Chronicles of a Wandering Soul

Thursday, June 19, 2008

Facing the Underworld Demons

This was painted in the fall of 2005. Being the healthy hypochondriac that I am, I've supposedly been dying from a host of fabricated maladies over my life span. For several years now, I often have dreams about illness or 'dis-ease.' Usually, the case being that I am 'ill-at-ease' with myself - as in not being congruent with my soul.

When these spooky dreams come, most often, I'm compromising in some fashion, living an unauthentic life of duty and pleasing others as opposed to being true to my soul's calling. My unconscious has an uncanny way of drawing my attention to my dis-ease, or to the things that are 'eating at me' from behind the scenes. Soul knows that if it really wants my attention, an image filled dream will come and then at the end of the dream, it will have something to do with illness, possibly cancer, or someone I've know from the past who has died of some dreaded illness. The unconscious does this to spoke me, to startle me awake so that I will pay tribute to these haunting apparitions. This is souls way of demanding my undivided attention.

This particular painting was done after such a dream. I've learned that to avoid such dreams and images is only an invitation for greater psychological disturbance - more unsettling dreams. So, I will often meditate on a dream, often record the dream in journal, and occasionally something clicks and along comes a shift of awareness and I move deeper into relationship with my self, and my truth, whatever it may be during a particular day or period in my life. Other times, journaling isn't enough, and the images must be approached in another fashion - without words or intellect. Seldom does the soul move from a linear pragmatical position, but instead answers and communion can only come by stepping into the non-linear imaginal real, where the attempt to literally translate is set aside and one's imagination is free to roam in areas that otherwise might be deemed as silly, stupid, childlike or childish, immature, bazaar, irresponsible, and at times even bordering on insane. This is where painting comes in for me. For others it can be honored in a host of different mediums.

Instead of telling you about the dream that prompted this painting, I'm going to let the images speak for themselves, or better yet, I'll remain silent and instead, let your imagination take over. I will say this, though: Over the years, most of what has haunted me in dreams often, after time passes, after I have engaged these 'spooks' in some sort of meditation and creative artistic expression, these so called 'dis-eases' and 'ill-at-ease' aspects of my dreamworld (my psyche/soul) have transformed into some of my closest and healthiest friends and have been the fueling catalyst behind my writing, the Malcolm Clay Trilogy included.

Mel Mathews, is the author of several novels, including the Malcolm Clay Trilogy (Fisher King Press). His books are available from your local bookstore, a host of on-line booksellers, or you can order them directly from his website at: www.melmathews.com

Sunday, June 08, 2008

Writer's Block: Fact or Fiction?

by Mel Mathews

Actually, I didn’t have writer's block when I painted all of these funny little symbols. Can't really say that I ever have had writer's block. Now, that's not to say that all that I write has commercial value—quite the contrary. Yet, everything that I write has soul value and is in service to my evolving existence and authenticity. It may well be chaotic, insane, profane, and lack an ounce of structure or reason; however, it is still in service to my soul and creative process, much like these silly paintings that are posted on my blog, as they too share the same intrinsic value.

When these particular primitive images were painted, I was in the midst of writing my first novel LeRoi and wanted to believe that I had writer's block, because I was lacking clarity about the direction in which the book was going. In reality, I was standing in my own way, believing that I could logically wrap my mind around the unconscious and squeeze it like an orange until my thirst was sated. That's one of the biggest lies I've told myself over the years, that I'm the one running the show and the unconscious is on a leash.

Occasionally words don't come, but that usually means that I'm written out, all that wanted or needed expression has been expunged. When a vessel has been emptied, it is only normal that it should sit in an empty silence and organically complete this natural cyclical process of birth, life, death, and renewal, or as some might say, 'being born again.' This can be a difficult task when it is called for, to sit and wait in silence, in reverence of something far greater than me. I was brought up in a society and family whose values are rooted in hard work and forthrightness. I was taught to work hard, be honest and put forth my best efforts, and sooner or later I would be rewarded. And this very attitude often pays off when one is living in the conventional world and places value in the acquiring of material possession and the illusion of security that accompany such goods.

I understand and support humanity's call to acquire material goods in order to meet the needs of our physical existence and wellbeing. However, when it comes to the creative process . . . well, no matter how well-off a person is materially, if one is not pregnant, how can one will one's self to give birth? Birth happens to us, we are birthed; our creative impulses are given form from something far greater than our limited capacity—and most often futile attempts—to manipulate the cosmos. Sure, man and woman must come together and unite in order for a child to be conceived. Still, it is far more than just physical intercourse that creates us, that breathes the spirit of life into our bodies. We, as is the case with all living creatures, are miracles who for all practical, logical, reasons, should not even exist. Artistic expression, no matter the form, must also have this miraculous spirit breathed into it as expression takes form, and it can't be willed into existence any more than one can will their heart to take its next beat.

When I am at a loss for words to write, or lacking clarity, I will often turn a brown paper bag inside out, or take some other scrap of paper or cardboard that is lying around and begin to paint. I may meditate on my feelings of emptiness, or of feeling artistically impotent, perhaps a feeling of sadness, confusion—I am usually writing when I have access to my joy, sense of humor, anger and/or rage—but during these times of sadness, emptiness, impotence... I will meditate on the feelings and paint. And I don’t practice this ritual so that I can dispose of these negative feelings—quite the contrary. I sit with my self and meditate and paint my feelings in order to honor these very aspects of my humanity, pieces of me that want and need to be honored with something other than words. Then most often, after time passes, and when I'm able to step aside and not stand in the way by trying to force something—or better yet, stand aside and not BLOCK the creative process—this renewed energy can flow forth, refilling the empty vessel and breathing spirit into new forms.

