What have I been up to?

Hi, you haven't read me for a while because I've been busy. I moved, I have written a play, I have written two screenplays and I have recorded several AUDIOBOOKS. Which is what I will focus on today. Cop Killer, by Ryne Douglas Pearson! Give it a listen. Great book, well written. Check it out on Audible: http://www.audible.com/pd/Mysteries-Thrillers/Cop-Killer-Audiobook/B00HDJL83E/ref=a_search_c4_1_4_srImg?qid=1393634021&sr=1-4 or Itunes. Danny Owen. A hard-charging detective who thrives on the thrill of the chase, the danger in the catch. His life is the street. Dark alleys and vicious crimes fill his every waking moment, and often his dreams. Until tragedy turns his world upside down. Transferred to District One, considered the tamest slice of the city, Danny is partnered with veteran detective Jack James, a cool and methodical investigator whose near legendary tenure is considered pivotal in creating the District's peaceful environment. But even shining cities have their shadows, and the new partners find themselves facing a cold and calculating killer. One who might be avenging angel, or simply atoning for their own sins. As Danny and Jack identify and close in on their suspect, the bounds of right and wrong, justice and vengeance, begin to blur. So much so that one detective begins to doubt just who is adversary, and who is ally.

Downton Abbey

I have a theory as to how Matthew and Mary will get together. It seems apparent that Matthew is continuously put into harms way and from the previews one can assume he will be injured in some grievous way. I think when he comes back, and needs to convalesce, his fiancé will lose some of her shine for him and Mary will step in guided by her true feelings. At last they will be together, although in many ways he will never be whole again. This is mere speculation, but one, as a writer, I feel as inevitable.

This is just speculation from a writer's point of view.

Anesthesia

Anesthesia
I sat in the corner. My knees wet. Wet from damp grass, or was I in a van? She sat on the bed or was she busy. Cruelty. Somehow always… managed to seep in. At the end. What does it matter what’s said, the feeling won’t change. No one’s having a change of heart. Even though you feel…tearing you apart. Breaking into pieces. It’s your face. You see? I love what I see, but not the way you are. But not the act. This is the way you made me. You made me into this. One way or another. It’s inevitable, don’t you see? Then. Really. Finding. A way to…GO. Make a change. Really? Inevitable, obligatory old story they’ve been telling for years. What holds us together? Something was once. Recapture what? Was it once? Endless recriminations. Self loathing at the last. Fitting into narrow spaces. Why bother? Why bother. Who are you? Because it’s the way you are. Way of the…species. What you have. What I give. What’s that smell? That stimulates the brain? What did I have? Why wasn’t it good enough? Was it? Good enough? What more could you want? To grow old and die? Our bodies together. Old and dying. Where’s the magic in that? Gone? Where is the magic? Smell. Smelling of death. Where’s the science in it? In the end. We’re all alone.

Ruminations (A Monologue)

RUMINATIONS OF A TEN YEAR OLD or ETERNITY AND THE COOKIE THEORY: A MONOLOGUE

by
Charles Hinckley




SETTING: Eternity, so a blank space.

TIME: Here and now.

CHARACTER: MAX, a young man in his early twenties.


(A Black stage. The sound of wind whips through. Then silence. Lights slowly begin to rise. MAX a young man, is alone on stage. He pulls a bag of chocolate chip cookies from behind his back. He considers the audience, puts the bag of cookies on the floor, D.S.C. in an offering to them.)

