Twenty Random Questions with Peter Hammarberg (Author of Antillia)

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I’ve known my guest today since the days of MySpace. Back when the site was cool and Tom had perfected the selfie game. A time when John Mayer was waiting on the world to change, and Donald Trump was just a blowhard with a TV show. Times have changed, but the man of the blog hour has stayed the same. He’s still the same affable, charming guy of yesteryear. I’m thrilled to introduce you to him.

Peter Hammarberg is a man’s man. He reminds me a bit of Hemingway with his rugged good looks and aptitude for the English language- Peter is a word herder dwelling in the northern wilds of New England. He’s been called a “Magnificent Bastard” and “The Patron Saint of Bourbon and Hearty Laughter” by genuine Cony Island sideshow performers. In addition, he has a tache that even Tom” Selleck would envy.

You can find his debut novel Antillia. at Amazon. A must read for Sci-Fi enthusiasts and anyone who enjoys well written fiction.

http://www.amazon.com/Antillia-Order-Lucifuge-Book-Volume/dp/0990839702

You can keep up with Peter and his shenanigans at:

Twitter @p_hammarberg
IInstagram: @h_mt

You can also follow him on WordPresss at hammermountainarts.com (Do it!)

My thanks to Peter for taking the time to engage in some tomfoolery,

Twenty Random Questions

1. If you were Alice, would you rather stay in Wonderland on the other side of the mirror, or come back to the real world to share your story?

Wonderland is a terrifying place. If I wasn’t killed by some whimsical psychopath and managed to make it home, I doubt I’d share the story– That’s a sure-fire recipe for padded rooms and colorful pills in wee paper cups.

2. If you were going to write an article about yourself, what would the headline be?

“Who Moved My Bourbon?”

3. If you were a drink, what would you be? Why?

I already have a drink named after me: The Hammer’dberg. It’s real simple to make. Take a pint glass, pour two-to-three fingers of bourbon (depending on your day) into it, then a dark beer. Best paired with either a cigar, bon fire, or a couch.

4. What childhood fear do you still have as an adult?

When I was a pup, I was afraid of ghosts. It took me a while to realize that they’d follow me wherever I was. I was the one haunted., not necessarily the places. I’ve come to terms with that. I don’t fear it anymore. I never poop alone, thanks to them.

5. If you could choose just one thing to change about the world, what would it be?

I’d like humans to get over themselves. We take ourselves too seriously.

6. What’s your favorite poem?

“Dinosauria We,” by Charles Bukowski. It’s the closest thing he’s written to a prophecy poem, and it’s chilling. He talks about the things to come, and you think, ‘Yep…’ To me, it’s the written equivalent to Grieg’s In The Hall of the Mountain King. The tone has a building, subtle frenzy until it explodes.

7. Does darkness soothe you or frighten you?

Give me darkness, and put a sock in it. I’m trying to sleep. My brain is like a stone-struck hornets nest when there’s light.

8. If you ruled your own country, who would you get to write your national anthem?

Dom Kreep from the band Kreeps. He’d make the song fun and spooky, which I’m sure is what living in my country would be like.
I’d say Wesley Willis, if he wasn’t dead, but… he’s dead.

9. What makes you nostalgic?

Songs. Scents. Comic books I haven’t read in a while. They bring me back instantly for better or worse. I think, ‘Cripes, that was another life. I’ve gotten fat,’ Then I partake in question 3 and forget where I put my pants.

10. Clowns. Creepy or cool?

I don’t have a fear of clowns, but I respect their creep factor. Unless you’re talking about a sad clown flipping pancakes in a foreign flick, I’d say creepy. Pogo, Pennywise, and Ronald are a few of the scariest.

11. Do you remember your dreams?

All the time. I’m sure psychiatrists would have a field day with me.

12. What’s your favorite song?

To me there is no such thing as a favorite song. There are far too many amazing tunes out there to pick one. It also depends on the mood.
Fight song? Twilight of the Thunder God, by Amon Amarth.
Romance someone’s face song? Love you to Death, by Type O Negative.
Life is a strange place song? Saltair by Kreeps.
Inspirational song? Do It, by Wesley Willis.
The list goes on…

13. What’s your favorite season?

Autumn. Crisp air. Trees aflame. Halloween. The world feels more vibrant during that time. Pour yourself a Hammer’dberg and sit outside for a spell.