Sunday, April 27, 2008

Alchemy's Postmortem King & Queen

The dream that inspired this painting had something to do with batman making love to batwoman, or perhaps cat woman. In the upper left hand corner, you will notice a small image, that of a lion or lioness worshiping the rising sun, aurora consurgens, the dawning of a new day.

In the center of this painting, you find a five pointed grave, or crypt, where the king lays on top of the queen. It has the tones of death, mortificato, yet the king and queen lie in union, physically connected by the act of intercourse, coniunctio. My feeling at the time of this painting was that of incubation, the tomb being cocoon-like.

At the bottom left corner, you will find two pair of eyes looking on, observing. Whom these eyes belong to, I couldn't tell you. Perhaps these are the eyes of higher consciousness, the Great Father and Mother observing, and possibly even standing guard over the conception and incubation of a new age, a higher consciousness that has yet to be born.

On the bottom right side, you find the moon, thus, revealing lunar qualities to balance out the solar from above. And all of these images are contained within a molten fluidic sea of fire—no doubt a temple of purification.

Tuesday, April 22, 2008

Yin Yang - Hidden Treasures

I don't recall the dream that instigated this particular painting. It was painted in the fall of 2005, when I spent a few months in Oklahoma, 15 or 20 miles northeast of Tulsa. It was something how I stumbled into the place. My uncle, my father's oldest brother had passed away and I returned from Europe to be near my father. Just a few days after my uncle's funeral, my good friend Turner called to say he was moving to Oklahoma and asked for my help. My father was born in Oklahoma, as was my uncle. They were from a family of 12 children and had come to California in the dust bowl days. That's right, they were real live "Grapes of Wrath" sojourners.

What the heck I figured, what better way to honor my long lost heritage than by helping a friend move back to 'my' origins? So, off I went, on yet another adventure, and a few days later, I was kicking around in Oklahoma dirt and staying with Turner's father-in-law, Paul. A week or so had passed and I really wasn't sure what I was going to do, where I was going to live . . . to tell the truth, I wasn't sure about much of anything. While driving down the road with Paul one afternoon, we approached a drive with a sign that said: "Okra & Zucchini for sale. Come to the far house up on the hill."

"Turn down that road, Paul," I said. "Maybe there's a place for me to live back there."

Without the least bit of hesitation, Paul turned right and passed through the gate. It was a farm, an old native pecan orchard, and there was a small bungalow nestled under some trees about a quarter mile past the front gate.

"That might be just right for you," Paul said, observing the home that appeared to be occupied.

We drove on past the bungalow, on up to the house on the hill, which wasn't really much of a hill, but it sat up higher than the other home. There were a few ponds and two garden plots. An elderly gentleman greeted us as we pulled up to the home.

"Howdy, neighbor," Paul said, "Is that little house down there for rent?"

"It's already occupied." the man explained. "Fellow's been living there for about six years now. Got some okra and zucchini, though..."

We followed the man through the garage and into the home. They bagged up some okra and Paul handed them five bucks. On our way out the door, Paul told them, "Thanks alot neighbor. If that little place ever comes available, you be sure to let me know." And on we went about our business.

A week or so later, I drove to Memphis, to visit a brother, and then on the Northern Alabama to spend a few days with friends on Wheeler Lake. Then it was time to head back to California, or so I thought. I drove back to Oklahoma, to say goodbye to my friends. When I arrived at Paul's place, he told me that his neighbors had phoned and said the little bungalow would soon be available. We went and had a look. It would need some cleaning and a few repairs, but the price was right and I gave the landlord a deposit.

I stayed at Paul's until the current tenant vacated the property. Then the old man who owned the place and I cleaned it up, painted and all that fun stuff. And this is where the story gets to be really something. Right as we were finishing the renovation, he asked, “Well, how are you going to earn a living?” I told him that I’d written several books, had published one with a print on demand publisher and that I had learned it was a bad choice and not the way to properly publish and sell books. Then I told him, “I think I need to start my own publishing company, but I’m not quite sure where to start.” He casually tells me, “Well, I was in the publishing business for 20 years. What do you need?”

All this from turning down an old dirt road on an intuitive hunch, in a very remote setting in the middle of Oklahoma . . . unheard of, yet it makes completely good sense when one is open, when one is on their path. The old man went home to eat lunch and then phoned me within an hour with a list of contacts.

At this point . . . well, one chooses life or death, to me it is life or death, anyway - no way could I thumb my nose to the gods. I’d suffered far too much over the years for not listening and following the signs and knew that if I didn’t follow what was being laid out before me, there would be too big a price to pay. I'd been in contact with Jackson Fisher since returning home to the States. He knew about my frustrations with print-on-demand publishers and he had been encouraging me to pursue publication elsewhere. He wanted to see my first three novels in print, the Malcolm Clay Trilogy, and he had offered to help see to it that this was done. I picked up the phone and called on Jackson . . . suppose you could say I asked him the famous question, "Whom does the grail serve?" then we bowed to the great spirit, followed fate and Fisher King Press was born.

Friday, April 11, 2008

Eye of the Needle

The eye of the needle was painted many years ago. It has to do with judgment, judging self and others. At first it seemed a curse, to be filled with so much prejudice for what and who I was taught to disdain.

