tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30383722304681525122024-02-02T18:54:39.001+09:00To live in a world meant for other peopleJames Halat <br>
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#Kindle #KindleUnlimited #PaperbackJames Halathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16143720163599638508noreply@blogger.comBlogger43125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3038372230468152512.post-13789201318229589292030-11-19T09:57:00.001+09:002020-07-07T18:52:52.374+09:00To live in a world meant for other people<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i><i><span style="color: #666666;">To live in a world meant for other people</span></i></i></div>
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<i> </i><span style="text-align: center;"><i>Here a bartender carves a block of ice into a near-perfect sphere with a sharp knife and his bare hand. A geisha steps onto the elevator in the hotel, her hair brushed back with painstaking accuracy. In the restaurant, food is prepared with care and served with even more care. Ugly buildings and tangled wires overhead share space with small gardens and handmade signs and window displays and rows of idle bicycles. Neon skeletons hang by day and become breathing beauties at nightfall. </i></span><i style="text-align: center;">Preschoolers line up like ducks in yellow uniforms on a train platform. I hear one visitor refer to these children as the reason why “they are so militaristic.” My introduction to Japan is a list of quips like this one from other westerners. I hear them from strangers on the subway. I hear them from my co-worker who has lived here for several years. I hear them from the occasional person I meet in a bar or at a party. I stand in this museum, looking at the fabrics and thinking about these things. I feel something here. I want to feel it more deeply. </i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i style="text-align: center;"><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i style="text-align: center;">On my way home after work, I stand under the threads and the gold flakes and vivid colors of the wires over the alley that leads to my apartment. These wires carry information and power to the individuals who connect to them. I wonder about these people as extensions of the people I meet everyday. There exists a built-in interconnection based on weather, sight lines, received social foundations, but each is his own terminus. Each draws from these wires in his own way. Each is a unique facet, an art work. The fact that each work is a painting is not what makes it interesting. What makes it interesting is that each painting elicits its own breath.</i></div>
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James Halathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16143720163599638508noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3038372230468152512.post-31481462833972879802030-11-18T14:09:00.000+09:002020-01-10T19:31:05.662+09:00My Books Reviewed at San Francisco Review of Books<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Syncopated Rhythm</b> "... The language is so appropriately raw when needed and so fragile in other passages ... Writing of this apparent simplicity is true craftsmanship and James carries this creative flow throughout the book ... James' gifts as a writer are extraordinary. This may be new work and if so it holds promise of an author who will likely rise in the same realm as Jonathan Saffron Foer et al."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">- <b>San Francisco Review of Books</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Clifford and Claudia </b>"... [the author] can interplay gay characters with aplomb and make his story so universally relevant that the reader can simply sit back and enjoy the entertainment. And in his novel there is entertainment aplenty! ... His ability to create stories that are refreshingly unexpected places him in line with some of most established authors. Highly recommended."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">- <b>San Francisco Review of Books</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>The Story of Teddy and Eddie</b> "... James’ elegant style of writing inserts italicized poetic passages, the thoughts of the narrator, into his prose – a technique that with lesser authors becomes disruptive, but in James’ case these passages elevate the meaning of the psychological dilemma of the story to even greater heights. ... This author is most assuredly a unique voice who is well on his way to becoming an established, significant American author"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">- <b>San Francisco Review of Books</b></span><br />
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James Halathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16143720163599638508noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3038372230468152512.post-23809129679766742542020-12-23T00:49:00.001+09:002020-12-23T00:49:51.759+09:00All my books on Amazon $0.99 - Dec 22 - 28<div style="text-align: justify;"><div><span style="color: #666666;">All my books on Amazon</span></div><div><span style="color: #666666;">$0.99 - Dec 22 - 28</span></div><div><span style="color: #666666;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #666666;">Free on #KindleUnlimited</span></div><div><span style="color: #666666;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #666666;">#Kindle </span></div><div><span style="color: #666666;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #666666;">https://t.co/chUqDuVvmA </span></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuBt8t0A-zzd4PCVeYmvfMAJKmbO16Q0ZjvA2ary3sSf9YqVS9WpiLfgI_juiyCZjBX1s4QBzDFU8aiZzelFfMT1tGLHXscVw8LxsVxS2DbZFc_aSW62tCiXkrqAGM-HL4TPN_-LayWqQ/s2048/Screenshot_20200704-225506-01.jpeg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1174" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuBt8t0A-zzd4PCVeYmvfMAJKmbO16Q0ZjvA2ary3sSf9YqVS9WpiLfgI_juiyCZjBX1s4QBzDFU8aiZzelFfMT1tGLHXscVw8LxsVxS2DbZFc_aSW62tCiXkrqAGM-HL4TPN_-LayWqQ/s320/Screenshot_20200704-225506-01.jpeg.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div></div>
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James Halathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16143720163599638508noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3038372230468152512.post-58381983462282736532020-07-19T04:47:00.000+09:002020-07-19T04:47:28.507+09:00My books on Goodreads<div style="text-align: justify;"><div><b style="text-align: left;">My books on Goodreads</b></div><div><div style="text-align: left;">#Free on #KindleUnlimited</div><div style="text-align: left;">#Kindle #Goodreads </div><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://www.goodreads.com/jameshalat" id="docs-internal-guid-c76f7de8-7fff-62a7-80d1-9ffc2cc56c78" style="text-decoration-line: none;"><span style="color: #1155cc; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; text-decoration-line: underline; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">http://www.goodreads.com/jameshalat</span></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBwqkK0tOW3tV-onmjTrs94MXQu_qCO2gDyXjXVidSUfU7pa4p3TLMbKdRUBAnJTZR28rtOTZNX2sQ5nOjBm8evEGYE5x7yqGjlOicB5Nlap-G0x8ZGrTQ1WgeB8X3otsuQCkT7oU4xqY/s1537/Screenshot_20200706-122332.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1537" data-original-width="1497" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBwqkK0tOW3tV-onmjTrs94MXQu_qCO2gDyXjXVidSUfU7pa4p3TLMbKdRUBAnJTZR28rtOTZNX2sQ5nOjBm8evEGYE5x7yqGjlOicB5Nlap-G0x8ZGrTQ1WgeB8X3otsuQCkT7oU4xqY/s320/Screenshot_20200706-122332.png" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></div></div>
