It's been 24 years yesterday

Well, if you have been reading this blog any length of time, you know yesterday was a milestone event for me.  I was in NYC last night, staying at the Chelsea Savoy in the Chelsea Neighborhood of West 21 and Fashion Avenue and I celebrated living twenty-four years with AIDS.  (Me at the right with Swatch of Mood Fabric's and Project Runway Fame!)

First let me begin by saying that this trip to NYC was planned around the start of my second Residency at Fairfield Universities Creative Writing MFA Program, which I am very blessed to be in.  My major is Creative Writing and I have spent the last seven months writing my memoirs.  What has it been like, in my perspective, to be have lived twenty-four years in NE Ohio with AIDS.  It's given me a lot of time to reflect, to write and to see things in a new way.

Until January of this year I had this feeling that I didn't know why I had lived as long as I had, when so many others have died --- most recently my friend Edye Gregory.  January I finally was able to put the pieces together and know I had simply had survived to write.  I write to give my voice to the diaspora of literature on what it means to live with AIDS and to live with it long-term.

Many of you know I have had my share or hurdles to face: three rounds of Chemotherapy for Kaposi Scarcoma, four rounds of pneumonia, two rounds of double pneumonia, a spell of meningitis, bouts of neuropathy, the death of two partners from AIDS as well as countless friends and most recently a stay in a nursing facility for physical rehab last August.  It, simply, has been no cake walk; but I'm not complaining.  I had had it easy.

Let me explain.  I met a young man today, actually a young homeless man, living on the streets of NYC.  He was around 23, covered in KS sores and a cardboard sign "Homeless.  HIV+.  Please Help."  We spoke for a few minutes.  Since he is homeless he is ineligible for Medicaid/Medicare.  Which makes him ineligible for medication, except through the Free Clinic and except from receiving Radiation to help with the KS.  It gets worse.  Since there is no address he is ineligible for Food Stamps and relies on an overworked, inadequate Free Meals through different shelters.  A friend of his, also HIV+, this last January froze to death on the streets.  His friend was 21 at the time.  I have not been able to get this young man out of my mind.  I gave him some money and my left over lunch I couldn't eat.  Unable to find a "solution" to his "issue", he says he fears he will freeze to death as well.

It has never been that bad for me.  I deeply grateful.  Yet, HIV/AIDS in this country is a chronic, manageable disease.  Till this to this young man.  Better yet, till it to our soon to be incoming President whomever he/she may be.  What can we do?  Right now, I really don't know.  There has to be something.  Maybe it was just telling his story.  Maybe it was the few bills I gave him.

My life after all has been a cake walk.  I am so very thankful, for so very much.

My mind was filled with memories to this trip.  Last time I was in the Chelsea Savoy Ron was alive, and if I think right that was at least 18 years ago.  I kept thinking of him today.  Wondering if he would be proud of who I am become since 2002 when he died.  What would he say to me.  Better yet, what would I say to him?

I came to this trip nervous and anxious.  I've greyed considerably since January when I left Enders Island.  I'm twenty pounds heavier too.  I was (or am) out of mind ––– when there is so much to be thankful for.

If you've read this far I wouldn't change much of the last twenty-four years.  Here's looking for the next twenty-four

"In God's Silence": First Book Update

First of all thank you to those of you who still come to read this blog.  It is deeply appreciated.  I know posting has been eradicate but life does every now and then comes up and things must be dealt with.

The last few months for me, physically speaking, have been very rough.  The pain in my chest and back, for the last ten years, is again at its worst.  The doctor I'm seeing for this thinks its Neuropathy.  To tell you the truth I'm not sure if that is what it is or not.  I just know I am in horrific pain.  The last two weeks or so I've slept on the couch, which is the only lace I can get comfortable.  I also think this pain, at times, effects my ability to think clearly and rationally which then affects my ability to write.

My new (and first) book is doing extremely well.  I've sold forty copies in the three weeks it has been available on Amazon.com.  I have managed to get my book in the Kent State University at Stark book store--- for sale, and also in their lending libraries and archives.  There are perks to being alumni.  I also have my book on the desk of the manager of the Fairlawn, Ohio Barnes & Noble for consideration.