Eventually, this judgment had to be turned onto itself, judging judgment and self-disdain. Only then could seeing with a critical eye bring salvation. I've learned that judgment is a valuable tool, just as long as I'm being true to values based on my feelings, and not a rigid set of hand-me-down falsities.

Disregarding my inner voice and being true to others has faithfully betrayed and led me astray. Many might consider this a selfish attitude, yet if I am untrue to myself, how can I be true to others?

Tuesday, March 18, 2008

The Unlived Lives of my Ancestors

January of 1998, I leased out my home in the great Central San Joaquin Valley of California and rented a small studio in Carmel Valley. I'd work in farm machinery business for three of four days and in the evenings stay with my maternal Calvinist Grandmother in my hometown. Then I'd drive the three hour path to Carmel and spend three of four days in my little hideaway. It was on one of these long weekend retreats that I painted 'The Unlived Lives of My Ancestors.'

I don't recall the dream that inspired this painting, but it has to do with lost life, or un-lived life. The headstone on the bottom right corner is that of my paternal grandparents. I had been raised a bit lopsided you might say. Since birth, my maternal Dutch Calvinist heritage had been venerated and my Oklahoma American Indian lineage, and all the spiritual wisdom that is rooted deep within this land and ancestry that goes back far beyond the European Invasion, had been abandoned and left for dead. Ten years ago is when I finally began to honor this side of my being. And as I write these words, I'm a bit sad to admit this, that as a child I fell prey to a rigid religious fundamentalism that in so many ways crushed my spirit and still to this day tortures my soul.

My dutch grandmother, she used to keep her yard so nicely manicured, but here in this painting, the trashcan is tipped over and a new or renewed spirit is rustling up what's left of the prior years' leaves. Then there are the little sperm or embryos floating up above the headstone, new life has risen from the grave. New growth, the tree, perhaps the tree of life, is rooted in the ground where my American Indian ancestry is buried. There are other images, too, but now they are calling:

"Time to turn inward, Mel, time to put your ear to the ground, listen, to the earth, the many generations that have come and gone before you. Turn away now, from all that heady fanatical fundamentalism, all those insane creeds and false interpretations. Time to listen to the Great Spirit that comes to you in the sleeping and waking dreams. The wind, a dark cloud, a kite, a stone, a blackbird, a fox, a bobcat, a coyote, and sometimes even a squirrel, or the wisdom that comes from a child whose youthful innocence and wonder hasn't been blighted by the white man's so-called mechanical scientific maturity and chemical wisdom."

Monday, March 17, 2008

Into the Early Hours

Into the early hours of the morning,
I dance with my ancestors,
feeling their joy and pain. Only They,
these Old Ghost can show me who I really am;
They are far enough removed to carry this responsibility.

In spite of their love and goodwill,
in spite of all their efforts and admirable intentions,
Mother and Father, they are too close,
their love is not yet eternal.

Someday it will be; love transcendent
after they have past,
when my grandchildren's grandchildren call upon them;
call Them out to dance.

It's five AM: yesterday, I cooked dinner at three in the morning.
For many days, I've been awake all night, until the sun rises.
At first, I kept telling myself: "Correct this. Get back on track."
Then I realized; I am doing exactly this, finding a natural rhythm.

Nothing is wrong with being awake until six in the morning, sleeping 'til two in the afternoon.
Insanity lies, not in falling into my own rhythm, but instead
in trying to fall into someone else's, into the cadence of convention.
Perhaps other rhythms aren't wrong, but for my soul, they are false.

I've yet to decide on dinner this morning. Then again, maybe I won't eat?
Instead, I'll wait for breakfast; wait until the rest of the world is commuting home,
merging onto those congested highways, those plugged up arteries of what once was,
not a machine.

Angels; they're out there, you know,
silently rolling drums and waiting, to love me.
I'm learning to listen, to hear,
my heart beat.

Into the early hours of the morning,
I dance with my ancestors,
feeling their joy and pain. Only They,
these Old Ghost can show me who I really am;
They are far enough removed to carry this responsibility.

In spite of their love and goodwill,
in spite of all their efforts and worthy intentions,
Mother and Father, they are too close,
their love is not yet eternal.

Someday it will be: love transcendent
after they have past,
when my grandchildren's grandchildren call upon them;
call Them out to dance.

Mel Mathews
Borgo Allegri, Firenze
January 15th, 2005

Sunday, March 16, 2008

The Cosmic Ovary

Occasionally, I'll dream about disease, cancer or some other catastrophic illness. It may come in the form of a person I know who is suffering or has suffered such a malady, or it might be tied to an unknown image. Over the years, I've learned that most often, the dream is not a message of impending doom, but instead, an aspect of myself that longs for dialog and relationship. Often what 'eats' at me, what causes me 'dis-ease' are unhonored or unrecognized aspects of my soul demanding a voice, expression, their very right to 'be'.

'The Cosmic Ovary' was painted in Firenze, September 2002, while mediating on one of these unsettling dreams. I was living on via della Mosca—The Way of the Fly . . . I promised myself to be true to this writing, to speak what comes to mind and not hold back, so here goes.

Flies, the pesky little bastards, one minute you'll find them roosting on a pile of dog crap, the next moment, they might be buzzing around your ear, or dancing a filthy jig on your just delivered dinner plate. Flies, they've been known to lay their eggs in piles of cow dung, or other unsavory locals. Who else would abandon their progeny in a pile of shit? Well, perhaps I should be careful in asking such a question—flies take on many forms. Perhaps it's self preservation, survival of a species. After all, aren't most dung heeps avoided at all cost. Perhaps it's the safest place in the world for a fly to raise a family?

