I am probably the ultimate autodidact when it comes to anything artistic, from playing the bamboo flute to writing. (See my recent attempt at composing a standard, Fly Away Home, for musical reference).
My writing approach is one that I can say begins with an opening of improvisatory channels, trying to find new sounds and words through stream-of-consciousness. From that generally emerges something that I have to say, a few phrases and original patterns that I can build around. Right now I am constructing, for the first time in the cloud noveling process, a completely new section to Arisugawa Park, with Hayao digging into Roppongi looking for kinpatsu, whom we know as Eve (meanwhile David is on a mission at the very establishment the old detective is searching for, Eve's ultra-luxe hostess club Peach).
Here is how I went about starting a section that is going to take some careful plotting, pacing, and research over the next week. I'll be interested to see how much stays in the finished section of Ari Park 1.24 - Tunneling .
My writing approach is one that I can say begins with an opening of improvisatory channels, trying to find new sounds and words through stream-of-consciousness. From that generally emerges something that I have to say, a few phrases and original patterns that I can build around. Right now I am constructing, for the first time in the cloud noveling process, a completely new section to Arisugawa Park, with Hayao digging into Roppongi looking for kinpatsu, whom we know as Eve (meanwhile David is on a mission at the very establishment the old detective is searching for, Eve's ultra-luxe hostess club Peach).
Here is how I went about starting a section that is going to take some careful plotting, pacing, and research over the next week. I'll be interested to see how much stays in the finished section of Ari Park 1.24 - Tunneling .
Hayao cracked whip blood cold felling fielding sense left unease found down streets crooked, invisible under utter fervent made strong and spit out, undetermined. song to all the forgotten, the forget-me-not Roppongi tribe, established Yamaguchi clan giving way to bossozoku, gangs determined to have their way in newly minted seedy underpinnings, unknown vice laced with a vision of mistress and quest.
I forgot why I sailed I thought, I knew it was not me, I failed. Who underfoot underspent wide of the mark, marking slum-time with smog lung, perfect blanket of citified angst and pretense… oh my god all the way to the bathroom, trailing entrails, come on.
Who disturbed human automon unforgiven finding in numbers, strength, the back-filled anger of leaving and never leaving, living alone. I am the creator of my own story he thought, fighting an aptitude for… hey hey psycho killer, look this way I’m not all there.
Who kept him coming back for a song. And for the memory of a place where he could belong. Make yourself known. Make yourself someone, don’t forget to smile, style all wrong, old and wrinkly… patterning pages.
1. Walking to that spot with the camera looking up, finding her in his shuffle gaze
2. Turning and noticing that it was precisely here that an alley went down, surely they would know it, and sloping turned either to the street passing to Azabu or down another, there was this other way, a small street and coming out here… just where the park started or ended, there would be a way somehow that she could have passed in areas without cameras. They still existed… they still existed… places where wanted people could not be found. It was in looking this way and that, in grooving, that he could find connection and perhaps redemption he did not know.
Once she was here, at the park, there was a whole ‘nother series of decisions to be made… and the streets either went down to Hiro-o… or to Azabu Juban.. if she had caught a taxi he thought, there would be a record (are Tokyo taxis required to keep hard copy video documentation of rides?)
Then onto Bar Milwaukee… where would gorgeous blondes hang out? I know the old favorites, the ones that cater to a certain clientele… could be searched but might not find… any others? there was the establishment down the steps and he went down and there were m polaroid shot aches and smoky music, the sense of aging perpetually as the models stayed perpetually young. The infinite sadness of the urban far from home. The weariness and the coldness, the defunct
Bar Milwaukee….. Curtis Home…. Campadre …. Black Velvet… Aegis… Hardboiled Wonderland
Then tracing back the streets, then
I forgot why I sailed I thought, I knew it was not me, I failed. Who underfoot underspent wide of the mark, marking slum-time with smog lung, perfect blanket of citified angst and pretense… oh my god all the way to the bathroom, trailing entrails, come on.
Who disturbed human automon unforgiven finding in numbers, strength, the back-filled anger of leaving and never leaving, living alone. I am the creator of my own story he thought, fighting an aptitude for… hey hey psycho killer, look this way I’m not all there.
Who kept him coming back for a song. And for the memory of a place where he could belong. Make yourself known. Make yourself someone, don’t forget to smile, style all wrong, old and wrinkly… patterning pages.
1. Walking to that spot with the camera looking up, finding her in his shuffle gaze
2. Turning and noticing that it was precisely here that an alley went down, surely they would know it, and sloping turned either to the street passing to Azabu or down another, there was this other way, a small street and coming out here… just where the park started or ended, there would be a way somehow that she could have passed in areas without cameras. They still existed… they still existed… places where wanted people could not be found. It was in looking this way and that, in grooving, that he could find connection and perhaps redemption he did not know.
Once she was here, at the park, there was a whole ‘nother series of decisions to be made… and the streets either went down to Hiro-o… or to Azabu Juban.. if she had caught a taxi he thought, there would be a record (are Tokyo taxis required to keep hard copy video documentation of rides?)
Then onto Bar Milwaukee… where would gorgeous blondes hang out? I know the old favorites, the ones that cater to a certain clientele… could be searched but might not find… any others? there was the establishment down the steps and he went down and there were m polaroid shot aches and smoky music, the sense of aging perpetually as the models stayed perpetually young. The infinite sadness of the urban far from home. The weariness and the coldness, the defunct
Bar Milwaukee….. Curtis Home…. Campadre …. Black Velvet… Aegis… Hardboiled Wonderland
Then tracing back the streets, then
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