Author Archives: Kyle Kimberlin

all men created equal

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An 86-year-old veteran in Maine explains what he fought for in WWII: for freedom of equality, that everyone should have the right to marry.

As a Christian man, I believe that marriage is a sacrament of the Church, beyond the reach of politics and public policy. The practice of that sacrament is a subject for the conscience of the church. The government has no right to influence that sacrament in any way. The function of the government is to ensure that all citizens have equal rights and access to due process of the law.

you okay?

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OK, so you’re an 8 year old boy, playing near a pond with your brother in the summertime. Climbing into a treehouse, you fall 7 or 8 feet onto dirt and leaves, landing on your back. You’re not seriously injured, just a few bruises and scratches, but you get the wind knocked out of you pretty good.

As you lie there, held by your uncle, he asks you how you’re doing.

Now, what I’m looking for is not a direct answer to the question, like “I’m alright,” or “I’m hurt,” but more of an exclamation. Here’s what I have in the draft:

        “Here, set up a little better,” Uncle Charlie said, and helped Bo sit so that Charlie’s right hand was supporting his back. “How you doing, little guy?”

        Bo said, “Son of a bitch.”

Any thoughts? Is this believable? What do you think the kid would say, assuming that he’s heard it all and the stress of the experience overcomes his inhibitions.

Leave suggestions in comments, please!

it’s hot

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No joke, kids. It’s about 90 degrees here today. I’ve got three fans running full blast, trying to move some air through the fort. Can’t wait for sundown.

I’m still working on the scene in which the two boys go swimming. It’s hard, difficult to find the words to describe the sensation of plunging into the water when you’re 11 years old. I feel like I could really use a nice glass of Merlot and a swimming pool, though not necessarily in that order. … Oh yeah, I don’t drink. Dang.

rain comin

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See, I ran out of potable water in the fortress of solitude. It happens. The water that oozes from the pipes in Carpinteria isn’t fit for man or beast. It tastes like it’s been stewing in the pipe behind a elementary school drinking fountain over a nice long holiday, or maybe in a Boy Scout canteen. Heavy metal, baby. Anyway, that’s why I had to go downstairs to the garage at midnight, to fetch a gallon from my truck.

It was raining, lightly. Sprinkling. It was nice. I let it fall on my face a moment, before I scuttled back into the lair.

The Santa Barbara area is an arid coastal plain, you know. We don’t get much rain. It’s a drought every year from mid spring to early to mid fall. We almost dry up and blow away.So let it come, Lord. But not too much; the people in places that burned are worried for the sky.

  Western wind, when wilt thou blow?
                     The small rain down can rain.
                                    – Anonymous

plunge

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I’m trying to write a scene in which a boy runs down a dock and jumps into a pond. Rather, I’m writing a scene in which the middle-aged narrator tries to remember what that feels like. I can’t think of a good way to do first hand research – which would otherwise be the best thing – so I’m really trying to remember what that’s like. I don’t really want to write a scene in which said narrator tries to recall said experience and fails miserably.

What in the world is that feeling, exactly?

The Wurlitzer Prize

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“I humbly and gratefully accept the Nobel Prize in Physics, the recognition, the honor, the plaque, the trophy, the discount coupons, the windbreaker, the keychain, the bumper sticker, the Alfred Nobel bobblehead and the generous cash award which, if I may, I would like to receive in twenties and fifties.”

They Oughta Give Me The Wurlitzer Prize | CommonDreams.org

Really good stuff, Maynard. Funny, is my point. And there’s a dog in it.

Reading

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In reality, every reader is, while he is reading, the reader of his own self.

– Marcel Proust

Well, the reading at Presidio Springs Community Center yesterday went well. It was a great turnout, and a good time was had by all. I sincerely appreciate everyone who came. Thank you so much for your kind attention.

Thank you, Joseph, for doing so much to make the event possible. It’s not often that any of us gets a chance to be “featured reader,” and have so much time to express himself. I felt free.