You know, this is really stupid, writing about flies, dog crap, and disease, but . . . well, I promised to be true to the process. Perhaps that's what The Cosmic Ovary is—a pile of dog crap in disguise, hiding the very gems and unborn aspects of my soul. Careful where you step! You just never know.

Saturday, March 08, 2008

The Unveiling of a Wounded Heart & Soul

At a C.G. Jung gathering in Monterey, California in 1997, 'by chance' I met Joseph Pagano - a young man of 80 years at that time. I'd had an interest in Jung and Archetypal symbolism, although at the time of this gathering, I had no previous experience with depth psychology. I'd spent many years in a therapist's office, for fifty bucks an hour, venting my anger and frustrations brought on by the pressures of a demanding sales career. I also did my fair share of pissin' and moanin' about a failed marriage and a few love affairs, you know, the whole 'woe is me,' life's victim sort of thing. In reflection, fifty bucks an hour once a week was cheap, a wise investment. It provided a place for me to vent my rage and other negative feelings and not have to bring them out onto my clients or friends. These many hours were also preparing me for something I had no intention of entertaining - leaving my place in the world as victim behind.

I had taken a break from the selling world and rented a studio apartment on the Monterey Peninsula for a month. There was an ad in a local paper about the Jung Society gathering on Friday evenings. Aside from ordering coffee or a meal at a restaurant, I'd been alone, pretty much in silence for a week, so I phoned to learn about the Jung gathering. Joseph answered the phone and after a brief visit, he said he'd hold a seat for me that evening. I showed up, met a few people and listened to the presentation, and did the same for the following next three Friday evenings. On my fourth visit, I told Joseph that I'd be returning to work and probably wouldn't see him again. He then mentioned something to me about working on my dreams. "Oh, my dreams will take care of themselves," I told Joseph. He then handed me his card with his office and home phone number, telling me to call anytime.

I then returned to my old selling life in the Central San Joaquin Valley. A few months passed. I was reading James Joyce's Dubliners and The Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man at the time. It was shortly after Saint Patrick's Day and the book was on a discount stand in Barnes & Noble. I'd read The Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man and was now reading a few of the stories in Dubliners and I'll never forget: it hit me while sitting in my truck, in the drive through line at the In and Out Burger - I'm not creating anything! I pulled Joseph's card from my wallet and phoned his office, but there was no answer. Then I called his house. After a short exchange of pleasantries, I explained, "Joseph, I'm reading James Joyce's The Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man and . . . well, I'm not creating anything."

"Come over and let's talk about it," Joseph suggested. But I didn't go, not right away, that is. A few more months passed and then a close friend who I'd gone to high school with died. I'd actually worked on his family's ranch and we shared an old farmhouse together when we were in our early twenties. The dope and booze finally caught up with Charles and at 35, he was dead. I attended the funeral service for Charles, and about a week or two later, I decided to visit Monterey and to attend a Friday evening Jung gathering. The event ran late that night and finally I told Joseph that I really had hoped to visit with him, but that I had to go because I was staying with friends.

"Come back tomorrow morning," Joseph suggested.

"Tomorrow's Saturday," I answered.

"Yes it is. I'll be here."

"What time?"

"Oh, I don't care, nine or ten, you pick."

Ten the next morning it was. I can't say for certain, as that was nearly 11 years ago, but I most likely brought my morning cup of coffee along. We visited for a while. I told him how I'd once been a drunk, had gone through all that rehab stuff, told him about my lost loves and all the other existential pains that come along with life.

On I went for a while and then once there was a break from my rhetoric, Joseph said, "Well, perhaps some day you'll come to a place where you'll be able to accept your life for what it is?" Then he asked if I recalled any recent dreams.

"Yeah, I was a cowboy boot, sitting in a wheel chair, and one of my clients was pushing me around. I think his kids were with him."

"What do you make of that dream?" Joseph asked.

"I'm tired of being the victim, and I'm tired of being pushed around. These boots were made for walking, goddammit, and that's just what they're gonna do . . ."

I met Joseph or visited with him on the phone quite often over then next few years. We worked on my dreams, I'd tell them to him and then he'd ask me what they meant. He never told me. Sometimes he'd hint, but most often Joseph let socratic wisdom guide the way.

Occasionally, if the dreams stopped, Joseph would suggest that I paint, said I didn't need to be a painter to paint, said it was just another way of communing with the psyche, communing with one's soul. He said it was a way of priming the pump when the flow of psychic energy had been put on hold. I went out and bought a starter kit with few tubes of acrylic paints and a brush or two. Sometimes I'd tear open a brown paper bag and use that for a canvass, sometimes it was just an old piece of cardboard, sometimes it was actually a canvass, that is if I found them on sale. Anyway, when the dreams stopped, Joseph would say to paint, and sometimes he'd suggest that I paint a dream image, meditate on the feeling from a dream and just paint, so I did.

Over time, I plan to post these paintings to my blog, along with some writing about my thoughts and feelings that accompany these images. In no way am I suggesting that these images are worthy of commercial artistic recognition - if anything, it would be quite the opposite. However, primitive and crude as they may appear, as is the case with my writing at times, these renderings are still a reflection of my soul, perhaps the evolution or the unveiling of the many layers of one man's soul.