14. Does pressure motivate you?

Pressure can suck it. I’m constantly under it. Even when there isn’t any external nonsense happening, my favorite pastime is tormenting myself with incessant “what if?s”.
It’s a real problem. I need Vanilla Ice to solve it.

15. To what extent do you shape your own destiny, and how much is down to fate?

This is a tricky one. I’m not a fan of “there’s a plan,” because then free will is an illusion. But I do like the theory of shaping the universe to your will. Put the thought out there and allow it to move you. Then again, they say ‘You can’t win the lotto without buying a ticket,’ so I have no idea. I guess whatever works for you is the answer.
And that’s what they call a “cop-out answer,” kids.

16. What published book do you secretly wish you had written?

None. The way I see it, if I wrote the books I loved, they probably wouldn’t be that lovable. That’s not to say I wouldn’t do a good job, but there are reasons certain books are amazeballs.

17. Are you the paranoid type or calm, cool and collected?

Paranoid. I don’t think the toaster is a government spy, mind you, but I definitely have moments where I’m too high strung for my own good.

18. What would qualify as the afternoon of your dreams?

Walking through Portsmouth New Hampshire with my wife, as we drink coffee and scheme diabolically.

19. Are you more like fire or the earth?

I’m too lazy to be fire. I’d say I’m more like an old, haunted forest.

20. Do you hear voices?

All the time. Especially when I’m trying to sleep, I hear all the worries and doubts. It’s sad, really. When I tell them to shut up, it’ll change to theme songs of shows I can’t stand.
I’m really my own worst enemy.

Bonus question:
What are you currently working on?

I’m putting the finishing touches on a bizarro/horror novella called Gravenfrost. I’ve gone the path of Lovecraft, and created my own New England town to fill with creeps and spooky shenanigans. The story is focused on an FBI agent named Doyle and his investigation into a ghost hunting tv show host losing his mind and murdering his cast and crew during a “hunt” in a place nicknamed The Devil’s Domicile.

I’ve had a few beta testers read it, and I’m getting a lot of positive feedback. One even told me she was doing laundry in the basement when the book popped into her mind. She was so creeped out, she hurried like mad in order to get back upstairs. That makes me smile. If all goes according to plan, it should be available this October from Hammer Mountain Arts.

Crushed Flowers

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And these are my flaws
My vices.
Impatience, a tongue
sharp as a guillotine.
Caffeine. Chocolate.
Sarcasm on every occasion.
And unquenchable desire
to be loved.
A heart that is an
exhibitionist who
weeps upon
my sleeve

A fear of monochrome
colors, thunder,
the undone,
petty gossip
and letting go.
A hunger to be kissed
often and with fervor.
An awkward shyness
around new people.
A fascination with
the lure of a snowbound
life.

Not being Christian
enough to turn the
other cheek or Zen
enough to just be still.
The knowledge that my
life is unimportant
in a world with a noose
around its neck but
writing about it
anyway.

I often prefer the company
of books and my cat to
other human beings.
I live nside a cluttered
mind in a pristine house.

And not listening closely
to my Granny and her
treasury of wise words
Most which I have
forgotten, but
I do recall her saying
you must learn
to take what will
be with grace,
that our flaws
bind us
to humanity,
and to never forget
even crushed
flowers are beautiful.

Static

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People with nothing to say

Emotions running high

Reason running low

Verbs and nouns

with no substance

Adverbs and adjectives

with no pretext

Spilling out

on an anvil of facsimiles

 

Slowly the chasm

grows until

there’s nothing to transmit

Just words without sound.  

 

“Your Song”

I’d be honored if you would listen to my rendition of Elton John’s “Your Song” I recorded this with someone special mind. Perhaps, that someone was you.

