Here it is––the first chapter of Cowachunga, with significant changes to the first half. I believe this is pretty near to what will emerge as the beginning of the novel. I am leaving previous version up, as it is complete in its own way––just doesn't hold the weight of an entire novel.

Revisions needed to be made, not only for the sake of coherence, but to reflect my deepening understanding of what the  plot is about (finally worked out the back story behind the Cowachunga title). I filled in a lot of details in Vegas, walking back to Sahara from a night of trying and failing to play the flute on the Strip––maybe Sin City is really not my type of town––lost $200 at poker and as penance had to really get serious about the plot. The book is now complex, rather than cartoonish (in my mind) and addresses topics of social identity, technology, fear, sexuality, and environmental sustainability. Given impetus by the notion that, to create something truly believable, one must live it––even in this semi-dystopian, freedom-seeking now.

I have not publicized this project beyond a few beta readers. I am not after any level of recognition that hinders the ability to live an unfettered life. (As Henry Miller can attest, learning to enjoy life without money is the real art). Readers are welcome to drop words of encouragement. 

Chapter Two, now into its fourth section, is still proceeding in weekly increments - I am skipping one this week, but  should have a fifth section up by September 6th.

Some have called these doodles. I agree. The process of visualizing the action on the page as sketches  helps with the real-time creation of Cowachunga.

Steve Perry - Cannery Row Redux... 

Damon Shulenberger - yes, there is that inspiration.. Tulum.. what a tribal flute will do. Remember, you got me hooked on the flute - the one you brought from Bolivia and gave me before I went out on Sierra Institute. I got pretty good at it through 3 months in the wilderness, kokopelli style. To have had that experience... it changed my entire way of being. The flute was a huge part of it. Once you have explored the outer edges, so many things are clear.

Two weeks earlier than Chapter 1. And minutes after section 2.1, section 2.2, and section 2.3.


The road, already bone-jarring as remnants of town faded, narrowed into a faint impression. Kyle navigated the tracks cautiously, gauging exactly how the Mustang reacted with certain types of terrain underfoot––calibrating when to gun the engine and thrust over ruts before the wheel lost contact, went spinning. Rounding the bend into a broad wash, all semblance of road was lost as track fragmented into a scatter of rocks and shards. Throttling down, not quite losing momentum, Kyle kept a tight grasp on the wheel and hugged the bank as closely as possible. There was an insistent sideways pull through 50 meters of breath-held drift, as time slowed and nerve endings coiled against steel––the Mustang somehow making it to the other side without skidding into deeper folds and crevasses.

As the road reappeared and finally leveled, Kyle took stock. Considering that the Mustang was not made for this, they were doing just fine. Notably absent was any sense of fear. In its place, the absolute calm that came after the warp-speed of entering a barrel. A feeling of complete control amidst constant acceleration within a wall of bone-crushing force. Positioning his board at the fulcrum of a cascade capable of taking him 40 feet, deeper, he remained steady, unhurried. Which was not to say he had not kissed reef-laced depths, plunged through the tumble-dry vastness of space… then up and up through ages of water, unable to breath–– simply exhilarated to be alive. 

Kyle glanced at Dylan––rigid, drained of all expression, his mouth seemed on the verge of opening, then snapped shut. It took him a moment to recognize the pattern for what it was––dry heaves. Eyes back on the road, Kyle wondered what Dylan would say when words came. Would he admit that the time saved in no way compensated for an hour spent in hell? No. The idea had been his and there was no way he would admit to its intrinsic sketchiness. Kyle tensed his voice, as if considering the possibility of imminent breakdown, “How far do you reckon the nearest services are?” No reply. Then all chance of conversation lost as the track started its descent toward a thin, horizon-scraping road.

Dylan gripped the passenger side with his entire body as Kyle sought out that hinge-tight connection between steering shaft and pedal. Attuned to the minute calibrations that kept them in line with what gravity required, he accelerated. Face drained of color, Dylan rolled down the window just in time, vomiting half-digested hamburger, spittle. Confronted with a pungent echo of In N Out, Kyle opened his window, letting in a crosscurrent of air. Without premeditation, an exultant yell came to his throat, almost a war cry––two months across America––Vegas, Utah, wherever. At the cusp of possibility, the freedom of it all––in a muscle-car sin un cuidado.

