I’ve said a prophet is not without honor except in his own land.  Well, Jesus Christ actually said it, but it shows I'll steal material from anyone. If a prophet is without honor, what chance does the average man have?  How about the average clown?  Yes, I've sometimes done my share of clowning.  It's not always been by choice. The original title of one of my efforts was "The Reluctant Clown."

    A big influence on my thinking (and hence, writing) has been the Absurdist Theatre (e.g. writers Ionesco and Beckett), existentialism, the works of Beat writers such as Jack Kerouac and Lawrence Ferlinghetti and a whole line-up of people like Marek Hlasko, Hemingway, Buddha, numerous serious poets and song writers and the sayings of Jesus.  Scripture is where you find it.  I understand if you find my short stories obscure or maybe obtuse.  There is a concept called therapeutic metaphor.  I write with that in mind—however, I am the target of the therapeutic part.  I am the patient. I'm just still trying to figure out the answers to some questions that have come to me over several late, lonely nights. The original title of the short story collection was "It's Been This Way For All My Days." I'd like to believe I write in parables.  I may be the only one who sees it that way.

       "For All My Days" could merely be a collection of short stories.  Or it's an essay in phenomenological ontology—an attempt to study being through an examination of the observable. That's my definition, anyway. You decide. I believe the average artist has a better chance of exploring the nature of being than even the best of scientists.  This collection begins with a reclining man contemplating his imminent death.  The volume starts with the first protagonist dying.  Where do you go from there?  Well. I can't see how you can examine life without contemplating death.  The volume ends with the last protagonist reclining and concluding that it's stupid to ignore the fact that everyone dies.  In between these stories, the other stories explore things such as the folly of pursuing security in an insecure world, the folly of trusting religion for the same, the destruction that follows asking tough questions, relationships, the origin (or the perpetuation) of evil and the perils of living in bad faith.

       Along the way, there are obscure references to prophecies and madness.  A madman intrudes on occasion to remind us of the tenuous nature of life, love and hope.  He questions his culture and his mentors.  He represents a kind of sanity that is seen as insanity.  A personal prophet and Christ figure is denied three times but forgives and sees himself (correctly or incorrectly—it's a matter of perspective) as the god of those who'd failed at destroying him.  On and on, there are explorations of religion and the painful realities of finding meaning in the human condition.  There is an examination of the battle between our savage nature and our civilized nature. There is a view of society and its poison of racism.  There are examinations of depression, hope, faith, despair, being alone as compared to being lonely,  patriotism, conspiracy, madness and yes…the conclusion that everything is out of our hands anyway.  After all, no matter what one does, no one gets out of this thing alive.  And maybe the answer to everything is that there is no answer. Camus once wrote that Sisyphus is a tragic hero simply because he is aware of everything that is happening and will happen.  Camus came to the realization that the real question is why we don't commit suicide in the face of this absurdity. He and I came to the same conclusions.  He died in an auto accident and I don't like the taste of gunmetal.

          The spirit of the times (I love the word zeitgeist) seems to say life can be bizarre.  It's like we've  come to the conclusion there is no meaning. Buddhism teaches us to spread loving kindness and this in itself will be meaningful.  Jesus would later take up this approach to life. We please ourselves by pleasing others. I hope my desire to please you—even if I fail—at least pleases you for the effort.  We all do the best we can with what we have.

          My real concern is one that Soren Kierkegaard called "The Sickness Unto Death."  Before I ever encountered the works of this great existential philosopher, I had already recognized this sickness unto death as simply the human condition.  On one end lies despair.  This despair is made tragic because we are conscious of it.  At the other extreme is Kierkegaard's one main noble truth—a personal relationship with God.  We do not need people or treasure.  We need to mine our own perfect and imperfect gems from deep inside ourselves.  We are accountable only to our conscience—to our own sense of morality.  We need a code to live by and it must be honest.  We must never abandon the pursuit of decency, honor and love. We must avoid living in the bad faith Sartre warned us about. We must be true to ourselves.  These are the things I tried to illustrate in my writing.