Listen to “Your Song” by Tosha Michelle 2020 #np on #SoundCloud

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She always wanted more…more chocolates…more books…more shoes…more solitude..more anarchy.. more peace.. more calm…more chaos ..more sex…more time…. more love…more stability….more heaven…more hell….more poetry… more J’s…Jon Stewart…..Jimmy Fallon…jolly rancher’s…Josie..
.more Lana Del Ray….more BBC America… more…more… more ..more…more…until there was no more.. until all the more had been used up…ingested, consumed, spent, thrown away…and more became less…and less became so much more…

Tosha Michelle

Solo

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When my heart becomes
drained from voices
and sound, the anchor
of social interaction
crushing me into stone.
I go in search
of solitary exclusion

My ship sailing away
into the gray.
The night opens
for me.
My soul’s backbone
chilled by the wind.
fingerprints unseen.

I hide out under
a hard luck moon.
In those moments
I love no one.
I hate no one.
I’m indifferent

Lost in the stillness
The shadows follow me.
They write in pencil
taking notes in
a black journal
chronicling the sadness
that resides in me.

Something lingers
in the silence, a ghost,
an echo of compassion
creeping up and taking
possession of my bones

Eventually the stars
catch my eye
giving me a provocative
wink. Pointing their
celestial fingers at me.

Singing back
my lost lullaby.
reminding me the
universe can be
mysterious and grand.

Embracing me in humanity
Folding me back
into gold,
Melting the ice
from the marrow
of my bones.

Telling me to go home
that it’s late, but not
inside me, that I can
learn to dwell.
That the time has not
come to say goodbye,
only goodnight.

-Tosha Michelle

The Flood Came

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The mist whispers “come closer”
as the rain falls down,
The sound invading my heart
Sadness huddles in the leaves,
waiting to burst forth with the wind.
brushing my cheeks
finding purchase within my bones.
Bringing me to my knees
lost in a puddle of bruises
My red rimmed eyes
trying to breach the light
Darkness consumes me
Literally.
Figuratively.
The kind of darkness
I feel with every breath
filling my lungs and
slowly suffocating my soul.
There’s no reprieve from the darkness
only self inflicted torture
of a tear stained mind.

“Show me a hero, and I’ll write you a tragedy.” ― F. Scott Fitzgerald

F. Scott Fitzgerald ❤❦♪♫

My relationship with F. Scott Fitzgerald has evolved over the years, but he is still one of the great literary loves of my life. I discovered him at 11 years old when my aunt gave me a copy of The Great Gatsby.. I read it all in one go. After that,  I was hooked and quick to read anything Fitzgerald had ever written.  In middle school and high school, I was taken by the romance of it all. His books were magical; the parties, the glamour, those beautiful lyrical prose.  It was only after I was older and began reading about Fitzgerald’s life that I truly came to understand the depth of his work.  

Life for a while was a great shindig for Fitzgerald.  He married the love if his life, the belle of the ball, his first book This Side of Paradise was a huge success, but so much can change in a decade. Success is fleeting, the belle would stray, be forgiven, go mad and end up in an asylum. Fitzgerald would lose himself in gin and insecurities.  He would die of a heart attack at the young age of 44 at a time when he was just finding his creative voice again.

Fitzgerald is not unlike you or me. He was man who understood grey, the fading of the seasons, the sting and zing of a lived life.  I hope he is at peace, his final chapter written much too soon.  When I am in a particular melancholy mood, I read Fitzgerald’s work and let his words guide me, Knowing that the man behind the text understood life’s nuances, that dreams are often lost in the dirty laundry, that the heart is constantly bending itself and being reshaped, that often failure is just a deceptive voice, that we have to move with the taste of change and finally, that everything has a conclusion. Or does it? Fitzgerald’s words will last long after our cars are replaced with hearses, his ancient ledger of living verbs, nouns, and adjectives, a future pearl for a new generation.

Now if you will excuse me, I’m feeling a bit blue today. Gatsby is calling, like a hidden note, I wonder what his pages will reveal today.