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James Halathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16143720163599638508noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3038372230468152512.post-28699231834004389602017-08-09T13:34:00.000+09:002019-12-22T20:54:17.300+09:00Japanese food - Shirasu<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">During my first month in Tokyo, I am taken to a neighborhood izakaya in Takadanobaba called Momem Ya by the owner of the jazz bar I frequent. The restaurant is secluded in a basement, a small but comfortable space, perfect for two at the counter, or groups at the Japanese-style tables hugging the walls.. It has a friendly staff and delightful menu. Both change over the years, yet remain uncompromisingly friendly and delightful. Jazz music hang</span></span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">s over the open kitchen as we wait for our food to be cooked. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7O2l2wEafbXFQcfXBF1l-A_9R_NJM3tV0prXyCyBF4TwC3hGqKT7QkANNVxzhnTcb83ZtYwrpDdPcOQpfD9XTM6A0c91Tead3nGw5vrgulwmPwqri9F0qmk-YwMe18LZRqAQsfFe0n9M/s1600/DSC_0034%257E2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: #666666;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7O2l2wEafbXFQcfXBF1l-A_9R_NJM3tV0prXyCyBF4TwC3hGqKT7QkANNVxzhnTcb83ZtYwrpDdPcOQpfD9XTM6A0c91Tead3nGw5vrgulwmPwqri9F0qmk-YwMe18LZRqAQsfFe0n9M/s320/DSC_0034%257E2.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="color: #666666;">Chefs in the Open Kitchen of Momen Ya </span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666;">This first visit, I am introduced to shirasu, pictured below. There is a lot of food on the table that night, and I dig into the shirasu like I do the other new food I try - with trepidation, excitement, and anticipation. I take in a mouthful, then another. A delicious flavor, new to me. A delicate taste. I think I am eating some sort of Japanese steamed vegetable. I ask my host what it is. He smiles and tells me to look closer. It is only when I look closer that I notice the little black eyes on these "vegetables." Turns out that shirasu is the young of sardines. I eat little creatures without realizing it. Later I find that these delicious creatures are often included in salads, prepared as below, or toasted, a sort of Japanese crouton. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhhrNtuil9SOCDC-HDHhD7S9YsTml5E_Jv1GVcBud3AffclkS-gAB_55cG9I1HdAyvT4pQ9cwgAxLOt2G-EYdM81KXDOO0RwM7K9YrNQ6jVx9wVfEn0OYxxtjbJHlIuIfDA6_BValzdQI/s1600/DSC_0681%257E2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: #666666;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1465" data-original-width="1600" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhhrNtuil9SOCDC-HDHhD7S9YsTml5E_Jv1GVcBud3AffclkS-gAB_55cG9I1HdAyvT4pQ9cwgAxLOt2G-EYdM81KXDOO0RwM7K9YrNQ6jVx9wVfEn0OYxxtjbJHlIuIfDA6_BValzdQI/s320/DSC_0681%257E2.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Shirasu: Blow Up the Picture to See the Little Eyes</span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></span><span style="color: #666666;">So I continue to eat the little creatures. I surprise myself in a way. Before moving to Japan, I am not that adventurous with food. Sure, I'll try foods from various countries. But I always choose things from the menu that I think I might like, that will go down easy. But all that changes in Japan. I suppose having sake with my meals helps, but whatever the case, I become open to a whole new range of flavors and textures I might pass on before this experience: raw beef tongue cut and served like sashimi - a specialty of Sendai, whale bacon, horse meat sashimi</span><span style="color: #666666;">, raw chicken, seared only at the edges, or a raw egg mixed with my steamed rice. </span><span style="color: #666666;">With fresh food, it seems you can do almost anything!</span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666;">If you're ever in Tokyo or any place in Japan, I encourage you to try new things, expand your horizons. You might be surprised what sorts of food you will like.</span><br />
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James Halathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16143720163599638508noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3038372230468152512.post-59561789292724782972017-07-28T00:20:00.000+09:002019-12-22T20:54:40.717+09:00Japanese food - Natto gyoza<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">In this introductory post on Japanese food, I have selected a dish that actually has its origins in China, and only makes it's way to Japan in the last century (or so I have been told). That dish is gyoza. </span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Of course, I have the opportunity to eat various dumplings before I come to Japan, but the flavor and consistency of Japanese gyoza is an unexpected treat for me.</span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> </span><br />
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The gyoza pictured above is natto gyoza, not something you find in most restaurants, but one of my favorites. The reason is the natto. Natto is a traditional Japanese food made from fermented soy beans. It is notoriously stinky, has an unusually strong flavor, and when eaten normally it sits in a fluid having the consistency of spit. I'm not a fan of this version. But when cooked in gyoza, you end up with an unmistakeable aroma and a noticeable bite to the flavor of the standard fare of minced ground pork, chives, green onion, cabbage, ginger, and garlic. Add a light crisp on one side, and a dipping sauce of equal amounts soy sauce and Japanese vinegar (and maybe something spicy), and the result is a fully satisfying dining experience. So even though gyoza is relatively new to Japan, this version is distinctly Japanese, and I highly recommend that you try it on your next visit to Japan.</span><br />
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James Halathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16143720163599638508noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3038372230468152512.post-41573289096988144732017-06-24T00:35:00.001+09:002017-07-27T14:37:42.157+09:00Living in the Chelsea Hotel<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>The landmark Chelsea Hotel was built in the 1880s as one of the city's first private co-ops. In 1905, it re-opened as a hotel. Over the years, the hotel has been the home of numerous writers, musicians, artists, and actors, including Dee Dee Ramone, Bob Dylan, Virgil Thomson, Sam Shepard, Arthur C. Clarke, Arthur Miller, Charles Bukowski, Allen Ginsberg, Dylan Thomas, Janis Joplin, Tom Waits, Leonard Cohen, and Patti Smith.</i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>In the 1970s, a New York landmark himself, Stanley Bard took over the management of the hotel, and his son David joined him later on. In the autumn of 1978, punk rocker Sid Vicious killed his girlfriend, Nancy Spungen, in Room 100, a room that has joined the other ghosts that make up the Chelsea.</i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">View from the Balcony, Room 325</span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The year is 1995 or 1996. I enter the Chelsea Hotel, push through the heavy glass doors. The light in the lobby adjusts to my eyes. Art runs floor to ceiling around the room. Obscure paintings. Little known artists. A swath of contemporary styles. The room feels different from other rooms. It feels powerful. More powerful than its modest size. </span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>Distant thunder rolls through the clear twilight sky.</i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">People linger around the front desk - a diorama pulled through a wormhole from a distant past. A New York thing. A painting of a horse’s head dominates the room. A white horse. Bathed in light. Goes well with the distant thunder.</span></div>