Mel Mathews, is the author of several novels, including the Malcolm Clay Trilogy: LeRoi ISBN 9781926715339 Menopause Man-Unplugged ISBN 9781926715360, & SamSara ISBN 9780977607624 (Fisher King Press). His books are available from your local bookstore, a host of on-line booksellers, or you can order them directly from his website at: www.melmathews.com

Sunday, February 24, 2008

Baggin' the Dragon: Dreams Bridging Artistic Endeavors and the Evolution of Consciousness

Just to free up my mind, occasionally I'll turn a brown paper bag inside out and pull out the dime store brushes and acrylics. 'Baggin' the Dragon' was painted in June of 2003 while I was living in Herrliberg, Switzerland, a small village on the eastern shore of Lake Zürich. I usually write in notebooks, in cafes, and I had done just this while living in Florence, Italy that previous year—writing in notebooks. In April of 2003, I left Firenze and went to live in Herrliberg and it was there that I transcribed my handwritten notebooks into a computer file on my laptop. Extroverted Firenze has proven to be a great source of inspiration and introverted Lake Zurich has proven to be a sanctuary where in peace I can sort through much of the unconscious material that forms my writing.

While painting 'Baggin' the Dragon,' I had a dream about a black bag, a small duffle where I kept my handwritten notebooks. In the dream, the small black duffle was moving, as if there was either a rat or a snake in the bag. I had just finished typing several hundred pages into the laptop… actually, more than eight hundred pages and I believed that this task of transcribing and making my first pass through the raw material was completed. At the time, I actually considered this excessive volume of work to be two distinctly separate novels. The dream suggested otherwise.

At first, I couldn't tie the dream to my writing process, even though upon awaking every morning, I would religiously record my dreams, and from there spin off into my writing. In other words, dreams have always be the source of my inspiration. A few days passed, and the dream stayed with me, so I finally went to the black bag and literally pulled out the notebooks and began to compare the handwritten notes to the transcribed computer document. 'By chance' I happened upon several pages that had been inadvertently overlooked. These ended up being integral, connecting passages from my notes that tied the two books into one. This dream was a bridge, bringing unification to what I believed were two separate wholes. I am most grateful that grace allowed me to step aside so that something greater than my limited ego could take over and complete what was beyond my sole human capacity to accomplish.

What a wonderful testimony to the power of dreams and the unconscious—bridging artistic endeavors and the evolution of consciousness.

Mel Mathews, is the author of several novels, including the Malcolm Clay Trilogy: LeRoi ISBN 9781926715339 Menopause Man-Unplugged ISBN 9781926715360, & SamSara ISBN 9780977607624 (Fisher King Press). His books are available from your local bookstore, a host of on-line booksellers, or you can order them directly from his website at: www.melmathews.com

Monday, December 03, 2007

Emerging Anima/Soul

The Emerging Anima (soul) was painted in January of 2003 while I was living in Florence, Italy, on via della mosca 4, just a block from the Uffizi Gallery, Piazza della Signoria, and Palazzo Vecchio. This is a very busy painting, as you can see, full of life, a celebration of soul, you might say.

I was completing my first full year in Firenze. It was a very productive period. I wrote my fourth novel, Maria Novella as well as a fifth novel, The Reclaiming, during my first year's stay in Europe.

The Emerging Anima is. . . well, it is a rendering of my soul, of what was taking place in my inner world, new life or better yet, new lives were being birthed. A year earlier, I had turned my back to family and friends, walked away from my personal history/dream and set off in search of myself, the many cast aways that had been discarded along life's roadside while adapting to the conventional American standards that 'supposedly' defined what it meant to be a man, or better yet, what it meant to be human. Yes, having become disillusioned, I had finally found the courage to thumb my nose to the American Dream, the pursuit of material possessions and the proffered illusion of freedom. During this period, I was free to wander about without a plan, without labels, without all the 'have to's' and 'must do's' that had been loaded into my napsack over the years. I was no longer bound by an identity, tied to the patriarchal logically power-driven commercial standards. And during this unique period, I met Her . . .

Actually, I became reacquainted with many aspects of the feminine as you see their images emerging from this painting, but most importantly, I had finally earned the right to be graced with Her presence, the larger than life blonde woman who is emerging from the sea of the unknown with a flower before her mouth. For forty some years, I had searched for Her in the ephemeral world and it wasn't until I became lost to an image of myself and the many illusions that I once believed defined, fulfilled and sustained my existence. . . only then could I be introduced to my bride, my inner consort, the faithful one who all along has been right there within, silently bearing the brunt of my many infidelities as I turned the world upside down, searching for Her.

I often feel guilty, for having lived such a selfish life, for all of my vain and foolish pursuits. It has all been fueled by a vast emptiness, this wreckage left in my wake. Sure, mother and father, family, friends, lovers, and even my distorted images of religion and God have all failed me in many ways, as everyone is failed when the longing for one's desire is far more then human. No, this emptiness is beyond humanity's capacity to heal. And had I not been failed, I wouldn't experience the freedom to be living an authentic life today. Instead, I'd be stuck with the masses, in the Garden of Eden, blindly following and living a life void of authentic knowing.