“It was only a sunny smile, and little it cost in the giving, but like morning light it scattered the night and made the day worth living.” ~ F. Scott Fitzgerald

F. Scott Fitzgerald ❤❦♪♫

F. Scott Fitgerald ❤❦♪♫

❤❦♪♫

Papa

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At eight years old.
I hold my Granny’s hand
The one that use to hold
my Papa’s hand
The one she
held for 32 years
The one she won’t
hold again.
I wonder how much
different mine must feel

We stand in a darkened room
Sharp with the taste
of ash and loss,
full of family and flowers
Tissues to cheek,
eyes red.
Grief pouring out,
like the holy spirit
at a Pentecostal revival

My Papa in his coffin.
dead. I struggle to
understand.
The adults talk of
angels wings, gossamer,
and light
Remarking how peaceful
he looks.
Granny lays her head
on mine and weeps

I place a rose
in Papa’s cold hand,
and kiss his cheek
Hoping he will
answer me
“Papa, I love you.
I’ll take care
of Granny
and hold her hand,
until she sees you again. “

In those few fragment moments
where consciousness
and grief collide.
I understand loss’ lexicon
That is comes off
like synthetic fabric
fused to a body
in a fire
taking skin with it

-Tosha Michelle

It’s All About The Fit

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“And now a she-wolf came, that in her leanness / seemed racked with every kind of greediness / (how many people she has brought to grief!)” (Dante’s Inferno I 49-51).

Poet’s note- I’ve always preferred Roman mythology and the of story of Romulus.

“Double Breasted Seduction”

I like to loiter under the covers on nippy winter mornings and watch you get dressed
You look best in tailored suits. Stylish and sleek.
My crisp man with your neatly pressed long sleeve shirt
You’re putting on my favorite (periwinkle with a hint of purple flecks)
The sun winks its approval through the blinds.
The tree branches gossip with the sky, swaying to your beauty.
I feel every bit like the wolf Dante wrote about,
as I watch you slide into each sleeve
Popping each button, your eyes fixed on me.
I beckon you over, my knees on the bed.
Is your belt unbuckled?
My hands moves things along
tucking the hem of your shirt into your pants
slowly and playfully smoothing always the creases
enjoying the feel of you and the brush of luxury your clothes provide.
Pampering you, I tie your tie (Double Windsor knot)
Wishing I could tie up all your loose ends.
When you walk away to get your keys and wallet
I can’t help noticed how your trousers
caress your rear, hips, and thighs
Such a seductive covering, carnal captivation
You kiss me goodbye. Your fingers lighting fisting my hair.
Breathing my name in a sultry abbreviation.
Whispering sexy sentiments into my ear
All I can think of is tonight, I get to undo my crisp man
I can’t wait to uncover your double breasted seduction,
and dress you up in me.

-Tosha Michelle

On Words and Self Doubt

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My poetry always exposes
the imperfect fit of my skin,
with words that run off
with the seeds of pretext.
I’m left behind chasing
an existential crisis,
no fairy tales to quell
my anxieties

Choking on a parched narrative
thinking too much.
about thinking
Too much “who?” too much me
not enough “what can I do?”

My shoes moist
and full of warm blood
I take them off-revealing my blisters
Exhausted, I sit down
and breathe in despair’s air.
watching the newspaper,
and leaves long dead, fly by me.

The turmoil traffic,
thumb to nose, mocking me,
the dark taunting me
with Medusa’s stare.
Some fool shinning a light
(as if that could make a difference)

I sharpen my lyrical claws,
fist fighting my wit,
cursing stupid cliches
telling banality to f*** off.
Wondering if that’s
how written language will end.
with a “bee in your bonnet”
and impotent pen

Waiting…waiting…waiting

for words and their Judas betrayal
to find me,
so we can release our flaws,
like a dying hooker’s last confessional,

Perhaps, this time- words
and I will join in semantic fusion,
an authentic coupling, anointed
with a whispered touch,
fertile in rhythm and verse
stirring to stir..stirred to stir.

Birthing the poetic molecular structure.
the genetic code of the spirit
Wearing multiple faces, places,
memories, hearts, and loves.
Dressed with an imagination affluent in grief

Maybe this time our monologue of loneliness and self doubt will make the soul’s late late show.

-Tosha Michelle