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The Front Desk and Lobby</div>
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Art in the Lobby</div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The art does not stop in the lobby. It runs the walls of the stairwell, the hallways along each of the ten floors. A remarkable collection of works that settles into the architecture as if each piece is a part of the original design.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Art in the Stairwell and Hallways</span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>I can’t sleep. I wander these stairs and halls. The sounds of my own soft steps slip into the silence around me. I stop, take in a face, an expression, a brush stroke. Forget what floor I am on. I somehow make it back to my room, leave my clothes by the door. Step naked onto the balcony into the freezing cold darkness blown open by the orange and white neon that spills against my skin. I turn, go back inside, into the warmth, into the nothingness of sleep.</i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Room 325 </span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Keys to Room 325 </span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Moving into the hotel is not easy. Before given a lease, a one month trial period is required. Prospective tenants are vetted by Stanley Bard. What criteria he uses, I have no idea. After the month is up, a room on the third floor is offered, a key, Room 325, with a balcony onto 23rd Street.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">23rd street. Between 7th and 8th Avenues. A YMCA. A Chinese laundry that picks up, delivers, its shop windows covered in dated signage that displays hours and services. A mom and pop diner/donut shop with a delightful egg, bacon, and cheese sandwich. A bodega that offers sandwiches, salads, roasted turkey, baked ham, bagels, sausages, chicken parmesan, Entenmann's for dessert. A pizza place, of course. Large slices. Wooden stools. A small bar that caters mainly to gay clientele, people from the neighborhood. El Quijote, a timeless Spanish restaurant on the first floor of the hotel that serves oceans of seafood, caters to a certain "family" crowd from the outer boroughs.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">A Fixture on 23rd Street </span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>Dee Dee Ramone hangs out at the front desk. Youthful Rufus Wainwright gives a friendly smile in the elevator. Ethan Hawke makes a film. The third floor hallway bustles with cast and crew for a few days before it is returned to the residents and guests. That is how it is at the Chelsea. </i></span></div>
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<i><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">A woman stands in the lobby. She fears being in close proximity to other people. A tough affliction, I imagine, as a resident of New York City. Her quest to get from the front door to the stairs at the back of the lobby is one fraught with obstacles. Sometimes for amusement (a little mean-spirited perhaps) someone will step in her direction to watch her recoil. She does. She always does. But she always makes it. </span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I like her. She fights.</span></i></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>One day, I say hello to a woman I pass on the stairs. This sets her off. She goes into an uncontrollable rant strung with profanities. Colorful. Loud. It continues until I am well out of range. I come to discover that she does this to everyone. I don't see her often, but when I do I make sure to keep my words to myself. That's the way it is. </i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I spend 5 years at the Chelsea before my move to Japan. It's an experience that is difficult to capture, to convey how the rooms feel, what it is like to be surrounded by art and the people who live and pass through here. How it becomes a world of its own in the middle of New York City. But it’s in here, inside of me. I carry it with me wherever I go.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Of course, the Chelsea Hotel I speak of is no more. Stanley Bard is ousted in 2007. So is David. Pushed out by the new corporate owners. The residents try to get the Bards back. They hang banners. To no avail. I live in Tokyo at the time, but I feel it when I visit New York, find that the hotel is closed to guests. The lobby walls bare. The hotel remains closed to guests even now, in 2017, under renovation, amid legal tangles, scheduled to reopen sometime as who knows what.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">So the art is gone. The YMCA is gone. The mom and pop diner/donut shop is gone. The memories remain, but when I walk through the front door now, there is no rumble of distant thunder. The lobby is like any other. My attraction to the neighborhood wanes, too. Still, the sight of the hotel facade and the fact that El Quijote remains unchanged, these things keep me in the moment.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">That’s how it is in New York. Signature storefronts and new arrivals replace local shops and long time residents. A reminder that everything lives and everything dies. We mourn and we move on, look for other things that charge us, influence where we go, what we do. I am but an audience for a short time in this grand palace of performance and visual art, but I, too, disappear.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Although I live at the Chelsea Hotel for only 5 years, a great deal of my thoughts and ideas remain tied to the place, and my memories are forever flavored by my experiences there. My novel <i>Clifford and Claudia</i> is written mostly at the Chelsea, in Room 325. The Chelsea also makes an appearance in my first novel, <i>Syncopated Rhythm</i>, as the springboard to my move to Tokyo. </span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>Where the distant thunder continues to roll through the clear twilight sky.</i> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><a href="http://goo.gl/G2il36"><span style="color: #990000;">My books on Amazon</span></a><span style="color: #666666;"> </span><span style="color: #990000;">| <a href="http://jameshalatauthor.blogspot.jp/p/subscribe.html"><span style="color: #990000;">Subscribe</span></a></span><a href="http://jameshalatauthor.blogspot.jp/p/subscribe.html"><span style="color: #990000;"> to this site</span></a><span style="color: #666666;"> </span><span style="color: #990000;">|</span><span style="color: #666666;"> </span><a href="http://jameshalatauthor.blogspot.jp/p/contact-me.html"><span style="color: #990000;">Contact me</span></a></span> </div>
James Halathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16143720163599638508noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3038372230468152512.post-24714639883383981362016-08-04T04:09:00.003+09:002016-08-04T04:17:53.775+09:00Featured author interview in Waking Writer<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">On Aug 3, I am featured in an author interview in <a href="https://wakingwriter.com/2016/08/03/james-halat-author-of-the-story-of-teddy-and-eddie/" target="_blank">Waking Writer</a>. Check it out!</span><br />
