature alone. (In fact this lead to many disputes in later centuries about the exact nature of brown and some went so far as to hypothesizes a third primary that made orange and purple the two additional secondary colors which were often seen in nature but not in art. This line of reasoning then lead to an ironic twist, because those theorist were often burnt at the stake and as the red and orange flames rose up their feet it all began to make sense, this was one of the few times where fire (and red) were seen as a tool of righteousness and not one of the devil.)

But then one day a traveling sales man, with a surplus of tomatoes to move before they rotted in the trucks and docks of the co-op for which he worked, entered the town. He was a forward thinking and very modern type of man. The girls swooned at the sight of his black bolo hat. Women wanted him and men wanted to be him. He was slicker then a duck in a rain storm and all that other jazz which made him real cool. He could talk a good game and with the Bible in one hand and a plump tomato in another he was able to convince the great, great, great, great decedents of those original pietists that the tomato, although red, was still a creation by God and ordained as good, was great to eat and excellent to have with pasta (which had been rather stale of taste over the last few centuries). It brought much need vitamins and topped out a bacon and lettuce sandwich very well. 

The town nearly rioted because of the color red, some agreed with the salesman and wanted the tomatoes to pour into the town. Other, more zealous of tradition and right thinking and all that, people refused and wanted to run the man out of town. The frosting on the cake was the fact that a tomato began as green and turned yellow and then red by the rays of the sun. Here was the symbolic making of a theological shift. The trinity of colors of blue and yellow making green combined with the sun, the son, the light, the warmth of the heavens poured out to create this jewel. But others saw a different symbol, a crafty snake offering a tempting but forbidden fruit. The symbolism, either way, was too much. All wanted to partake. For to err, to fall, is human. It is the nature of the creature, even centuries of right living could not breed out the fact that humanity craved the passion of life, that which was forbidden. Now the full circle was complete: peace, warmth and passion; blue, yellow and red; the trinity was completed and every range of emotion and every shade of color became available to this imagine-less town. Riot was subdued but passion to created, to flourish, to build, to spring forth, was unleashed and the tomato festival captured that very essence. 

Copyright 2012 David Corbet

New Works, nearly complete.

                                                        Abstract Thirtythree
                                                 Oil and Acrylic on Canvas 14x14

                                                         Abstract Thirtysix
                                                   Acrylic on Canvas 24x36

                                                      Masks
                                                  Acrylic on Canvas 36x48

All Works Copyright 2012 David Corbet

That is Art

There is art and then there is art, and standing between them is art.

By this I mean there is art that is created by the artist and there is art that is perceived by the audience. And between those two, the created and the perceived, is the piece of artwork. It can stand alone but always takes on meaning through creation and perception. And the meaning may not be the same for the artist and the audience. The work itself may or may not have an inherent meaning. You would have to ask the piece what it meant, and until a piece of art becomes sentient that question will remain a mystery. Certainly an artist may create with an intention and that intention may come across to the audience, they may “get it.” Artist’s aides such at titles, descriptions, biographies and philosophical methodological ponderings can all help the audience to “get it.” But certainly the audience also has the option to ignore all that and find their own meaning in the piece that has nothing to do with the intention of the artist. The meaning is then derived from their own experiences and psychological profile. But if the piece was wrapped up, stored away for a hundred years, all the descriptors lost from memory and then the piece was rediscovered it would still have meaning for those that found it. That is art. 

And Later

The quiet of the morning washed over the scene. A light blue sky above, a deep blue lake below and there stood a man on the lake shore.

He gathered a net into his strong arms and walked into the cool water. This was his favorite time of the day. Far out on the lake a few fishing boats dotted the surface. Like a whisper he could hear snippets of conversation. He could imagine the idle chatter or the rough commands drifting from boat to boat as they searched out the best spots.

He smiled inwardly, thinking of a different boat, a different day completely unlike this one. That stormy day he walked on water, however brief it was. His smile turned down as a tear slid slowly from his eye. Fear sank him that day.

With a practiced motion he flung the net into the shallow water. He enjoyed the pull on his back and shoulders. The net settled and slowly he gathered it in. The tension in his arms and chest made him feel alive. Another thought flooded his mind. Once again it was about Him. He shrugged it off, shaking his head to clear it of unwanted thoughts. He gathered the net for another throw.