My first reviews for my book (outside of a class room where this project started) has come out:


"I am halfway through the book and I must say it is very riveting.  This book will go far.  Thank  you Charles Dale for such a memorable story." Mrs. Ginny Greenhill

From author of "Beyond John Dunn" and "The Light of a Bright Sun" Thurman P. Banks Jr.

A heart-wrenching trial of love, loss, and hope

I struggle to find the words that can adequately describe Charlie Dale's debut. A truly gifted wordsmith, Charlie mingles in the world of poetry, prophecy, and prose that often left me rereading for the simple pleasure of basking in the beauty of Mr. Dale's writing style. "In God's Silence", we walk a mile and more in young Christoph's shoes, a diffucult task for even the most fleeting of foot. We find ourselves lost in love, lost in a family that has turned their hearts on (against) us, and lost in ( a) box, imprisoned in Aushcwitz, (and)  imprisoned in our mind. Charlie Dale doesn't just tell us about atrocities, he shows us with a gentle hand and open heart, he guides us through a world we have never seen. For this, for all of this, I am grateful. If the true mark of a great book is the life that lingers on, than you can mark my words that this is a great book, as "In God's Silence", I will forever hear the voices that remain.

I also have my first public presentation this Friday at Kent State University at Stark for the Honor's College Conference in Room 212 in the Fine Arts Building.  I start at 9:00 a.m.  I will:

1.  Be speaking about the background and research that went into this book
2.  what prompted it. 
3. I will be reading a passage from the book. 
4. Showing a short movie of images I found.
5. And finally taking questions about the project and book.

Then on May 16th at 7:00 p.m. I have my first public "Meet and Greet the Author" at Keillor's a Teddy Bear Shoppe at 117 Canal Street, Canal Fulton, OH  where I will be doing the same thing as I did at KSU with the addition of wine, cheese and finger-foods.

If you haven't gotten your signed book yet you need to email me at cdale9966@me.com to put in your request.  The book is $15 plus a $4.00 shipping charge within the USA if it has to be shipped.  Over seas prices vary depending on distention; or you can order a non-signed book through Amazon.com at 

http://www.amazon.com/In-Gods-Silence-Charles-Dale/dp/1495438635/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1398092796&sr=8-1&keywords=In+God%27s+Silence+Charles+Dale

The incredible Eccentricities of 20 Great Writers

Truly great artists will do whatever it takes to find their muse.

1. JOHN CHEEVER

The short story guru was like everyone else: He woke up, put on a suit, and went to work. And unlike everyone else, he took an elevator down to his apartment building’s basement, stripped off all his clothes, and wrote in his underwear.

2. GERTRUDE STEIN

Stein liked lounging in the passenger seat of her Model-T Ford, penning prose while her partner Alice Toklas drove around doing errands.

3. VIRGINIA WOOLF

Woolf used a standing desk before it was cool. (She wanted to work on the same playing field as her sister, who was an artist.) Although she decided to take a seat later in her career, Woolf loved purple and wrote most of Mrs. Dalloway in purple ink.

4. SIR WALTER SCOTT

Scott penned most of the poem Marmion in his head while riding a horse.

5. JAMES JOYCE

The modernist master liked writing in bed while on his stomach. He also always wore a white coat for practical reasons. Joyce was nearly blind, and the bright coat reflected light and helped him see. As his eyesight worsened, he wrote on cardboard with colored crayons.

6. FRIEDRICH SCHILLER

Schiller worked late at night, so to keep the sandman away, he’d dip his feet in ice-cold water. But it gets weirder: Schiller always wrote with a bunch of rotten apples stowed in his desk drawer. He said the smell motivated him.

7. ALEXANDER DUMAS

Dumas insisted that all of his literary output be color-coded: Blue paper for fiction, pink paper for articles, and yellow paper for poetry.