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James Halathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16143720163599638508noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3038372230468152512.post-765069256298676462016-04-09T17:13:00.000+09:002016-04-23T20:22:10.743+09:00Even in the aftermath...<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">...after the cherry blossoms fade and the petals fall to the ground, the allure remains, like a dusting of snow in the springtime, a final, memorable curtain call before the lights go out.</span></div>
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James Halathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16143720163599638508noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3038372230468152512.post-46197646212399489912016-04-07T17:53:00.002+09:002016-04-22T14:54:44.992+09:00It's the end of the season<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Another closing to a magical season in Tokyo, where the cherry blossoms dress up the city, a delicate and engaging gateway to springtime.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #990000; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><a href="http://goo.gl/G2il36"><span style="color: #990000;">My books on Amazon</span></a> | <a href="http://jameshalatauthor.blogspot.jp/p/subscribe.html"><span style="color: #990000;">Subscribe to this site</span></a> | <a href="http://jameshalatauthor.blogspot.jp/p/contact-me.html"><span style="color: #990000;">Contact me</span></a> </span></div>
James Halathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16143720163599638508noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3038372230468152512.post-15134726545062963862016-04-03T19:53:00.000+09:002016-04-03T21:58:02.823+09:00Flurries under a cloudy sky...<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">More photos of Sakura along Kanda River in the Nishwaseda section of Tokyo, under a cloudy sky, just a day or two from full blossom.</span><br />
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James Halathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16143720163599638508noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3038372230468152512.post-74855330469763594622016-04-01T22:29:00.000+09:002016-04-22T14:59:30.932+09:00Almost there...Sakura in the twilight<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Sakura in the twilight, a few days from peak. A magical time in Tokyo.</span><br />
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James Halathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16143720163599638508noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3038372230468152512.post-29931376471406171992016-04-01T04:39:00.001+09:002016-04-01T07:41:54.801+09:00Sakura - night view<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Sakura - night time in Tokyo. Still a few days away from full-blossom. Anticipation...</span><br />
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James Halathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16143720163599638508noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3038372230468152512.post-51705687194703617742016-03-31T00:44:00.002+09:002016-03-31T15:11:11.936+09:00Sakura mid-bloom. A few days more to peak!<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Because it is beautiful...along the Kanda River in the Nishiwaseda section of Tokyo, just outside my door.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #990000; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><a href="http://goo.gl/G2il36"><span style="color: #990000;">My books on Amazon</span></a> | <a href="http://jameshalatauthor.blogspot.jp/p/subscribe.html"><span style="color: #990000;">Subscribe to this site</span></a> | <a href="http://jameshalatauthor.blogspot.jp/p/contact-me.html"><span style="color: #990000;">Contact me</span></a> </span></div>
James Halathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16143720163599638508noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3038372230468152512.post-61576527979737269962016-03-22T09:02:00.002+09:002016-03-30T07:33:56.737+09:00First sakura (cherry blossoms) in Tokyo 2016<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">A few days each year cherry blossoms fall from distant trees to float among the columns, to litter the surface with a softer edge, a more tenuous future. They are a reminder that one day these patterns too shall die and be replaced with something else. Meanwhile, below the surface, life changes unalterably.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #999999;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #999999;">Syncopated Rhythm - James Halat</span></span></div>
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James Halathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16143720163599638508noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3038372230468152512.post-35839090113416686322016-03-19T10:05:00.000+09:002016-03-21T19:14:55.589+09:00Sometimes you need to look twice. I know I do.<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">In many ways, Japan gets things exactly right. I moved here by accident a long time ago, and the country still surprises me. Before coming here, I accepted a lot of what I thought I knew about the world, only to discover that our man-made borders are tall and strong and act as walls to block the flow of general information. Of course, the internet helps to break down these walls, but so much information is buried in the avalanche we call social media, and the loudest voices seem to determine what we absorb. We simply can't sift through the rest. Time is just not on our side. But we do have a choice. The choice to look twice at things that come our way. Ask ourselves if what is in front of us makes sense or not. Ask ourselves if a different view might not explain things better. No matter where I live, I feel that I live in a world meant for other people. Truth be told, I feel no more foreign in Japan than I did in New York, New Jersey, Philadelphia, Los Angeles. I am always on the outside, looking around. And no matter where I am, I've learned that s</span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">ometimes you need to look twice.</span><br />
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James Halathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16143720163599638508noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3038372230468152512.post-90792352739292781482016-03-08T20:11:00.000+09:002016-03-13T07:38:07.389+09:00A hand shackles nature’s gentle flow in a sunless room<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The water is murky. By the looks of it without direct sunlight since several years before we land on the moon. Diffraction patterns cover the surface. They emanate from circles, intersections of concrete, water, air, and light. The patterns display symmetries. They reflect the steady hum of traffic above. I will see these patterns many times, but I will lose the hum of traffic, because I start to listen to music during my commutes. It helps keep my little madman from torturing me while my arms are pinned to my sides. The mood of the patterns changes with the music. A hand shackles nature’s gentle flow in a sunless room filled with stale air, and creates something alive and beautiful. A few days each year cherry blossoms fall from distant trees to float among the columns, to litter the surface with a softer edge, a more tenuous future. They are a reminder that one day these patterns too shall die and be replaced with something else. Meanwhile, below the surface, life changes unalterably.