Throw after throw, it soothed his mind and worked his body. But it did little for his troubled soul. He was anguished, perplexed, confused but most of all he was ashamed. The repetitive motion gave his body work and his mind space to think.

The sun was beginning to warm his back and hunger gnawed his stomach but he was not yet ready to turn and face the world. This place, this peace, the comfort of the net and cool of the water was what he needed most. It had been too long since life was simple and he knew deep down inside that those days were gone. They fled away when he first relinquished his net to follow Him.

I will make you fishers of men.

The methodical movement of tossing and drawing back was meditative. He had no intention of catching fish. He just needed to clear his mind. His thoughts wandered over the drama, the power, the humor of the last so many months. Had it been that long, it seemed so much longer.

A shadow of a man, and the quiet splashing of someone walking in the shallows behind him brought him back to reality. It could only be one person. He sighed and straightened his back pushing his shoulders back and allowing the net to droop in the water. He was not yet ready to face reality so he did not turn.

“Hey” He said.

“Hey” the man responded. His voice confirmed his identity. His brother.

They stood in silence watching the boats move about looking for their morning catch. Sunlight glistened on the water. It would be a hot one again.

“You’ve seen too much to turn away now.” The brother stated simply. “We all have.”

“I betrayed him.” He responded.

“We all did.” The brother answered sympathetically. It was not the right thing to say even if it was true. “He forgave you.”

Feed My sheep

The voice still echoed in his head as he cast the net again. He remembered the last time he had cast a net. The catch was more than he could haul in alone. “Do you remember the first day?”

“Of course I do.” The brother answered and stepped forward to help gather the net in. They cast it together in practiced rhythm. They had worked their whole lives together side by side. And they followed Him side by side, from the first day to the last.

Eventually they stopped, the moment gone. “I don’t know why. That will be what they all ask. Why?”

“Brother, thinking has never been your strong point. You are a man of action. You always have been. What did he say to you? ‘Feed my sheep?’ I think that is more than enough. He knows you. And more than that you have an intuition, a spirit of knowing. You were the first to see Him for who He truly is. Those two things are more than enough.” They sat in silence watching the boats and the sun playing on the water. “I will follow you. But we have seen too much to turn away.”

He fingered the net, thinking. Why. It was a question with no answer. Each one has to find their own answers to that question. But feed His sheep, that was something that could be done. And he knew it would be up to him to do it. He would not, could not betray him again. He would accomplish at least that much. Tell the story of His life and care for all those that he could.

“Catchers of men.” He whispered.

“What?” the brother asked.

 “Remember. Catchers of Men." He picked up the net and turned back towards the shore. The world was waiting. It was not going away no matter how many times he cast his net. “Come brother we have work to do. The net we cast is for Him and we catch the hearts and souls of men.”

They walked out of the water, uncertain in mind but firm in faith.  Fear would not sink him this time. When they ask why, the best answer he could give would be “because” and tell the story of His life and death.

Moving space and time without leaving the couch

They knew that time travel was possible. The theory was sound, the equations balanced and the apparatus calibrated. But the first dozen unfortunate souls that tried it just simply disappeared. They knew not where. Until a sixteen year old son of one of the primary researchers made an off comment while lounging in a recliner in the corner of the office.

“I wish I could go back a day. Yesterday I was a thousand miles away on the beach enjoying life, this place sucks. It is so boring.”

Immediately it clicked in the minds of the all the researches sitting in the room. Of course you can travel in time, but not in space. There is nothing rooting you to this particular place in space. It is like hitting the pause button on your existence, but the rest of time AND space moves on. The world is not only spinning around and around, but it is also moving around the sun. And the sun and it’s satellites are speeding through space.

With a few speedy calculations they were able to find eight of the ten lost souls. The last two were to far out in deep space to be recovered.

The next day they started working on time vectoring. They realized they would never be able to achieve time travel and remain on the planet. But they could, with enough number crunching, travel vast distances in space by standing still in time. There is only one thing that is faster than light, and that it is time. They had inadvertently invented the first FTL capable device. 

Copyright 

David Corbet 2012

Seven Truths of Being

1. If you are not growing, you are dieing.
2. Growth means change.
3. Change requires input.
4. Input means consumption.
5. There is an upper and lower limits to healthy/productive consumption.
6. Waste is anything outside of the range of healthy/productive consumption.
7. Eventually the ability to process new input ends and therefore stops growing and dies.

