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About the author
marienbadmylove
Novel: Bring Me the Head of Kabuki Blue
Genre: Science Fiction
52,000 words so far  

About marienbadmylove

Location: Coppell, TX

Home Region:
USA :: Texas :: Dallas/Ft. Worth

Age:48

Website: http://marienbadmylove.com

Favorite novels: "Love in the Ruins" by Walker Percy, "The Soft Machine" by William Burroughs, "Jealousy" by Alain Robbe-Grillet, "Timequake" by Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.

Favorite writers: Alain Robbe-Grillet, William Burroughs, Jorge Luis Borges , Walker Percy, Russell Edson

Favorite music: When I'm writing I listen to "Pops Roundup" by Arthur Fiedler & the Boston Pops.

Non-noveling interests: alternate histories, celluloid sci-fi nightmares, dark violence, divine vengeance, evil corporate cabals, extraterrestrials, human/alien hybrids, secret government conspiracies, UFOs

Joined: October 25, 2008

This Year: Official Participant

NaNoWriMo History:
'08

NaNoWriMo posts: 46

NaNoWriMo buddies: 0

 

Brief Author Bio:

My debut with NaNoWriMo was in 2008, when I completed a 2.5-million-word draft titled "The President Who Exploded." This work is what I call a “non-linear literary collage.” It consists of materials I mined from various blogs, chat rooms and fan fiction sites. I'm a word rustler. I prowl the talk pages of Wikipedia, the reader comments on io9.com and various venues frequented by anonymous bloggers. I shamelessly plagiarize their words -- even their misspellings and gramatical errors -- then transform the stolen content into a new and unique literary product through a series of computer-assisted modifications (cut-up engines, Markov generators, search and replace functions, etc.) and combinations with recycled content from my own writings. These are techniques I first explored in “Marienbad My Love,” the world's longest novel. Released in 2008, this 17-million-word creation also sets records for the world's longest word, sentence and book title.

Synopsis: Bring Me the Head of Kabuki Blue

"Bring Me the Head of Kabuki Blue" is the story of Mark Leach, a PR executive (or perhaps a journalist working during the final days of the newspaper industry – the protagonist is a frustratingly unreliable narrator) and the author of “Marienbad My Love,” the world’s longest novel. Leach is struggling to write a write a 30,000-word science fiction novella based on several public domain short stories of Philip K. Dick. But he is experiencing writer’s block. Imagine it: he has written a 17–million-word monster, but struggles to turn out a paltry 30,000 words.
Leach is abducted by space aliens, who are here on a special fact-finding visit to Earth. These aliens are Cicadians, a race of extraterrestrial insects that have evolved without the development of sight as a basis of communication. The shamans of this alien race would on occasion have dreams of Earth and its many sights, including random scenes from “Kabuki Blues,” a circa 1980s play at the Caravan of Dreams, a Fort Worth theater created by billionaire Ed Bass.

Due to their unique evolution without sight the holy men were incapable of describing these experiences to the rest of their race. They just knew that the place they dreamt of was their heaven. Meanwhile their race was modeled around sound and music, encompassing much more of the auditory spectrum than the limited human hearing. In fact, from their perspective, humans were capable of hearing but nearly deaf. Their language involved the telepathic projection of tone and note patterns in precise gradations and following mathematical formulas.

An aerial clock (aka flying saucer) carrying members of this race arrives on Earth and they abduct Leach as a cover up for plugging autonomous nanobots into his body. They disseminate the nanobots via a special cuckoo clock (this comes from one of the PKD short stories) that substitutes the traditional bird with a sentient android head of Philip K. Dick rendered in shades of blue – their conception of the deity who rules Earth.

The nanobots are a digitized form of the aliens with a link back to the ship – essentially allowing everyone to experience Mark Leach by proxy. The nanobots are supposed to be passive, serving only as a means of relaying the mystic experience of sight to an entire race. Soon the alien presence in the nanobots become bored with Leach’s novel writing attempts, which are bland, schmaltzy schlock based on the low-budget Sci Fi movies and TV shows that he constantly watches. As a consequence of this boredom, the nanobots turn from being passive to active, controlling what Leach watches as well as feeding him mathematical formulas (based in part on “Kabuki Blues”) that he begins to use as the basis of his fiction writing and filmmaking.

Leach quits his job and moves to New York City, where he writes an experimental novel titled “Bring Me the Head of Kabuki Blue,” incorporating a fusion of the competing literary utopias of William Burroughs and Sally Miller Gearhart. He becomes a respected avant-garde artist. The active role the nanobots take in the relationship begins to transform Leach into a living robot. At this point the aliens make themselves known and offer to remove the nanobots and restore his humanity, but Leach refuses. He sees himself as a genuine artist where as before he was of no consequence, an artificial newspaper/PR drone doing what he did simply for a regular paycheck. Leach decides to give up his robot body to be transformed into a buzzing swarm of nanobots which will invade the brain of one of the aliens. This will also lead to the eventual death of the alien host but it offers Leach a chance of experiencing their world of sounds, the Musica universalis (aka “music of the spheres”). In other words, our heaven.