8. DEMOSTHENES

To keep on task, the Greek orator would shave half of his head because it forced him to stay inside and work. Plutarch writes, “Here he would continue, oftentimes without intermission, two or three months together, shaving one half of his head, that so for shame he might not go abroad, though he desired it ever so much.”

9. LORD BYRON

Byron was basically an eccentric amateur zookeeper. At school, he kept a bear in his dorm room. (He leashed it up and took it for walks around campus—he even tried to get it a fellowship.) Later on, according to Percy Shelley, Byron kept eight dogs, three monkeys, five cats, some peacocks, eagles, crows, and falcons inside his house.

10. YUKIO MISHIMA

Nominated for three Nobel prizes, Mishima actually founded an emperor-worshipping cult for teenage boys. In 1970, he stormed the Japanese Defense Headquarters with a sword and four of his boys. After failing to overthrow the government, he committed suicide.

11. OSCAR WILDE

Wilde didn’t care what Victorian England thought. He’s rumored to have once walked down the street with a lobster on a leash.

12. JOHN MILTON

Milton started his day at 4:00 a.m. He spent the first hour thinking in solitude. Then an aide would read him the Bible for half an hour, afterward dictating whatever Milton said. (Milton was blind, and those dictations would become Paradise Lost). Whenever the aide was late, Milton griped, “I want to be milked. I want to be milked.”

13. HONORÉ DE BALZAC

No one worked harder than Balzac. He’d wake up at 1:00 a.m., write for seven hours, take a nap at 8:00 a.m., wake up at 9:30 a.m., write again till 4:00 p.m., take a walk, visit friends, and call it a night at 6:00 p.m. To fuel all that writing, he threw back upwards of 50 cups of coffee per day.

14. FRANZ KAFKA

To keep his mind fresh, Kafka exercised in front of the window—naked.

15-20. PLENTY OF OTHER WRITERS LIKED WORKING IN THE BUFF…

Benjamin Franklin took “air baths,” writing his essays and letters in a cold room while nude. Agatha Christie and Edmond Rostand both liked writing in the bathtub. James Whitcomb Riley wrote naked so he wouldn’t be tempted to walk to the bar, and when Victor Hugo felt distracted, he removed all his clothes so that he was totally alone with pen and paper. As a writing warm-up, D.H. Lawrence would climb mulberry trees in his birthday suit.

I placed 2nd---Fairfield University Masters of Fine Arts in Creative Writing Poetry Contest

I've been left speechless. The announcement for the 2013-2014 Fairfield University Masters of Fine Arts in Creative Writing Poetry Contest were just made a few minutes ago, and yours truly placed SECOND!!!!

Paper

Has my voice grown weak because of my trepidation
Do you question why my feet tremble on the gravel path
Should I speak honestly about twisting my woolen scarf tighter
Do gusts of doubt descend Enders Island
Are they consuming me
Why in silence was I distancing myself
Have words simply failed me causing me to outcast myself
Can others see my inner voice
Is it loud, is it clear
Why do I wonder how I ended here
Can you perceive the deeper meaning of my spoken words
Are they ripped from my sputtering heart
Does the pain of the artist's soul seem apparent
Who relates to the yearning of my spirit
Can you try

Could I speak of childhood pain, of never fitting in or knowing even why
Do your eyes comprehend what I need to say
Is it too much for you to know my father made paper so I could be a writer
Is it asking to little for you to see that AIDS has been a genocide in my life
Is is apparent my mother was a dropout inspiring my adoration to read
Do my words even matter as I march into my passion
Or is all that you see is my incredible sense of fashion
Are you hearing me as I really am

Or do none of those things even matter
Have they shaped the man you see before you
Or has my life consumed and disabled me
Do these circumstances become my stories
Or can they be inspirations for characters
Do I begin to see I am rewriting my personal story
Am I becoming my own creation
Have I finally taken pen in hand

I am so afraid to speak
Should I not fear exposing my truth
Have I spoke of the world as I had seen it, as I feel it to my bone
Should you know my world as your own
Is that the goal of a writer
Have I finally claimed my own voice