 I will just toss this out there for now and let them diffuse into cyberspace. They really don't mean much, nor do they contain a moral imperative. They just are what they are and can be applied to just about everything that is.

KDP Select and Me

When Amazon rolled out it's KDP Select program I was skeptical. I was not sure if dedicating a book just to Amazon was going to reach the audience and generate the same revenue as having it available at multiple places. I thought about it for a while and decided to run a test case. I had published a fantasy novella and was selling it for 99 cents. I thought it would be a good candidate, something that people may borrow from the lending library as an Amazon Prime Member.

Before entering the novella into KDP Select, I had sold three copies. I had no new sells over the first month in the program even though I continued to promote it at the same level as before. And no borrows from the library. I then ran with the promotional to give it away free to generate more interest. I gave away 96 copies in the U.S. and 17 in England. (I guess I am now known internationally!). That give-away was in early January. I have still not had any borrows from the library. Nor have I had any additional sells of the novella.

My conclusions:
1. KDP Select does not generate additional revenue.
2. People are not willing to buy a novella for 99 cents.
3. Limiting the availability of a book may not serve the author's best interest although it does serve the bookstore's.
4. Amazon does not provide relevant data for the KDP select program to make a fair assessment. It is a try-it-and-see kind of thing. It would be nice to know things like total number of books borrowed, most popular genres, etc.

Now these conclusions are tentative at best. Because I have not offered my novella through other online stores I do not have sells data to compare. Possibly I would not have any better luck with the Nook or Smashwords. So the next step is to pull it off KDP Select when I can and run it for a while through other outlets to see if it generates more revenue.

So in a few months I will update this post with information about additional sells. And possible revise my conclusions. I know other people have had great success with KDP Select but it just may not work for all genres or authors.   

The Sword

Sword

The sword hacked at the shield.

The broadsword hacked at the bronze shield.

The iron broadsword with a leather handle hacked at the bronze shield incrusted with diamonds.

The iron broadsword with a leather handle which was wielded by a north’s man hacked at the bronze shield incrusted with diamonds held a loft by the priest’s assistant.

The iron broadsword with a leather handle which was wielded by a north’s man hacked at the bronze ceremonial shield incrusted with diamonds held a loft by the priest’s assistant attempting to save the life of the head priest.

The iron broadsword with a leather and turquoise handle, which was wielded by a north’s man hacked at the bronze ceremonial shield incrusted with diamonds held a loft by the high priest’s assistant who was attempting to save the life of his master who wore the blood red robes of the high priest.

The iron broadsword with a leather and turquoise handle, which was wielded by the north’s man hacked at the bronze ceremonial shield incrusted with diamonds held a loft by the frightened priest’s assistant who was attempting to save the life of his master who wore the blood red robes of the high priest and carried the sacred golden scepter.

The iron broadsword with a leather and turquoise handle, which was wielded by the north’s man, hacked at the bronze ceremonial shield incrusted with diamonds held a loft by a frightened boy-servant who was attempting to save the life of his master who wore the blood-red robes of the high priest and carried the sacred golden scepter which was the ultimate desire that drove the barbarian onwards with ever increasing blows.

Why this scepter? For the gold alone? Does it have special powers? Is it sacred also to the north’s man? How many others has he killed in this pursuit? Will he be happy with just the scepter or will he want the golden lamp stands and the silver chalice? Ultimately does it matter? Where is your soul

Copyright Reserved

David Corbet

Work In Progress (WIP) paintings.

Untitled WIP

Explosion

Explosion (2nd image)

This picture is for my living room, matching color scheme.

Here are a few Works in Progress as well as a finished one.

The first one, I think is done but have not fully committed to signing my name on it yet. It may be lacking something so I sit and ponder it when I can.

The second one (Explosion, 2 images) I feel is done and yet it also sits unsigned waiting for that final moment when I am satisfied that it is truly done.

The third set of images is a painting I did for my own home. It is large 4 feet by 3 feet. We recently redecorated our living room and had an open space above the piano. I incorporated colors and themes from the window treatments, accent wall and other features of the room. I like this one. It is my newest piece. But it is also unsigned for the moment. I just hung it and am waiting for it to settle into the room to see if it needs anything more. This is the first piece I have done with a particular location in mind, not my usual way of working.