For those who couldn’t make it, or just want to read through it again, I’ve prepared my reading manuscript as a sort of digital chapbook, in PDF.

Read or download it here.

I got some feedback from one friend who was there, saying that such readings might be more enjoyable if the audience could follow along with the text. I think it’s a great idea. Everything would make a lot more sense. So next time I do a reading, I’m going to make a point of making my selections early, and posting the text online, as I have here. Food for thought, for you poets and writers out there.

Come To The Reading!

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Please remember you are invited to attend Fused Realities. In case you missed, or were insufficiently annoyed by, postings on my blog and Facebook, and notices in the Independent, Daily Sound, and Noozhawk, here’s the information:

Reading by two local poets & writers

When: Sunday, October 4, 4:00 pm.
Where: Presidio Springs, 721 Laguna St., Santa Barbara [Map]

Two accomplished local poets & writers, J. Kyle Kimberlin & Joseph Gallo, will be reading from their collective works.

Mr. Kimberlin is the author of a collection of poetry called, Finding Oakland. His work has appeared in Pembroke Magazine, Art/Life, Cafe Solo, Rivertalk, Collage, Retooling For Renaissance, The Third Millennium, and Red Tiles, Blue Skies.

Mr. Gallo is the author of a collection of poetry called, The Shredded Mettle of the Heart. He has won numerous awards and has taught poetry & creative writing for California Poets In The Schools, Academy of Healing Arts, SB Music & Arts Conservatory, Artists In Corrections, UCSB summer writing programs, and numerous other venues and workshops.

His work has appeared in The Harrow, BOCA Magazine, The Brautigan Bibliography, The Eldorado Sun, Art/LIFE, Shared Sightings, Earthwords, SOLO, Santa Barbara Independent, Rivertalk and several other literary journals.

This event is FREE to the public.
We hope you can make it!

a conversation

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I was just sitting here, thinking about my big project, and wondering what it might be like to talk to a ghost. I don’t mean the way they do it in movies and those ghost hunting TV shows. I mean, what if you could have a normal conversation – no howling medium, ectoplasmic interference or spooky ethereal music – with someone who is dead.

I guess it depends on whether you believe in ghosts. My Dad and I were checking out his TV, which is acting up, and Ghost Hunters happened to be on. He asked me if they ever catch any ghosts. I said it depends on whether you accept their premises. He said no, it’s a yes or no question. I said baloney, it’s totally subjective; if you don’t believe that ghosts exist, it’s logically impossible to catch evidence of one. If you do … well, I guess you’ll need to ask someone who does, and who has watched the show.

I have watched the show, many times, but remain a profound skeptic. Sure, they present evidence of paranormal phenomena, and it’s fun. Makes for an hour of TV distinguishable from Law & Order and House. But even if we concede that their evidence is real and empirically sound, we’re still stuck.

Let’s say I believe in paranormal phenomena. ESP, telekinesis, etc. Which is more likely, that a camera or recorder caught an event in which the physical world was manipulated by a dead person’s spirit, or that those instruments were manipulated by the unconscious – maybe deliberate – psychic abilities of the “investigators?” I mean it seems reasonable to suppose that living people have greater paranormal powers than dead ones, at least in this world.

In my novel, my character Marty claims he and his house are haunted, but that he does not believe in ghosts. He says that he is haunted by memories, and that memories have life and reality and power beyond the limitations of his recollection. Memories abide, he says, a priori, apart from direct human experience and remembering. Thus it’s possible to be haunted by someone you never met, an event outside your own life. It is a twist on the old adage that someone doesn’t die so long as he is remembered. Marty says memory lives on, even if it is forgotten. The world remembers, love remembers, in spite of us who still live. And in that way, we don’t die.

Now, if I could just get Marty’s memories to sit down with him for a cup of joe and a chat about orchard-keeping, we’ve got ourselves a story.