When people ask what I do in life, most often I avoid telling them that I am a writer. My writing is harsh, it is crude, it cuts through layers of lies, the layers of lies that I was buried beneath for many years. I've had to write, I've had to expose these falsities, whether they were my own, familial, religious, cultural hand-me-downs, or the modern day zeitgeist. And I wouldn't go back and change that one bit. I wouldn't retract a single word that I've written, even after learning with the passing of time that my once expressed views and beliefs have been proven wrong. Writing, the recording of my work is simply my processes and I reserve the right to be wrong, make mistakes, and evolve as a human being. As harsh, exposing, and damaging as my work may seem at times, it is still about Her, it is about recovering what was/is rightfully mine, and if I must bear a burden of guilt for being true to self, then so be it. My life's calling, my writing, profane as it may seem at times, ultimately is about reclaiming soul.

Tuesday, November 20, 2007

The Sacrificial Man

The Sacrificial Man, a painting by Mel Mathews, is the cover image of the novel Menopause Man. This is an image of a faceless man who has lost an identity, or better yet, all the identities that he once believed defined his masculine nature and his very existence. His entire life, up to this point, has been spent searching outside of himself in the ephemeral world, all vain attempts at an inner reconciliation.

Like Demeter, this man’s inner consort, his soul, in raging grief, digs Her heels in and says: “No more! You give me back what is dearest to my heart, you give me back the raped and ravished feminine, and only then will I put an end to the scorching of this dry barren wasteland.

Menopause Man is a story about a transformation that is taking place within a modern day primitive man, concerned only with himself, his insatiable desires. This is a story about the rebirthing of a man’s inner reality, but not without his ego clutching, clinging to those old dead idols whom he once served and who once served him.

This tale is about learning to see with the heart, learning that all that has been searched for over the years can only be found by seeing with the heart, not by falling prey to a various sundry of conventional dogmas that time and time again have failed him and left him lost, wandering about in those old barren deserts of dashed dreams.

Menopause Man is a story about the subordination of a primitive man’s ego and all the futile battles that are waged in an attempt to sustain his illusion of domination, as he slowly acquiesces to the feminine, as he reluctantly learns to bow to the Goddess, to the essence of his soul that is embedded at the very core of his being.

The 2nd book in the Malcolm Clay Trilogy, Menopause Man is available internationally from your local bookstore or from a host of online booksellers. You can learn more about the Malcolm Clay Trilogy and Mel Mathews right here on this blog and by visiting www.melmathews.com

The original rendering is on brown paper with acrylics.

Sunday, October 07, 2007

An absorbing and reflective saga...

An absorbing and reflective saga about how difficult yet ultimately rewarding it is to improve oneself.

October 6, 2007 Midwest Book Review

The sequel to "LeRoi", Menopause Man is a novel starring a "quasi-rake" male protagonist Malcolm Clay, divorced, middle-aged, disdaining the religious heritage of his childhood, and generally self-absorbed... though sporting some significantly redeeming qualities. Harsh reality has stripped away his previous charmed fairytale life; he has spent fruitless years searching outside of himself amid an ephemeral world for internal reconciliation. Menopause Man is ultimately a novel of growth, and learning to evolve above being ruled by desires and how to let go of the false idols of meaningless money, indulgence, or sex without love. An absorbing and reflective saga about how difficult yet ultimately rewarding it is to improve oneself.

Saturday, September 15, 2007

Flipped sides of the same coin - the Sacred and Profane...

While on the road not long ago, promoting my work down in the south, in the Bible Belt, I stopped in at a print shop to see about having a promotional page about the Malcolm Clay Trilogy printed. A middle aged black woman helped me. She was short, round, and seemed a bit grumpy, so I treated her in a quiet, respectful manner.

"When do you need these?" she asked, as if burdened with an overload of work.

"When can you have them?"

"Tomorrow after four," she tested.

"Tomorrow after four it is."

She phoned the next day at two-thirty. The order was ready, so I drove right over. I had a review copy of LeRoi with me, so I brought it along. After paying for the copy order, I asked, "Do you read much?"

She hesitated and then answered, "I like to read, but don’t have much opportunity because I work full time and take two classes a semester at the college."

"What are you studying?"

"Business, accounting. You know, I can't make the kind of money I need to make working at a place like this."

"Yeah, I suppose so, but you seem to be good at what you do," I answered and then handed her the review copy and suggested she check it out in her free time.

She graciously thanked me and we went our separate ways.

A couple of days later, I phoned her, wanting to know if she could print more copies, real quick this time.

"Sure, bring 'em in right away. They'll be done in thirty minutes."

"OK, I’ll be right there."

"And that book you gave me… I’m gonna tell you about that book!"

"What, you don’t like it?"

"That’s some good reading, but I don’t like it and I’m gonna tell you why when you get here!"

"Ho, ho, I had a feeling this was gonna happen!" I laughed.

"Yeah, you had a feelin' and now you’re gonna hear about it. Come on now!"

I showed up ten-minutes later, still a bit nervous, too. I’m a grown man and for the most part say what I please whether it offends others, or not. But something had me. I really liked this woman, but for some reason, I was afraid of her, too. There was this Great Mother quality about her, something that caused a piece of me to fear this dark goddess.

There she was, the Black Madonna standing at the counter, all puffed up and waiting to have a shot at me just as soon as I walked in.

"Alright, I'm here for my medicine," I nervously chuckled.

"You’re here for your medicine, huh? It’s about time! Boy, who wrote that book? Did you write that book?"

I shook my head, no, feeling just like some teenage boy who'd been caught spray-painting graffiti on the school's bathroom wall.

"You sure you didn’t write that book?" she asked.