Before he leaves Earth, Leach asks the aliens to create an audience of robot humans like himself to attend the drive-in movie premier of “Next Year at Marienbad,” his 168-hour creation about a postmodern prophet who believes he is called on by God to make a movie that will bring about the death of time and the birth of a new religion. A machine creates a movie watched by other machines.

The premier is heavily foreshadowed throughout the novel. Leach meets other real people (Sally Miller Gearhart, Williams Burroughs and Ed Bass) who are in attendance along with the robot humans.

Excerpt: Bring Me the Head of Kabuki Blue

I am discovering something terrible in the darkness. There is a live butchering in progress. And I think I am the killer. Look at me hovering over the body. It’s a novel, but it is not mine. Not yet, anyway. A feeling of dread and horror comes over me. I am gutting a favorite work, John Updike’s “Toward the End of Time.” I am choosing the tastiest cuts even as a globe of jellied fire continues to pulse in the chest cavity. Even now, the heart of the novel pulses on. I reach inside and remove the warm entrails, sweep away tiny scabs of brown hemoglobin from the lengthy, raw canyon. Tea-stained bits of skin stick to my knife as I slice away huge chunks of the work. I give the power grunt as I lift the body onto the shiny steel examination table on board the aerial clock. Look at the corpse. Even in death it is still an inspiring sight. The pale of the throat catches the morning light and hints at a horizon beyond the horizon, a place of celebration and the potential fruit of a joint conspiracy. (It could be true!) Even as a solo effort, I can already detect the vigorous, fertile scent of conception. Sure enough, the fetus of a new work begins to form. The door of a tiny Philip K. Dick clock opens. It’s Kabuki Blue. He comes out fast, straight at me. I am looking down, my brow wrinkled in thought. I glanced up, and the blue head catches me squarely in the eye. Ow. Down I go, knife and entrails and everything, hitting the floor with a tremendous crash. For a moment Kabuki Blue pauses, his jaw set rigidly. Then he goes back inside the manuscript, back to his work. The door snaps tight shut after him. I lay on the floor, stretched out grotesquely, my head bent over to one side. Nothing moves. A slight breeze stirs the ashes that swirl over the corpse. The room is completely silent, except, of course, for the ticking of Kabuki Blue. I look out the window. A new spring has arrived, but way too soon. Tiny insipid insects mistakenly hatch, caught in a constricted band of the space/time continuum on top of the tarmac and under the iron gray winter of dark birds, their plaintive and throbbing cries dry and crumbling like ancient mummy flesh. Their mournful undertones crumble my cinder-smudged brick heart. It can't possibly be springn yet. What have I done? A narrow insipid line of charcoal tarmac heaven heats up the galactic highway, which is beginning to glow and pulse a dull red. I need the companionship of the galaxy of creators. But I have been denied membership in The Brotherhood. So I fall into a flattened black star spiral and see something flicker on the horizon beyond the horizon. Look, the fetus of time. He has no use for entrails. Self doubt is a monstrous concept. My creation has no time for it, no time for me to feel blue. Spring has arrived, even if it is a defective spring. Or perhaps especially so. Nothing can die in his place -- nothing except (I hope) my monstrous doubts. They are consumed in the flames of the space/time insects that swirl about and come over me like a bruised cloud, blue veins of lightening crackling inside like a spirit trapped in a mason jar. No wait, that’s not it. That image does not fit here. I try again. I am gutting a favorite heart. Yes, that’s better. Kabuki Blue leans close and cuts into the corpse. I go at it, too, knife in hand. We are blood stained up to the elbows. Then the eyeball mistakenly hatches. Spring has arrived. But it’s still the false, empty moment. I experience a feeling of dread and denied membership in The Brotherhood. A live butchering in progress. This time I am butchering myself. I am cutting into my own eye. Ow. Down I go, knife in hand. My eyeball mistakenly hatches. Little birds fly out, a beautiful smear of color against the morning sky. I catch a brief glimpse of something beautiful, but then it disappears. I am caught in a constricted horror. It comes over me hard. I am gutting the morning light, hints of pink and gold color the horizon. The clock door opens. It’s Kabuki Blue. He is reading his favorite novel, John Updike’s “Toward the end of Time.” The cover is beginning to glow in the iron gray winter. He comes out fast, straight at me.

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