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #999999;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #999999;">Syncopated Rhythm - James Halat</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Sometimes you find great art here</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwSXeOGV6BzJfCeLL9lOqgf3WrkpIhv3eg18NrGD8MQVJGTrrDHAtP3lYECAqjjqHXCFFAdDbawgsivxnDcbRmqaoYRt5_UxcIqam2MEBoYxOl75PdOyXZHB2fzOyElchhBXblDyceLUw/s1600/11817240_1008861119195494_2193190256624337953_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwSXeOGV6BzJfCeLL9lOqgf3WrkpIhv3eg18NrGD8MQVJGTrrDHAtP3lYECAqjjqHXCFFAdDbawgsivxnDcbRmqaoYRt5_UxcIqam2MEBoYxOl75PdOyXZHB2fzOyElchhBXblDyceLUw/s320/11817240_1008861119195494_2193190256624337953_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Sometimes you find it in more unexpected places</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #666666;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Places that don't exist anymore</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7TIDzwLLniwNLWKDhUID39tMY85DCzNJSp4sZ-IlpJmpffOrtFjBfiMnqj67D0O1JpUiRqdihfE7TVII8JNhamgBn9cUgwJ2fKkcw-lPZmkS4F8e-HjW_247K1LMpWGrwykSMlusS9-I/s1600/FB_IMG_1427580815328.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7TIDzwLLniwNLWKDhUID39tMY85DCzNJSp4sZ-IlpJmpffOrtFjBfiMnqj67D0O1JpUiRqdihfE7TVII8JNhamgBn9cUgwJ2fKkcw-lPZmkS4F8e-HjW_247K1LMpWGrwykSMlusS9-I/s320/FB_IMG_1427580815328.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">By someone you haven't seen in a while</span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Read, </span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">write, </span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">paint, </span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">pull out the camera, </span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">take a look, </span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">take a chance</span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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James Halathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16143720163599638508noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3038372230468152512.post-91702629922703874372016-02-07T05:20:00.000+09:002016-03-13T07:38:30.184+09:00The River Resort in Laos. A great place to write.<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Photos from the River Resort near Pakse, Laos along the Mekong River. It was built by a good friend of mine, designed by a Japanese architect with an eye for the environment. A great success, I think. Astonishing beauty. And a great place to write down words.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbJ0wSNcQeSeCiV5iQhV19TwmOc8Xn1qGDbDQ0CiTnaMUwwATba5-7SZp3sK4zAEBAfetwranNiYkH_If73xpJwJvaXwUFaNLt_a8XKwUvc4iU45A5M9RfMsHeDyExaxGya3ChxJTyMaE/s1600/IMG_20130108_181357.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbJ0wSNcQeSeCiV5iQhV19TwmOc8Xn1qGDbDQ0CiTnaMUwwATba5-7SZp3sK4zAEBAfetwranNiYkH_If73xpJwJvaXwUFaNLt_a8XKwUvc4iU45A5M9RfMsHeDyExaxGya3ChxJTyMaE/s320/IMG_20130108_181357.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Infinity Pool looking out onto the river</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhGvcMWNE4UdfKshyxdYx8CSpDX2DRy07hBdNd7-eAH9-QCEbj_bchZcS_u-dWmSTj5wDKQnk2_-irhOa9jaY_IAWvR0OBTnQCfPOySDlrj6EN-HL_HzdFZhoUGfU8pbX09Ms9sHE5EP8/s1600/IMG_20130108_193457.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhGvcMWNE4UdfKshyxdYx8CSpDX2DRy07hBdNd7-eAH9-QCEbj_bchZcS_u-dWmSTj5wDKQnk2_-irhOa9jaY_IAWvR0OBTnQCfPOySDlrj6EN-HL_HzdFZhoUGfU8pbX09Ms9sHE5EP8/s320/IMG_20130108_193457.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">A quiet moment (that's not me)</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzrw1a25W0RWQy3lH6EwAbHFCpfR4llFQja2EI75h-N4lSS3cvW8WN9H6JF6m-Km1-yx3Ynw4ETvqPqpiTtNYIpjB2ToVrabUnEKmrMb8GTA_12IxOFMDQtyfgMG9_yr6wzOAfiBJMEI0/s1600/IMG_20130108_111724.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzrw1a25W0RWQy3lH6EwAbHFCpfR4llFQja2EI75h-N4lSS3cvW8WN9H6JF6m-Km1-yx3Ynw4ETvqPqpiTtNYIpjB2ToVrabUnEKmrMb8GTA_12IxOFMDQtyfgMG9_yr6wzOAfiBJMEI0/s320/IMG_20130108_111724.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">A tree that seems to cast a long shadow</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfB3xtK6rSYzgYWg8GL9DBvg0g1-gEiSbtFrZ31gR8OitwldM4b6zLkGI_e-aC5BTJjTQk_ATYJrBoZoNFO_X_ODtGeMiEQAYyybjxa1u7FAK8Zz2Ivh4-eQv3UdCdf2g0FeUBPFWqO7k/s1600/DSC_1284.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfB3xtK6rSYzgYWg8GL9DBvg0g1-gEiSbtFrZ31gR8OitwldM4b6zLkGI_e-aC5BTJjTQk_ATYJrBoZoNFO_X_ODtGeMiEQAYyybjxa1u7FAK8Zz2Ivh4-eQv3UdCdf2g0FeUBPFWqO7k/s320/DSC_1284.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; text-align: center;">Rice fields anchor the resort</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxhIstUq6PGRXDpRMYIa7pHOS6ZQ1UOPYcJzmFSY0AYd-mS1CpHCVUmfWfida_2w79VsB2L-dhfl1PPacbzu13tmcOyB-YZbI4sKEc7kJVkLXyKiu4nzUYIF5BcOOJ6QGjHrwtOYwccTg/s1600/IMG_20130109_152922.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxhIstUq6PGRXDpRMYIa7pHOS6ZQ1UOPYcJzmFSY0AYd-mS1CpHCVUmfWfida_2w79VsB2L-dhfl1PPacbzu13tmcOyB-YZbI4sKEc7kJVkLXyKiu4nzUYIF5BcOOJ6QGjHrwtOYwccTg/s320/IMG_20130109_152922.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">An afternoon cocktail (following a morning cocktail)</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPSraR_PGU_oEiyRcFIHf91QrOnXapKWL_u5VkViR2epoUc6lBLm7aXj-sn5rCxaYB-FqilG7_vMlUHiMJ-fZAOn6yWLHzRNHD2cQ-lOftcSsPl4ISz-3DHZdcbytNJiNL8Wcyj4ntuiU/s1600/IMG_20130110_080833.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="172" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPSraR_PGU_oEiyRcFIHf91QrOnXapKWL_u5VkViR2epoUc6lBLm7aXj-sn5rCxaYB-FqilG7_vMlUHiMJ-fZAOn6yWLHzRNHD2cQ-lOftcSsPl4ISz-3DHZdcbytNJiNL8Wcyj4ntuiU/s320/IMG_20130110_080833.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">River sunset</span></div>
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<a href="http://goo.gl/G2il36" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #990000;">My books on Amazon</span></a><span style="color: #990000; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"> | </span><a href="http://jameshalatauthor.blogspot.jp/p/subscribe.html" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;" target=""><span style="color: #990000;">Subscribe to this site</span></a><span style="color: #990000; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"> | </span><a href="http://jameshalatauthor.blogspot.jp/p/contact-me.html" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;" target="_blank"><span style="color: #990000;">Contac<span id="goog_2041295221"></span><span id="goog_2041295222"></span>t me</span></a><span style="color: #990000; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span>James Halathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16143720163599638508noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3038372230468152512.post-61813740811754274992016-02-03T00:02:00.003+09:002016-03-13T07:38:38.525+09:00Words - Gabriel García Márquez<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTYGgSMiw-vbxlOEXj4_yvlhW2Upii-uXx0hAD_9WqlPQyMmRkwavyzS8aJN4dbTIF5uK3IncH2tzBC2mRaVyHRNf7Dmml_PYl7ZEC7Z9mmyCCwhgr7LoQQ5Zm7Qhh3JdGJahx7PH6o1c/s1600/GABRIEL-Garcia-Marquez.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTYGgSMiw-vbxlOEXj4_yvlhW2Upii-uXx0hAD_9WqlPQyMmRkwavyzS8aJN4dbTIF5uK3IncH2tzBC2mRaVyHRNf7Dmml_PYl7ZEC7Z9mmyCCwhgr7LoQQ5Zm7Qhh3JdGJahx7PH6o1c/s320/GABRIEL-Garcia-Marquez.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Once the stormy years of his early struggles were over, Dr. Juvenal Urbino had followed a set routine and achieved a respectability and prestige that had no equal in the province. He arose at the crack of dawn, when he began to take his secret medicines: potassium bromide to raise his spirits, salicylates for the ache in his bones when it rained, ergosterol drops for vertigo, belladonna for sound sleep. He took something every hour, always in secret, because in his long life as a doctor and teacher he had always opposed prescribing palliatives for old age: it was easier for him to bear other people’s pains than his own. In his pocket he always carried a little pad of camphor that he inhaled deeply when no one was watching to calm his fear of so many medicines mixed together.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #999999; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">- Gabriel García Márquez, Love in the Time of Cholera</span></div>