MAX: When I was about ten, I told my mother I didn’t think it was fair what God had done; in the world, about the world and to the people of the world. I didn’t get it the whole Catholic notion of things. I mean, okay, I’m ten and say I’m God, and I’m gonna create a bunch of beings in my image…why would I do that? What could possibly be the purpose of God making things in his image and then telling them, you can’t do this and you BETTER do that or else you’re gonna fry? Well, “because he was lonely.” Really? God was lonely? For goodness sakes, Mother, God is lonely?…Then what chance do I have? In a new school. With all those kids. Who don’t like new kids. I’m the geek! The queer! The faggot new kid! What’s the point again? He made us for WHAT? “He created you because he loves you.” Okay, he loved me before he created me, or he loved the notion of me? Me, with all these…imperfections? And sin? He didn’t have to create sin did he? That’s where I started to veer off into uncharted Catholic territory. That’s where my logic says. Well, yin and yang. I knew about yin and yang from TV. Don’t ask me where I saw it. But the notion that you can’t have good without the bad, right? Okay, so that’s part of the order of the world, right? The orderliness of it. Can’t have hot without cold, night without day, cruelty without kindness…So, it’s set up so you can if you WANT. I mean if you WANT, you can turn BAD. Some people choose to go that way. Right? BAD. WHY? I don’t know. What’s the point of that? As a Catholic, the only reasoning you can have is THE BAD people, they want to see how close to death they can get, have as much BAD FUN as they can get until that day when they turn around and say, shit! I’m dying, I better go good or when I die I may go to hell, and that’s forever, and ever, and ever…The ten commandments, right? Break em and you’re gone. And you’re not just gonna fry till you’re crispy brown, but fry for all eternity. A timeless echo of pain wracking your being forever, and ever, and ever, and ever, and ever…until. Oh, wait, there’s no until. It just goes on and on and on…I’m ten years old and I'm in bed at night thinking about this. I’m ten years old and I’m thinking about eternity and heaven and hell. And eternity. What is THAT? Eternity? How can I grasp it? How can anyone grasp it? It’s forever, and ever and ever, and ever, ever, ever…an echo that never ends. I’d get a flash of panic run right through me and I’d sit up in bed, suck in a deep breath and freeze! Sweat dripping down my nose. I’d roll over and dwell on it. Oh my God! I can’t go there! I can’t suffer FOREVER! Just change the subject! Change it! So, I’d think of something else. Something not so MYSTERIOUS. Sex was always a good change of subject. Or my notion of what sex was at the time. I still had visions of women attached to strange and incomprehensible contraptions hidden in the ladies room, wondering what they wore under all those clothes, with straps and harnesses due to the times when they had their period…whatever that was. Strange and wonderful creatures women were. As mysterious as all eternity, but not as vexing…So I’m ten and in bed and my mind is racing between eternity, and the mystery of women, eternity, the mystery of women…Some nights I’d roll around for hours sweating in my little PJ’s.
So God made me in his image. Then there must be some remnants of God still in me right? Which part? “The good part,” my mother would say. Well, that’s fine with me. WE each have a sliver of goodness in us. I like that thought. I like that a lot. Kind of like the chocolate chip part in cookies. The good parts just waiting and pop out and be appreciated. So, that’s the way I look at it.

(He holds a cookie above his head with both hands, then brings it down to his mouth.)

WE all have that good part just waiting to be appreciated. And if you find it in someone, let them know, hey, a part of you is deliciously good, good as can be. Just like a chocolate chip cookie.

(MAX smiles as

lights slowly fade.

The wind is heard

Only the bag of cookies is in a soft pool of light.

Fade to black.)

The End

New Play/ Web Page

Kerida 2, oil on Linen 15" x15"

My new play, "The Man in the Black Pajamas", is being produced this November at Space 55, here in Phoenix. It is a psychological drama about what happens to a man when he is accused of a horrendous crime they call the "incident." Although we never clearly see what that "incident" was, we do see him processing his situation and the phases of his reaction to his captivity. There is much heart felt humor, surprises and truth in this story. The play is being directed by the muti-talented Raymond King Shurtz, with a great cast. So pleased so far.

