Modern Mythology is a metafiction novel comprised for four parts: modern mythology, a sequel of sorts to Goethe's Faust in the form of poetic screenplay. Small Wood Volumes, a horror tinged bildungsroman set in a small town on the Oregon coast. The Earthman Chronicles, a science fiction jaunt through 1940s Pasadena by way of suburban sprawl, L. Ron Hubbard, Jack Parsons and many more. #, prose and poetry dealing with brain damaged souls, the death of education as an institution, artificial life, and creeping madness. The texts can stand alone or together as a whole.
31. modern mythology.
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113. 88 Small Wood Volumes
Small Wood Volumes
By D.N. Dean
114. Small Wood Volumes 89
Small Wood Volumes
by Dickens Nathaniel Dean
Author’s Note:
Curiously enough, I’ve never been a writer. I am a computer
scientist at a local university who found this notebook left in a copy shop
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it was written in an old notebook I’d half-started and lost at some diner
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else. What are the odds, huh?
115. 90 Small Wood Volumes
preface
You need a title, it says to me, the little voice behind my thoughts.
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116. Up awake at hours when the company I keep is made up of
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thoughts are neverending. I eat crumbs that are the remains of yesterday.
The transition time between then and now, thoughts racing before the dawn
of another day. The frenzy takes me and I must keep going I must not
stop. I have to write about all of them. Those who know their place,
the ones who live with damaged goods,whose only dream is to come up
even on the karmic scale. My heart goes out to them, and their
restless thoughts. Pollution of hurt and grief spills out like split
trash bags on the sidwalk. This is an essay on nothing, no thesis body
to be found. An example made in maps on walls, delineating who we are
by where we live. Status and circumstance, the rise and fall of a
nobody, no name given. Small Town Blues.
Music sits softly on my ears, headphones hug and comfort. I make
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so I’ll begin there and take you someplace else.
It’s not that my history unnerves me, it is just that it has been so
long since I’ve sat down to write seriously, I don’t think I can tell
the truth without boring myself, so I must fabricate and you must
settle. You found these words and continue reading of your own
accord.
I lived in a town called Small Wood on the coast of Oregon. I
moved from there three years ago after many endings occurred all at once.
I kept a diary while I was living there, collecting scraps of what I
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in. I write this in recollection and add the remnants from the old
life where their place belongs. Know this is all a puzzle to me,
thousands of pieces all touching and connecting in so many ways.
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This is a story not as it was, nor how I wanted it to be, it is the
story of ghosts that live on, failures that haunt, peoples that
persist and death that goes unremarked upon.
There is no structure to the telling of this story, there is no one
medium for ideas to stick to.
Such is life.
A beginning now, to set the stage, to pull the curtain back and
have our narrator come in on cue.
117. Small Wood Volumes 91
i. a brief history of me, part one
This will not be a typical bit of biography.
At this moment in time I am twenty-six years old, far more poten-
tial than actual. I was just recently told this by my mother, that I am
stunted developmentally, not as much an adult as I should be, that I
regressed for many years by staying in Small Wood when I should have
been moving forward. This latest retreat was my second stint in
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My family moved to Small Wood the summer after my sopho-
more year spent overseas in Caracas, Venezuela. My dad was out of work,
and we fell back to regroup in the states on my grandmother’s unused piece
of country property.
If I was being more accurate, my father was enjoying the retire-
ment he would not naturally receive.
Part of me think this place is where his ending began.
I found it to be a beautiful but fallen upon disrepair ranch house.
It was two stories, yellowed and mildewed on the outside,
shingles split and prone to falling loose. The house proper could be reached
driving down from the coastal highway by turning off a small, one-lane
pebble road marked by a sign stating simply, ‘Little Switzerland”.
Surrounding the property were cow pastures bordered on one edge
by a river, the other primal woods descending down to touch the valley.
It was a quiet place; neighbors were distant and never encountered
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fell across the road. These were typical of the intrusions upon day to day
life.
I had spent holidays in the house years before. I was familiar with
it but it was not my home, it was my grandmother’s. It had a comfort-
able, lonesome feel, but I was a teenager, coming from a very large, alien
metropolis moving to to a small, isolated house within a proportionately
small, isolated community this gnawed at me. I was not at heart a spoiled
bright lights big city boy, and I did not complain about the sudden and
drastic change to life and the pace of life, yet I was always
self-aware and out of place. I lacked the skills my father and sister
had to tend the land and raise livestock in limited quantities. I
helped out where I could that summer, pulling weeds, feeding grain to
the beasts, unpacking and moving into the place proper, but I was not
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