The Mustang touched down again, hitting bottom, as a well-groomed track emerged and took them the last stretch to paved road. And then progress was absolutely level, almost motionless,  on a landing strip without lights. The car heading out of a crescendo of colors into brutal dusk. They settled into a sparse rhythm of conversational avoidance––Dylan seemed embarrassed, tired. Kyle cued Pink Floyd’s Meddle and the car vibrated with piano strung across a wash of echoes. Several species of gulls hovering in mist as small furry animals crossed Northern seas. The exultant sound of a decaying empire, mixed with new architecture. By the time Kyle had moved on to LA Woman, Dylan was asleep. Then, as the Lizard King insinuated life as crawling king snake a new, pedestrian, danger arose––the red flash of gas pump, needle approaching empty. Except for a couple of trucks that shuddered past, the road was empty too. Creases seeping slow-burn into Kyle’s brow as the miles of sped by in empty darkness––a realization that they might well wind up stranded on the side of the road. Kyle glanced at the sticky In N Out cup in the center cupholder. How much water exactly did they have?

It has been two weeks since I started the Soylent blog and, like many things in life (reading The Martian*), it has pretty much gone  by the wayside. I am actually having better progress with the diet than the blog. Pretty quickly into the process of consuming Soylent as a staple food I realized that I was going to have to supplement it with added ingredients, most prominently fruits that I blended into a smoothie concoction with powder, water, and ice. 

Over the course of two weeks, I did cheat with five restaurant meals. Two at Chipotle and one each at Panda Express, Kim Long Pho, and Weera Thai . I also cooked my famous lentil, tomatillo, and chaya soup on one occasion. I supplemented my Soylent smoothie diet each day with occasional handfuls of peanuts, sunflowers, and pellet-like chia cereal. Bouillon. Once in a blue moon a small packet of honey mustard pretzel sticks. 

This despite best intentions––the bottom line is that I felt myself lacking in energy after a day or two of strictly Soylent smoothie and needed to expand my dietary repertoire. (The oddest manifestation of the Soylent diet is that I am often not quite sure whether I am hungry or not. Without the obvious taste bud inputs urging consumption, one must listen very closely to the stomach indeed). Another interesting side note: when eating only Soylent I am sometimes more aware of my skeleton, of the way the teeth hinge on the jaw, etc. I think it means my body is becoming more attuned to its underlying structure. On the flip side, I am more aware of fatigue. My body is in "conserve energy" mode because it got cut off from the excess caloric intake it was used to. And it still has lingering pockets of fat to support. This is why I believe the half-assed 80% Soylent regimen is best this time around––the worst thing I could do would be to go cold turkey from rich foods and lose too much weight. After the diet ended, my body would want to push up caloric intake to compensate and support those still-existing fatty pockets. 

The most recent point of dietary comparison I have with the Soylent regimen is when I stayed in Tulum in April, camping at the beach for a month. Forty minutes by bicycle from the nearest supermarket and facing what seemed pretty high food prices (from a camping perspective), I subsisted largely on lentil soup, avocado sandwiches, cereal, and various fruits. I was more active than in super-hot summer Las Vegas, jogging on the beach and swimming each evening, plus tooling around on beach cruiser. Bottom line: I lost a fair amount of weight in what I felt was a sustainable way. I never consciously limited how much lentil soup I ate, because at a certain point the taste buds and stomach decided I had had enough legumes and vegetables). I do appreciate Soylent for the crash start it gave me in returning to a sustainable diet stateside––it is way too easy to overeat here (one reason beyond a preponderance of cheap food and oversized restaurant portions, is that eating takes the place of conversation and music, the types of interactions that truly satisfy). 

* re: the Martian - this is a book that I thought started strong. An unlikely premise, made realistic. Andy Weir's style was not obtrusive, which is a compliment in a way. I even groaned through the author's puns and lame pop culture  references. The survival aspect of the story was simply so well detailed. I felt like I was there, learning what it would take for survival in an extraterrestrial environment. Unfortunately, the author glossed way too quickly over the aspects of the narrative I found most interesting. Namely, how one would grow things on Mars while maintaining habitable atmosphere within an enclosed structure. Instead of bringing me from the macro to the micro aspects of existence (what is one day of single-minded work, utter monotony, really like?) Weir gave me series upon series of math, chemistry, and physics problems  that needed solving. Yesterday. Or the hab was going to blow up.

The book lost me as an engaged reader when it switched to Earth. It was not only the surface-level depiction of the astronaut's loved ones and colleagues. The "Robinson Crusoe," "Typee," "Without A Trace," "Castaway" survival in the middle of nowhere aspect that I enjoyed had been lost. His existential activities were revealed as a reality show watched eagerly by millions of earthlings through NASA satellite feeds each day.  I felt depersonalized as a reader, as if artistic creation had been commodified. (This is one reason why I have never sought to force commodification of my own creative endeavors. Better to let it flow without limits, a Martian making one's own livable habitat. If they won't pay you for it, you must be doing something right.) 