More info on my new web page:

http://www.charleshinckleyfineart.com/

Open studio sketches

Deam State (Continuation of a novel) Bookends agency

Carla, Carla, Carla

Shortly after my first “dream State,” that early winter morning lying in the hallway of my East Side apartment, in that confused and frightened condition, I stopped having the dreams for a while, thanks to the love I felt for a woman. Francine, the bike rider "dream" had haunted me for months. I had thought I was going to lose my mind. Then I met Diana, and the dreams suddenly stopped.
I was studying writing at NYU and working nights at a pizza joint/restaurant on the Upper East Side named Delish. Diana was young and blonde, with large blue eyes and a smile that lit up my heart. The three years we spent together were the best and worst I’ve had. There’s something to be said for getting lost in ones work, but when that obsession becomes a woman, man you are in trouble. I was writing short stories at the time and they all revolved around our relationship, and usually featured an alluring siren pulling the protagonist into a deadly snare he eventually had to fight his way of, but was always doomed to fail. She was an intoxicant to me. I would lay with my head on her bare belly, taking in her smells, the aroma of skin, run my fingers through her hair and never get bored, look into her eyes for hours, or watch her sleep. I wanted to live in her, breath her, taste her, make her cum, look into her eyes as I came, have sex with her always, all night all the time. My school work began to suffer. The writing became less focused, rambling, as I attempted to capture elusive feelings I didn’t or couldn’t understand. I not only wanted to marry her, I wanted to crawl inside her womb and live there, poke my head out every so often to eat and maybe watch a football game, then crawl back inside. I began eating all the time and gained twenty pounds. Unwarranted jealousy filled me whenever she answered the phone or talked to a clerk in the grocery store. I began imagining her affairs, illicit, sexual, taunting me at every turn. I began snooping into her computer files and monitoring her emails. I even considered tapping our phone but couldn’t afford the electronics. Then she broke up with me. I couldn’t function. I felt like my brains had been cold pressed and left out to dry. It was all about me, me and me. What I was thinking, feeling, and hearing. Was my heart beating too fast or too slowly, why were my hands shaky, why couldn’t I walk in a straight line? Then one night, I was sitting on a bar stool next to Millar, listening to how awful his life was and it all lifted. Somehow the old version of me suddenly walked into the bar and settled back inside my body.
I still haven’t figured it all out, because I’ve had other relationships before and since, and never came close to being so completely lost in a woman. Looking back, I even thought she was better looking than she really was, because when I look at photos of her now, I just can’t feel that same magic. So was it just a phase I was going through? Were the dreams a catalyst that pushed me into a vulnerable and fragile state whereby I latched onto her for comfort and support? I think I’m getting warm. Anyway, past relationship mistakes is what drives me now. It’s always at the back of my mind, knowing I could go off that ledge again. As far as women go, I can’t say I’m sex obsessed or a dependant personality so much as a worshiper of women. I empathize with the more fragile emotional state, am aware of the “femaleness” of their bodies. The supple curviness, forbidden recesses and especially the roundness of the female hip, can drive a heterosexual male insane with desire. And I’m no exception. I guess what I’m saying is I’m a sucker for beautiful women. Where most men are intimidated, I’m invigorated by them. So when Carla called the next day, I knew I could be headed for trouble.
She was brief, said she wanted to meet me for coffee downtown near her work. I didn’t bother asking what she did. Actually, I didn’t ask her anything, my mind just drew a blank the minute I heard her voice. I took a bus downtown and waited outside a typical building by the South Street Seaport. Cool autumn winds blew dust around the corner of the building and I turned away to shelter my eyes. I looked up in time to see her walking toward me. She was stunning in a short skirt and calf high boots. Her skirt flew up in the wind and I turned away, not wanting to embarrass her.