      Maybe my writing really is obscure or schmaltzy to you.  Fair enough.  You write for yourself or you write for profit.  Any guesses which way I went?  One of my fictional characters said that her writings “have meant the world to me.”  Mine mean the same to me. You are reading a proof copy of the finished work.  It’s not intended for distribution.  This description is intended to be included on the jacket of the eventual hardbound edition.

       “My Heart Could Just Burst" is about the good in people that triumphs over the evil folks can do.  There are angels among us even as the headlines talk about the evildoers.  Yes, I started this novel under a real deadline.  I didn't know if I'd have time to finish it.  I wanted to leave something loving and kind behind.  I wanted to leave something that counter balanced my other works.  It's difficult to play the hand you're dealt but you can also make your own reality if you try.  I was anxious to add this to complete kind of a yin yang wholeness to coincide with the publication of the darker work,  “For All My Days.“

        The proof copy you are reading will someday have its numerous mistakes corrected for a final edition and this description will be on the hardbound jacket.     This book was prepared for the printer while I was dealing with a disease and treatment that played havoc on my ability to put thoughts on paper and concentrate.  I always knew what I wanted to say but at times the experience was a lot like translating my thoughts into the Martian language.  I would stare confused at mysterious punctuation rules and spelling examples that were once second nature to me thanks to the nuns who had once drilled them into my head.  It is further proof that the writer who edits his own work has a fool for a client.

       Are there people like the characters in this novel?  It saddens me that the question has to be asked.  There is good in this world and it’s there to be found if you just look. It’s there inside you.  Faith and hope are wonderful things but the greatest of things is love.  I know this much—a child should never cry herself or himself to sleep at night.  Christian scripture says whatever you do unto the least of these, you do to the God you worship.  The answer to most things is found in love.  It’s internal.  When you love it doesn’t matter what the world does.  When you get better, the world gets better.  At least that part you are responsible for gets better.

       The dedication is at the end of the book rather than the beginning.  I didn’t want the reader to think the book was about the person to whom it’s dedicated.  It was inspired by what happened to her, or more specifically, what SHOULD have happened to her.

      Maybe my writing is a bit tinged by emotion.  I make no apologies for the tears shed by some of my characters.  Do they cry too much or too easily?  Or does the world need adults to cry more?  One of my main characters said that her writings "have meant the world to me."  Mine mean the same to me.  There are things worth working for  and there are things worth crying for.  They provide the insight into those things worth dying for.

       Field hollers are the chants made by workers and slaves to ease the burden of working in the fields.  The concept apparently dates to before the Civil War when African American field hands created it. There were probably subtle allusions to escaping.  Certainly they represented laments about the misery of the human condition. The chants were intertwined with the spirituals of the same period.  It is believed that the blues evolved from field hollers.  It is likely that in turn, spirituals and the blues also influenced field hollers.

    This poetry collection is made up of my own field hollers. These are my expressions of the human condition.  The spacing is intentional and it creates the rhythm I use to avoid the use of rhyme and meter.
  
    The poem on page 19 is titled: “UNTITLED.”   “TO KISS THE MOON’S REFLECTION” on page 27 is a reference to Li Po, the great Chinese poet from around 700 AD.  It is believed he had a little too much wine and drowned the night he tried to kiss the moon’s reflection on the water.

   “JESUS AND JOSEPH’S JOURNEY” on page 146 refers to Chief Joseph of the peaceful Nez Perce.  He led his people in a daring escape attempt toward Canada in the face of the breaking of a treaty by the US government.  Captured after a brilliant military campaign under his leadership, he was exiled away from his beloved Wallowa valley.
 
    The 24-page poem beginning on page 97,  “COVENANTS AND FADED RISKS,” is a tribute (of sorts) to Jack Kerouac.  His seminal work, ON THE ROAD, was an anthem for the Beat Generation.  He was disturbed by the thought that his work was partly responsible for the so-called Hippie lifestyle he saw as a cheap attempt to create a shortcut to enlightenment if not an actual attack against enlightenment.
 
    “ENLIGHTENMENT AND DESPAIRING DOUBT,” page 121. A Quantum Field Theory refers to the concept in physics where two separate systems interact because particles are exchanged in the field extending between the systems.  We are what we encounter.