Hell, she knew I wrote the book. My photo was on the back cover. "No, but I can pass a message on to the author, if you like." I suggested.

"You tell him that that's some good reading, but the profanity… he can't be using that kind of language. No sir…"

"Oh, come on now, it's not that bad…"

"Not that bad? Mister, I'm telling you, the F word… the most you should say in that book is damn," she squealed. A few people were now standing in line behind me, and a few others were just to my side waiting for their copy orders. In other words, the Great Mother had an audience.

I looked over to the onlookers with a sheepish grin, then back to the boss lady and said. "OK, so you want me to tell the author that you don’t like LeRoi because he uses too much profanity and the worst word he should use is damn. Is there anything else?"

"Now, I didn't say I don’t like the book. I told you, that's some damn good reading…"

"Damn good reading huh?"

"Look, you tell him that I'm a church-goin' woman and that all that profanity is just way too much."

"Well, maybe we need to publish a church-goin' woman’s edition of LeRoi," I quipped as a few members in the audience laughed out loud.

"Now you're talking! And the strongest word he can use is damn."

"Well, what should he put in place of all those other four letter words? Don't you think it'll take the life out of the book?"

"No, all he has to do is replace all that bleep-bleep language with those funny little symbols and squiggly lines."

"OK, I’ll tell him that all the bleep-bleep language has to be changed to those funny little symbols and squiggly lines. But do you really think church goin' women will read a book like that? I mean, they know what those funny little symbols and squiggly things are all about. The profanity is still there, even though it's hidden."

"You just tell him what I said. You tell him that a church-goin' woman says that all that bleep-bleep language needs to be changed to those funny little symbols and squiggly things."

"And then you’ll recommend LeRoi to your church goin' women friends?"

"Yes, sir, I most certainly will. I told you, it's some good readin'. I just don’t like all that bleep-bleep language."

"OK, I’ll pass the word along," I answered and then thought to ask, "Oh, by the way, how far did you read?"

"To the part where he had to tuck his tail and go back to ask the boss lady to rent him a room."

"So, you liked it enough that you finished the first chapter?"

"Oh, yeah. I told you..."

"That Malcolm Clay, he's an ornery buzzard, isn't he?" I grinned.

"Yeah, he most certainly is."

"He’s got a lot of learning to do, doesn't he?"

"Yeah, he certainly does. And I have a feeling that he learns everything the hard way, too."

"Yeah, you got a pretty good take on Malcolm…"

"Now, I've got to get back to work before I get in trouble around this place," she announced, looking up to wink at a co-worker who was standing behind a copy machine. "There, I got that one straightened out,” she proudly said, loud enough for her audience to hear. Once she had everyone's attention, she added, "I had to straighten that old man out this morning, now I got this fellow back on track, and I’d like to get one more before the day is done. I'm telling you, some of these people just don’t have a clue…"

Friday, September 14, 2007

For those who demand freedom as thier individual right!

Review by J.G. Moos
Published in The Florentine, 2006

True this book takes you on a physical journey from California to Ireland via Switzerland, Italy, and France. However, if a potential reader quickly glancing over the back cover thinks this will be run of the mill - travel log kind of entertainment - beware. The cover may give a hint to some that this is more like a journey 'to hell and back', but that's putting it lightly. SamSara is not only a page-turner, but provides valuable insights into a very small part of mankind, those who do not fear Freedom but instead demand it as their individual right.

I found this novel to be a very unique action thriller, which takes place in a micro cosmos of one single person: Malcolm Clay. He takes the longest and most convoluted journey anyone could imagine. Malcolm is in my eyes a hero taking the terrible risk of traveling the uncharted regions of his own psyche, deep down to vast regions of fear and pain but also of brilliant revelations full of light and hope.

SamSara portrays the struggles of a man searching for freedom from his puritanical upbringing and the existential traumas of his youth. Again and again, he comes up against dead-ends and frightening reminders of images from his past. His dream sequences are wonderfully portrayed. One in particular comes to mind, about tigers and how a number of these dangerous animals invade a house, and professionals are called to exterminate them. But instead of killing them, the tigers are tranquillized, and one realizes that the animals are symbolic of the sometimes overwhelming demons within us, energies that have to be subdued and sometimes even separated so that we can slowly develop a relationship and come to terms with these integral aspects of ourselves as opposed to denying their existence and continuing to suffer in a host of neurotic or even psychotic ways.

After the stage for this fine novel has been set, the pace really picks up: I had a hard time fumbling through the pages fast enough, and the ending really threw me. No, I won't even give you a hint. But, let me just say: It has nothing to do with the snake biting at its own tail - swallowing, perhaps, but certainly not biting! If I may quote some very clever personality whose name I have never known: 'The beginning is in the end.'

In my opinion, the very essence of SamSara is about the transformation of images, and Mel Mathews is quite masterful in the way he moves readers through this process, building to high points of interest and excitement, before letting off, allowing the reader time to relax and enjoy a more normal flow of life as these old ghost are slowly transformed into vital companions. I found it rewarding and enlightening to accompany Malcolm during his metamorphose from a person haunted by his past, yet willing to gamble not only his worldly goods, but even his soul, to become the individually decisive and free man he longs to be.
- Gustav Jack Moos - Kuesnacht, Zurich, Switzerland

The Malcolm Clay Trilogy by Mel Mathews is available from your local bookstore, a host of on-line booksellers, or directly from Fisher King Press - www.fisherkingpress.com To learn more about Mel Mathews and Malcolm Clay visit www.melmathews.com

Monday, August 06, 2007

“Through the 21st Century Looking Glass”

USA Today, May 2nd, 2007 by Grady Harp

"Mel Mathews is a sensitive observer of the human condition, with an emphasis on the Male Human Condition of our time. He has created a character in Malcolm Clay that is a baby boomer Holden Caulfield, a variation on John Updike's Rabbit Angstrom, and he manages to take us by the hand and lead us through the bumpy terrain of current interpersonal relationships as well as anyone writing today.