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<span style="color: white;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #990000;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px; text-align: justify;"><br /></span></span></span><a href="http://goo.gl/G2il36" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #990000;">My books on Amazon</span></a><span style="color: #990000; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"> | </span><a href="http://jameshalatauthor.blogspot.jp/p/subscribe.html" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;" target=""><span style="color: #990000;">Subscribe to this site</span></a><span style="color: #990000; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"> | </span><a href="http://jameshalatauthor.blogspot.jp/p/contact-me.html" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;" target="_blank"><span style="color: #990000;">Contac<span id="goog_2041295221"></span><span id="goog_2041295222"></span>t me</span></a><span style="color: #990000; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></div>
James Halathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16143720163599638508noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3038372230468152512.post-8554538422720826712016-02-02T22:55:00.001+09:002016-03-14T05:05:24.070+09:00The Inner Voice of a 13-Year-old Boy with Autism<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5pamiJe6cg_TScmCWAM4dxHNgG8WwSnABnaf5IjaN7GAExkGPUjnBLerqDjZvzX87r8A1IA99TNQiAUU75GpcJB3omA1gGcl0wFq__y7BEJwVaXvKQB53q0Zi_MXsnJ49veCn07rSXZg/s1600/Screen+Shot+2016-02-02+at+21.23.17.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5pamiJe6cg_TScmCWAM4dxHNgG8WwSnABnaf5IjaN7GAExkGPUjnBLerqDjZvzX87r8A1IA99TNQiAUU75GpcJB3omA1gGcl0wFq__y7BEJwVaXvKQB53q0Zi_MXsnJ49veCn07rSXZg/s320/Screen+Shot+2016-02-02+at+21.23.17.png" width="210" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I discover this book after reading an article about it online a while back. At the time, I am aware of autism but don't really know what to think about it. I have no direct contact with any person with autism, or even with anyone who raises it as a personal topic. But now, after reading this book, I realize that for all the detachment I feel in my life, detachment that serves as a recurring theme in my writing, not once do I consider the idea of <i>physical</i> detachment. </span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">My own detachment, of course, is emotional. But the boy in this book describes a normal 13 year-old boy, one who lives his life inside a captive shell, a shell that does not allow him to convey</span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> even his most basic thoughts</span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">. Given all the times I try but fail to express myself in matters of a deeply </span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">personal nature, </span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">with the</span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> concomitant storm of frustration, I wonder how my experience compares to what this boy must go through on a daily basis. Through arduous effort and a spirit I can only aspire to, he manages to write down his thoughts so that others might understand him a little better. A gift in the form of words on the page. The</span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> sealed bottle in which he lives opens for but a brief moment to empower this remarkable boy to record, share his most intimate thoughts, a boy who lives among us, who would otherwise remain invisible, out of sight, </span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">out of mind, in this world, a world that rarely digs in to try to understand what does not fit into accepted definitions of </span><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">normal, acceptable, safe. More than a simple message, this boy gives us an offering, a fiercely personal one, one that has the potential to teach us all something supreme about the world we live in, something we don't think about, really, unless we are compelled to do so. This 13 year-old boy offers to teach us about his world, a world so foreign to most of us that we couldn't possibly hope to understand it otherwise. How often do we truly get a chance to learn about such a distant place on such a personal level? I highly recommend this book.</span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span><a href="http://goo.gl/G2il36" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; text-align: start;"><span style="color: #990000;">My books on Amazon</span></a><span style="color: #990000; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-align: start;"> | </span><a href="http://jameshalatauthor.blogspot.jp/p/subscribe.html" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; text-align: start;" target=""><span style="color: #990000;">Subscribe to this site</span></a><span style="color: #990000; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-align: start;"> | </span><a href="http://jameshalatauthor.blogspot.jp/p/contact-me.html" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; text-align: start;" target="_blank"><span style="color: #990000;">Contac<span id="goog_2041295221"></span><span id="goog_2041295222"></span>t me</span></a><span style="color: #990000; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; text-align: start;"> </span></div>
James Halathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16143720163599638508noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3038372230468152512.post-14085239894619178622016-02-02T21:15:00.000+09:002016-03-13T07:44:35.556+09:00Words - Maya Angelou<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinpyyYEt3iLdLuhhowcjkncjdpg-I7yrk20N1zubCToGi4081tFpLGsPQjSTyfSHL5P3SvZhVuknUoF4nGGj7v7GW_wDciyZxHb_Wae03cWF0yn-mmdQgZ4j_5loC1d6zrqTQGv8XKvQM/s1600/Maya-Angelou.-She-was-spe-012.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinpyyYEt3iLdLuhhowcjkncjdpg-I7yrk20N1zubCToGi4081tFpLGsPQjSTyfSHL5P3SvZhVuknUoF4nGGj7v7GW_wDciyZxHb_Wae03cWF0yn-mmdQgZ4j_5loC1d6zrqTQGv8XKvQM/s320/Maya-Angelou.-She-was-spe-012.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">She turned the light on and said, “Look at the baby.” My fears were so powerful I couldn't move to look at the center of the bed. She said again, “Look at the baby.” I didn't hear sadness in her voice, and that helped me to break the bonds of terror. The baby was no longer in the center of the bed. At first I thought he had moved. But after closer investigation I found that I was lying on my stomach with my arm bent at a right angle. Under the tent of blanket, which was poled by my elbow and forearm, the baby slept touching my side. Mother whispered, “See, you don't have to think about doing the right thing. If you're for the right thing, then you do it without thinking.”</span></div>