(Sorry for the poor images, it is hard to take good pictures, after dark, with the camera that I have. And no I did not use a flash.)

These images are Copyright protected. David Corbet 2012.

Erkulys & Uryon in the Warlord of Ashkelon, sample

Here is a sample for my next fantasy novella: Erkulys & Uryon in the Warlord of Ashkelon

The next morning Titos and Ernsto met Erk at the smashed gate of the estate. The sun had not yet broken the horizon. In the direction of the city, the cool air was pink with smoke. A guard stood in the trees near the broken gate. He waved at them as they moved off into the mist of the forest floor. Soon it would all burn off and the day would be warm, and humid.

“You have decided to walk with us in search of the Witch.” Erk observed.

“Yes. I thought if I was to go against Wicce then I should consult with the Witch.” Titos limped along, using a staff to support some of his weight. His wounds still lingered.

“Ey.” Erk stated knowingly.

Ernsto led the way. He seemed to move at random, but Erk knew better. If one thing all of his travels had taught him was that magic was as subtle as the wind. But if you knew the signs you could see it do wonders. Ernsto followed a bird for a bit and then a wisp of mist. He checked rocks in a bubbling brook and then followed a rabbit. The miles melted away, but they seemed no further from the estate. It felt like they were just walking in circles. Erk was about to make a jape about it when Ernsto stopped and knocked on an old oak.

The oak seemed half dead. Many branches were broken and those that lived had more knots in them then leaves. The roots were piled high making deep creases in the ground. The knocking brought about a squirrel that peaked down from a branch.

The squirrel scurried down the thick trunk and across a tangle of roots. Ernsto followed. The squirrel scampered over the ground and through the roots quickly. Erk soon lost sight of it. But Ernsto did not. He stayed with it tracking its movements with eyes while using hands to feel his way over the roots. Titos could not move through the roots with any speed and Erk was forced to turn back and help him.

Erk and Titos heard a chirping behind them. The squirrel had run full circle round the tree. Ernsto came lumbering up panting.

“Eh, what is this?” Erk was not amused.

The squirrel dove into a hole between two deep roots. The three watched at a loss. What now?

A loud crack of wood on wood brought their attention back up into the branches of the tree. An old lady stood on a thick branch a large staff in one hand. She giggled and cackled. “Do you like my pet? I think she likes you.” She pointed the staff at Titos.

The Crone threw a handful of leaves at the men standing below. The dull red leaves morphed into a cloud of smoke, dark and hideous. The smoke transformed into a flock of birds that flew around the men’s heads. They ducked and dodged the birds. When they looked back into the tree the old woman was gone.

A tapping brought their attention to the side of the oak. Standing between two large roots was a beautiful woman, naked with long brown hair streaming down around her breasts and back. It stirred gently in the breeze revealing just enough to tantilize. She was holding the witches oak staff tapping on the roots. The witch’s raspy voice came from her well shaped and red lips. “Do you like this form better? It stirs you awake does it not? Beware of illusions. Especially you Titos.”

The beautiful form flaked away in the breeze revealing the old woman again. “Come.”

The men followed the witch around the tree three times, on the third turn she stepped into a darkness between two massive roots. “Come” her pale arm beckoned from the dark.

Erk led the way. He groped in the darkness but found no tree blocking his way, only empty blackness. Titos followed wearily. Ernsto hung back but also entered the Hermitage. 

Erk stumbled down a few steps. He felt the nearness of the tree and put out a hand to catch himself. A smooth, well polished surface of wood met his outstretched hand. “Careful, steps.” He said back to those behind him. With one hand on the wall to his right, he moved forward. The wall curved right.

Erk, and soon the others, stepped into a large chamber dimly lit by a candle on a table cluttered with bowls and cups. It smelled like honey and decay. Erk stepped further into the room. The walls were living wood. Some of the shelves held scrolls, books, wooden cases. Others held assortment of body parts from all types of animals, birds and reptiles.

The witch clapped twice. A dozen candles blazed to life. And in the corner a fire place, cut into the living wood which was blackened deep, glowed awake with blue and green flames. Light flashed across the chamber.

 
The new light blinded the men. 


Copyright 2012
David Corbet