"We first met Malcolm Clay in Mathew's first novel 'LeRoi' as a middle aged man trapped in a successful but boring occupation who becomes stranded in a dusty little truck stop where he is forced to slow his pace to adjust to the fertile characters he created there. Well, now Malcolm is living in Carmel, California, having been divorced, forgoing his childhood entrapping religious heritage, traipsing through many brief and physically oriented affairs while deciding to change his life as an alcoholic tractor salesman to that of a reformed AA writer ('..he didn't think anyone should be called an addict, alcoholic, codependent, or any other of the pathologized clinical diagnosis that propelled a person into another lie'). His existence is populated in this gorgeous coastline area of California by all manner of women and men whose connection to life is through tenuous strings tied to fairly shallow buoys. Most of the novel is conversational, with Malcolm discovering the intrinsic personality defects of characters ranging from his landlady Mrs. Shams to men on the make to physical therapist Jenny who manages to keep a physical distance between the lusty but controlled Malcolm and her fragile, purging diet, Zen-like self.

"What Malcolm discovers in this 'quasi- rake's progress' is his inner feminine 'who has been waiting for me to come for her so that she can breathe new life into me, animate me, and give me a new meaning.' Women 'never lied because of the devastating moral injustices it caused. Instead of lying, they just accidentally forgot to tell the important stuff'. All this is a journey so well written that the novel calls for pause to enjoy the sheer ebullience of the verbiage. Mel Mathews is a fine writer, finding his way through life in these times. He is a reliable companion on the trek we all are taking. And now on to the next volume in the series, 'SamSara', addictively!" By Grady Harp (Los Angeles, CA) -

In addition to the USA Today and bloggingauthors.com, Grady Harp's reviews appear on Barnes & Noble, Soapadoo, Powells Books, and he is an Amazon.com Top Ten reviewer!!

Mel Mathews' book reviews have been published in USA Today and many other notable publications. Mel is the author of several novels, including the Malcolm Clay Trilogy (Fisher King Press). His books are available from your local bookstore, a host of on-line booksellers, or you can order them directly from his website at: www.melmathews.com

Wednesday, August 01, 2007

Le roi est mort, vive le roi!

The cover, Death of the King, a famous painting by the master Alvaro Cardona-Hine, along with the French title compelled me to take a look at LeRoi in a Zurich bookstore.

At first it read like a simple story of this rather ornery but ‘successful-in-life’ character stuck in the middle of nowhere in his fancy MG, which had allowed him to limp into a gas station with a diner-cum-motel on the other side of the highway.

I quickly realized that the simplicity was only skin deep, the writing a sort of self-analysis, the old mechanic and gas station owner a study in laissez-faire and cool disdain that tried the patience of our hero. As a matter of fact, all members of the cast including the Queen who rules the diner, the pretty waitress and the lanky fast-order cook are highly complicated human beings, which some may consider to be ‘virtual’ or a projection of the storyteller. The enigmatic and moody old Chevy half-ton pickup truck he borrows is unreliable, but does give him the freedom to get away from the confines of the motel and the frustration of his broken down MG.

Ol’ Reliable guides him over a cattle guard, a mysterious unseen gateway into a deeply felt sanctuary. He has found the oasis of a river that cuts through this otherwise barren wasteland where he can cast a fly into adventure and misadventure, and beyond that, healing waters for the soul. Could this perhaps be a modern day model of the Grail Legend’s Fisher King?

The depth of LeRoi is fascinating: it is full of magic, humor, but also suffering with seemingly inner battles taking place that must be won to grant new life. It seems our protagonist needs this type of catharsis to free himself from the burdens of the past and restore his inner kingdom to prosperity.

As I came to the end of this satisfying and easy to read tale of redemption, I wondered if the author’s future novels will be equally compelling sequels or completely different to the ‘tongue-in-cheek’ title of the novel LeRoi ? —J.G. Moos

Mel Mathews' books are available from your local bookstore, a host of on-line booksellers, or you can order them directly from his website at: www.melmathews.com

Wednesday, January 10, 2007

A journey of expanded awareness

"A journey of expanded awareness.", Dec 2006 - Midwest Book Review:

"The first in a series of seven novels by author Mel Mathews, LeRoi is a novel following the seemingly ordinary man Malcolm Clay, whose car breaks down and whose cell phone suddenly dies, stranding him by a garage and a diner. Malcolm has lived a seemingly successful life, but at what cost? An introspective allegory about the search for prosperity of the soul, a need that lingers despite fulfilling the needs of the body, LeRoi tracks its self-assured, at times sardonic, yet inwardly incomplete protagonist on a journey of expanded awareness. Also highly recommended are the sequels of Malcolm's adventures, "Menopause Man" and "SamSara"." -- Midwest Book Review

Mel is the author of several novels, including the Malcolm Clay Trilogy (Fisher King Press). His books are available from your local bookstore, a host of on-line booksellers, or you can order them directly from his website at: www.melmathews.com