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<span style="color: #999999; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">- Maya Angelou, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings</span></div>
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<a href="http://goo.gl/G2il36" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #990000;">My books on Amazon</span></a><span style="color: #990000; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> | </span><a href="http://jameshalatauthor.blogspot.jp/p/subscribe.html" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;" target=""><span style="color: #990000;">Subscribe to this site</span></a><span style="color: #990000; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> | </span><a href="http://jameshalatauthor.blogspot.jp/p/contact-me.html" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;" target="_blank"><span style="color: #990000;">Contac<span id="goog_2041295221"></span><span id="goog_2041295222"></span>t me</span></a><span style="color: #990000; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span></div>
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James Halathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16143720163599638508noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3038372230468152512.post-7511403180623127382016-02-01T05:25:00.001+09:002016-04-23T15:39:19.337+09:00Goodreads 5 Star Review for Syncopated Rhythm<div style="margin: 0px;">
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<a href="http://goo.gl/N8sZp4" style="font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">Syncopated Rhythm</a><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"> </span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/1483804401?book_show_action=false&from_review_page=1">5 Star Review on Goodreads</a> <br />Jan 31, 2016</span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The most razor-sharp prose I’ve read in years. While I loved James Halat’s other two books, I wasn’t prepared for the art and beauty of Syncopated Rhythm.</span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I work my way through the big books, the prize-listed books, the 600-page books, we all do, looking for a scintilla of the humanity Mr. Halat has produced in this (as far as I can tell) all-but-unknown work. The reader is given a main character unflinchingly self-aware, deeply perceptive of those around him, and descriptions of the world he moves through – textures, sounds, tastes, light, darkness – that are so perfect that I want more. But more would be too much. Somehow Mr. Halat knew that.</span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I can’t recommend this book strongly enough, especially to a reader who may be running as fast as she or he can to read every book that comes along trying to find something real, something true. A character who lives his own life on his own terms, not always joyfully, but always with an eye for things that make a day worth living.</span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Here I sit, surrounded by books, and I can’t imagine what I can possibly read next that will measure up to Syncopated Rhythm. I need to spend a couple of hours in front of a Mark Rothko. </span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 21px; text-align: left;"><br /></span> <span style="color: #666666;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 21px; text-align: left;">EDIT: Six stars. The more I've read after this, the more I appreciate </span>Syncopated Rhythm<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 21px; text-align: left;">, its intricacies, its sensuality, its utter uniqueness. The deeply marled and engrossing solitude of its main character. This book needs to be read.</span></span></span><br />
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James Halathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16143720163599638508noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3038372230468152512.post-71882144726954613512016-01-30T00:45:00.001+09:002016-03-18T11:45:15.095+09:00From my non-gay readers<div style="text-align: center;">
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It is hard for me to talk about my writing in an objective way. I suppose that's true for most writers. So I look to outside comments to get a sense of how my writing comes across to my readers. My books are recently published, but one common thread emerging from the comments I have received so far is that books about gay characters in situations that have to do with being gay apparently strike a chord with my non-gay readers. The experience of living in a world meant for other people transcends the borders society has drawn. I would like to thank my readers for sharing their thoughtful and encouraging comments, and I would like to share them with you here:</div>
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<i style="color: #666666; font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">"As a parent, it makes you consider the brave journey of our rainbow children/young adults. To help understand their inner struggle to normalize their feelings against a backdrop of the potential for unrealistic parental expectation."</i></div>
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<i style="color: #666666; font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">"Your book had great meaning to me. My stepson is gay and his journey with his mum in coming out was similar to your story. I loved the expectations of the parents not matching their children. So sad and so common."</i></div>
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<i style="color: #666666; font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">"So many people go through life feeling this same way, unwanted by society; I think that's what I relate to most in this book."</i></div>
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<i style="color: #666666; font-family: verdana, sans-serif;">"Don't let the LGBT label fool you. The story's amazing."</i></div>
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<a href="http://goo.gl/G2il36" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #990000;">My books on Amazon</span></a><span style="color: #990000; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> | </span><a href="http://jameshalatauthor.blogspot.jp/p/subscribe.html" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;" target=""><span style="color: #990000;">Subscribe to this site</span></a><span style="color: #990000; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> | </span><a href="http://jameshalatauthor.blogspot.jp/p/contact-me.html" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;" target="_blank"><span style="color: #990000;">Contac<span id="goog_2041295221"></span><span id="goog_2041295222"></span>t me</span></a><span style="color: #990000; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> </span></div>