Ah shit. I just thought up a better Martian, probably an HBO series. Which I will never get around to working on. Like Tarantino, I have too many projects on my plate. And yes, I am hopeful of having him direct Cowachunga as his 10th movie. 

Are there TV series or films that have influenced your writing? I posed this question on Facebook in a BooksGoSocial post: 

Was just thinking how I watched exactly one television series (True Detective) last year while winnowing my literary craft. During the early years of writing Arisugawa Park, I was more in tune with visual media trends & incorporated a number of film and TV influences.  One was the unique pacing and editing techniques found in Japanese terubi dramas (Trick and others I do not remember the names of). 

Another influence was Lost. In particular, the way in which apparently unconnected storylines were connected in quick-paced succession (this was altered in later drafts to an extent, at the urging of perplexed readers). There were also faint childhood memories of the Shogun TV series.* Within these more-or-less traceable influences, I had a basic impression of the thriller trope engrained in my DNA - recollections of dozens of guilty pleasures, from James Bond to The Usual Suspects. 

On the perceptual level, I had a particular affinity for the B&W film noir/bebop sensibility. (Recollection of a cinematic scene in Kerouac's Visions of Cody, describing 3am Times Square + laying on cool tatami listening to Miles Davis' Ascenseur Pour L'échafaud after a blurry night in Roppongi gave the book direct impetus. 

My core question is whether television and movies (in particular HBO-type extended series) have evolved to a point where they acceptable as key influences on literary writers.

* Never read the James Clavell novel - I finally got around to its cousin Noble House (picked up at a guesthouse or hostel I'm sure) a couple years ago and was underwhelmed.

Now is the the time for boldness, originality. So many have given up, when the real race has just begun. #endurancewriter

This is a Tweet i sent out to my 221 very organically derived Followers (four of whom I know personally). Yeah, I am not much of a believer in the easily-gamed Twitter follower game. Or in the algorithms that determine what gets brought up in Google searches. Gamed. The better content sinks for long periods, because it takes longer to digest. The tastemakers have lost their confidence in making taste, are now playing catchup with what sells on Amazon, generates x-million views (not critical reads). The serpent is eating its own tail. 

But art endures, that's something I realized when I laid eyes on April Jardine Limuran's most recent work. Two people (out of three I have shown in person) have independently mentioned Kandinsky on first glance. What I call Shell-Tile Meditation (April has not yet given it a name) is an accomplished work that contains layers of meaning. I see shells and and a shard of Earth Fabric tribal patterning, mixed with the sophistication of downtown tiles and fleur-de-whatever. There is a sureness to her line that cannot be faked and reminds me of a few artists I really dig.  

What April has done is take that raw gift I first saw when she crafted Butterfly Heart in 2012 and turned it into higher level stuff. With no guide but her own intuition, this daughter of the Aklan coastal-nipa-yoga-paraw-tattoo tribe has reached the same level of gritty sophistication as, say a Banksy. Her sense of patterning and line are her own. The feeling emanating from the canvas is genuine. The colors earthy, with a hint of Yellow Submarine and Gaugin languor. I am proud to have collaborated with this emerging artist.

Update (two hours later): The art is having a profound effect. I'm envisioning a flute assemblage, based on the artwork. Snippets of raw, unearthly sound drawn + dripped from a Bukidnon flute. In the anarchic spirit of the Red Pirate, Exit Bar, Camping Chavez––peak moments when music was life. 

To be released... ?

Another scene from Cowachunga. This time Kyle & Dylan in a Mustang, traversing the Sierras. 

I have a new goal, thrust upon me by the muses: continue where Earth Fabric left off... as expected, my old friend and collaborator April Jardine Limuran is to blame. 

For the unitiates, our collaboration on Earth Fabric lasted more than a year (on-and-off) and involved a lot of frustration, a lot of growth. About half of the EF pieces were collaborative collage works, as we communicated what we found intriguing in design and worked together to create a narrative exploring aspects of identity, belonging, creation. The beauty of this collaboration was that it was undertaken apart from any popular style (and accompanying burdens of expectation). Placing a wedge between the artwork and audience, carving out a zone of free exploration, has been lifelong mission. Unfortunately, this path is also remuneration free.

If this new piece is any indication, April has grown by leaps and bounds, into one of the most original artists in the Philippines (my words, not hers). Self-tutored and having grown up near Boracay, this kite surfing enthusiast and mother of two says this piece, with its recurring shell and tile elements, took two weeks to complete. She was particularly inspired by visiting the National Museum of the Philippines in Manila. Now living in Ermita, working for a call center, she has her feet firmly planted on the ground. 

I do hope to convince April to take one more collaborative flight - another art/poetry project. Who knows, this could be the one that allows us to escape the grind of content designed to fit the Silicon Valley yoke, make it as creative artists.