We walked to a nearby, upscale touristy café and sat at a window table. I ordered coffee and she a cappuccino. I felt reserved, polite, not wanting to give her any impression other than business. She thanked me for meeting her, took a sip of her drink and started to cry. Quietly, at first, then she had a few seconds of real tears and nose blowing. She finally caught her breath with a heavy sigh and apologized.
“Don’t. You don’t have to,” I offered.
Gathering another breath, she removed the black leather gloves from her hands and started talking.
“The reason I called you, and I’m sorry for the first time we met, but you know how it is. I wanted to see you again because the police, well they’re getting no where. They have no leads, little evidence and I’m afraid my sister’s killer is going to go free.”
I looked at her and she lifted her eyes to mine. Bloodshot and red rimmed, they were tired, worn, but still had that spark.
“I don’t know what I can do to help,” I said, but that was a lie. I knew exactly what I could do, if it was possible for me to conjure that dream again. I just didn’t want to face it. I could see it even as she spoke. Flashes of the crime scene shot through my mind. Emma, lying against a brick wall, her lips slightly apart as her last gasp escaped, the limpness of her body as she released from this life, her dead eyes staring up through glazed pools.
“I would pay you,” she said.
I paused, looking at her clothes and purse. They were not exactly fifth avenue couture.
“What do you do for a living?” I asked.
She turned away. I could almost see a cigarette between her index and middle fingers as she placed her thumb between them and moved it.
“What does that matter?” She asked.
“It doesn’t. I just don’t want to feel guilty collecting my check.”
“Don’t worry about the money. I can pay.”
“I haven’t said how much.”
“You’re not going to fleece me are you?”
“That’s not the way I operate.”
“How do you operate?”
“I’m not sure why you called me. The other day I got the impression you thought I was a clown.”
“I never said that.”
“You didn’t have to. I’ve seen it a hundred times before. I try to tell people I’m a seer, and they want to run. Smiles turn to fright.”
“I’m not scared of you.”
“There’s no reason to be.”
She put the imaginary cigarette to her lips, and let her fingers fall to the table.
“How long?” I asked.
“How long what?”
“How long ago did you quit smoking?”
She smirked and looked out the window. A young couple walked by arm and arm hunched together against the wind.
“I just want to know if you can help me. Really, I just want to pick your brains a little. Can I ask you a few questions?”
“Shoot.”
“In your vision-“
“I like that. See you’re already becoming accepting of what I do.”
“Well, you say you saw the mugging. I want to know if you saw the muggers face. Did you report anything, any details to the police? Did they take you to a police station and fill out paperwork?”
“I didn’t go to the police. At first I didn’t think there was an Emma. I still couldn’t accept that what I was seeing was really going to happen. I found a few likely names in the phone book. I narrowed it down over a few days until I came to your sister. I knew it was her the minute I laid eyes on her. You see, I did see her that night. Her face, I mean. Not the killer’s. I followed her to work, to a bar afterward and sat near her and her friends. She was popular, your sister, people all around her. I caught up to her near the bar, offered to buy her a drink. She declined. I tried to use my charm. She rebuffed me. Finally, I took her arm, like this." I grabbed Carla's arm and gently pulled it toward me. She didn't resist, her eyes clued to mine. "I warned her to stay away from midtown if at all possible, not to go out at night alone. I told her she was in danger and I wanted to help her.”
My grasp on Carl’s arm grew tighter as I talked.
“I told her I was a friend. That something bad was going to happened if she didn’t leave town.”
Carla’s arms were up, off the table now as I held them. She jerked away, giving me a disgusted frown. I immediately raised my hands in a conciliatory gesture. Glaring at me for a second, she rubbed her wrist and sat back in her chair.
“No need for theatrics,” she said. “It’s contemptible and untrustworthy.”
I shook my head. “I’m sorry. It’s a gut reaction. I see bits of the dream when I think about it. I've lived with it for months.”
“And you never went to the police?”
“You know what the police do with someone who comes in and foretells a crime? They arrest him after the crime is committed.”