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James Halathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16143720163599638508noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3038372230468152512.post-254223409665218662016-01-30T00:45:00.000+09:002016-04-23T15:44:19.003+09:00How does a gay author reach a general audience? (No, really. How?)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">My friends ignore me. Can't say that I blame them. I write books that they think nobody wants to read. And maybe they're right. Who wants to read about living in a world meant for other people? Are my friends right?</span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">To tell you the truth, most of my friends haven't read my stuff. Only a few have ventured in. Three, to be precise. And of the three, they all like what they have read and encourage me to keep writing. My other friends continue to ignore me. Not a word is spoken about my books.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Why am I telling you this? Because, with so many books out there, it is a daunting task to find an audience for mine. Even among my friends. I need to stand out somehow just to get readers to see that I have actually written books. And that's where you come in.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I know. "You're gay. I'm not sure that I could be interested in or connect with what you write," you say. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif; text-align: center;">And to that I say, "It doesn't matter. My books are available to everyone." </span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">They surprise and reach beyond personal boundaries, gay or not gay, make their way inside, become a part of you if you let them. Especially if you feel incomplete, for whatever reason, with the place you happen to be in. That's what I have been told, anyway. But don't take my word for it. Listen to what my readers have to say:</span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>"I dearly love to be knocked out of my expectations!"</i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>"This is a beautiful book. It’s a clarion call to change the present, which you can only do by changing the past, and then, then, then you can be open to the future. I've known that for a long time, but this book articulated it for me."</i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><i>"This is a book you can float in with your eyes closed, long after you've finished it, safe, and sense that kind beings you can't begin to imagine are swimming and living their lives all around you, living their lives in the same water that's licking at your skin, and you're just content to know they're there. And they feel the same."</i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">At this point, I would like to introduce to you my books, in my own words, separate from the descriptions you will find on Amazon. So here they are in order of publication. Click on the links to see the full descriptions and to look inside at sample pages and to read the reviews.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">First up: <a href="http://goo.gl/N8sZp4">Syncopated Rhythm</a> (Published Apr 2015)</span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Syncopated Rhythm is a story about a guy who grows up in New Jersey, lives in NYC, plods through life in a state of persistent disconnect. He finds a modicum of solace in the places he lives and the art he admires, but people, people are another story. His eyelids remain at half mast until he finds himself living in the middle of Tokyo, alone, illiterate, and utterly stunned by his surroundings. He meets a disarmingly attractive young bartender in his neighborhood, but it isn't clear to him what, if anything, will come of it.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">This story is not for the faint of heart or people looking for a happy story with a happy ending. It is a story about life, after all. And we all know that despite all the variations we see on "save the cheerleader, save the world" that's just not how things turn out.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5z2zReOHXWWhoTjaaMN3tgwhxxl9NvBc8_HvZ9Q3bOFoSP-N3QE6lMe2pboimSI6p7gik81QJm-EG3e75_CNICigrzkZt2c-ciEfMT1stwcGOVDZ1j8yFedKOlR2BoEd_if42pa-b_H8/s1600/Amazon+Clifford+and+Claudia+-+Medium.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5z2zReOHXWWhoTjaaMN3tgwhxxl9NvBc8_HvZ9Q3bOFoSP-N3QE6lMe2pboimSI6p7gik81QJm-EG3e75_CNICigrzkZt2c-ciEfMT1stwcGOVDZ1j8yFedKOlR2BoEd_if42pa-b_H8/s1600/Amazon+Clifford+and+Claudia+-+Medium.jpg" /></a></div>
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Next Up: <a href="http://goo.gl/0djcwa">Clifford and Claudia</a> (Published Jun 2015)</span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Clifford and Claudia involves a young man named Charles who comes from a faraway place to fulfill his dream of delivering pizza at Clifford and Claudia's pizzeria. He is not prepared for what is in store for him. First he meets a cranky old woman called Clara-Belle who is out to save mankind with a pack of Camels, a glass of scotch, and a mouth that could take the paint off a passing automobile. She stays close and continually fills his mind with things he doesn't understand. Then he meets a fetching young man he calls Mr. Chips. What appears to be a seemingly perfect, if not completely unexpected, connection turns into an unsettling nightmare as Charles tries to grasp with the sudden loss that accompanies a senseless act of violence. We follow him in his attempts to reclaim what has been taken from him, with Clara-Belle at his side, whispering incomprehensible things in his ear.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Unlike Syncopated Rhythm, this story is for anyone, even the faint of heart and people looking for an entertaining story with an interesting ending. It is a story with magical realism. And we all know where those stories can take us.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYNWC9KYGq1G0YuLNP_NVTyv6OYrhtCKH-FsiGYFH8z-AE9dTupleTY02Eils9wJgdxliZDn2mwWrRrWcgSsW6qPRK35iyMvNAhgUxR6awOI2hFRGfKXY8CMZ3KnyVRnAOP_FJxddMg6k/s1600/Amazon+The+Story+of+Teddy+and+Eddie+-+Medium.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span></a><span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYNWC9KYGq1G0YuLNP_NVTyv6OYrhtCKH-FsiGYFH8z-AE9dTupleTY02Eils9wJgdxliZDn2mwWrRrWcgSsW6qPRK35iyMvNAhgUxR6awOI2hFRGfKXY8CMZ3KnyVRnAOP_FJxddMg6k/s1600/Amazon+The+Story+of+Teddy+and+Eddie+-+Medium.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYNWC9KYGq1G0YuLNP_NVTyv6OYrhtCKH-FsiGYFH8z-AE9dTupleTY02Eils9wJgdxliZDn2mwWrRrWcgSsW6qPRK35iyMvNAhgUxR6awOI2hFRGfKXY8CMZ3KnyVRnAOP_FJxddMg6k/s1600/Amazon+The+Story+of+Teddy+and+Eddie+-+Medium.jpg" /></a></div>
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Finally: <a href="http://goo.gl/q1XkfZ">The Story of Teddy and Eddie</a> (Published Sep 2015)</span><br />
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span> <span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Keen readers will notice immediately that The Story of Teddy and Eddie is actually a story about a young man named Nino. Nino is an unconventional kid who grows up in a conventional suburb in northern New Jersey. He manages to live a quietly detached existence with the help of a bottle of whisky in his backpack and a look but don't touch outlook on life. That is until one day in college he meets a winsome young man named Aki who upends his quiet detachment and sends him running into the arms of his best friends,Teddy and Eddie, for help. What emerges is a new future, a time, a place, a destination that can't be located on any map.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">This is a story of coming of age that illuminates the indelible impact of childhood and memory on decisions so close to the heart.</span><br />
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James Halathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16143720163599638508noreply@blogger.com1