Again she looked startled. I remained silent. The small tree in front of the building moved as the wind picked up, forcing loose a few anemic leaves.
“I don’t know why I called you,” She said after a few seconds.
“That was quick. That’s pretty much how you felt the last time we talked.”
“It’s just too weird. I’m sorry. You’re stranger. A strange, stranger mixed up in my life in the worst possible way. There’s nothing…”
“What?”
“Nothing, no way to…”
“Make it better?”
“Make you better.”
“I see. Thanks.”
“That’s not what I mean. The circumstances suck.”
“I know.”
There was an awkward silence.
“Okay,” she said finally, “My idea is to hire a private investigator and have him pick your brains, follow any and all leads.”
“Oh, okay,” I said, suddenly crest fallen, aware she had no intention of working with me directly. “Look, I’m sorry I grabbed your arms," I offered.
“And I’ll pay you for your time, like I said.”
“You said that, yes.”
Suddenly she wasn’t hearing me at all. She stood and put her black leather gloves back on her long fingers. “We’ll call you.”
“You do that.” I remained seated. “I’ll get this.” I pointed to the check.
She glanced down at it, turned and walked away.
My nerves were tingling. I felt high on adrenaline or caffeine or both. I didn’t know her, but every cell in my body wanted to follow her out that door. Like rusting unused bolts to a magnet, I was drawn to her. I jumped from my seat and walked quickly after her. As I turned the corner outside the cafe, I got a glimpse of her at the end of the block. I jogged up to her and started talking.
“You’ll be wasting your money, you know.”
She kept walking. I took stride next to her.
“I mean, you’d be paying someone for what I do anyway. You’d be paying me for what I already do.”
“Come again?” She asked.
“Look, I’m a detective. You’re going to pay another detective to pick my brain and act upon that information?”
She stopped and looked at me.
“Maybe.”
“I just think you’d be paying out twice what you should.”
“You’re a detective?”
“Yes,” I lied. “Well, almost. I’m taking the licensing exam this week.” I lied again.
“I thought you were a psychic?”
“I hate that word, but yes, I am a kind of psychic.”
“And now you’re a detective?”
“Soon to be licensed. But I’ve been tracking people down for years. It’s what I do.”
She looked up at the sky, as if searching for answers.
“Look, I recently had a break through," I continued. "By experimentation I was able to bring myself into a dream about a particular subject. That’s never happened before. Usually, the subject just comes to me and I have no say about who it is, but now I have the ability to focus on an individual and see them in a my dream state.”
“How do you know this dream is what really happened, not some fantasy?”
“I’ve never been wrong. I see it as it happens, or as it has happened. If I go back and look at a dream, sometimes I can control it, stop it, and see it from different angles. Even identify faces, license plate numbers. Sometimes I see a date; a number jumps out at me, like on a calendar.”
She seemed unsure.
“Okay, you think about it,” I said. “I’m not going to force you to do anything you don’t want to do, but really, I’d rather not go through another individual, least of all a detective. A middle man will just muck up the works.”
She thought a second, and then said, “I’ll let you know.”
“You have my number. Call me when you’re ready.”
She nodded.
“Okay,” I said. “See you.”
I turned and walked away wondering if I’d ever hear from her again.

In our society there are takers and there are those who contribute. Nine times out of ten, it’s a taker who sniffs out the life of a giver. I didn’t expect anything different in Emma’s case. As I looked into her background, the more I discovered, the more I admired her. She’d gotten a degree in economics from NYU and was working toward her masters at the time of her death, all the while holding down various jobs. Most recently she’d been a teaching assistant at her ala mater. Because teaching assistants generally earn less than seventeen thousand a year, she’d been working as a part-time short order cook at Café Classic, hence the memoriam poster I’d seen on the wall there. I figured I’d start at the café and work my way over to the school. I wasn’t going to wait for Carla to call, nor was I going into a dream state if I didn’t have to. I’d had enough bad dreams and bloody noses to last a while. Hopefully, when Carla did call, I’d be ready with as much background information as I’d need to get a running start on the case. That was when the phone rang with a call that would change everything.