Ben Campbell

Blind Ambition

2011-11-22T12:22:00.001-08:00

Blind Ambition

Short Story

SHE WAS smart, intuitive and blind. She was chic, sensitive and insightful. Elizabeth Epiphany was my twelve year old neighbor. During three summers she attended Cal School for the Blind—where she received a lexicon of instructions about life, liberty and liberation inside the void of blindness, intertwined in the world of vision outside.
Elizabeth had a divine, light soprano voice. Lyrical tones drifted across the yard and into our house whenever she rehearsed.
After graduating from school for the blind she enrolled in a public school—thus she was thrown into nuances of rudeness, jokes by a few disruptive students, the ones that didn’t matter but demanded attention, the ones that dictated social interaction and infractions.
She sought advice from me on handling teenage persecution. I was a senior enrolled in a psychology class, having universal knowledge that could help a freshman in the swarm of high school community bursting with bad manners.
My knowledge about blindness was limited but I knew Elizabeth could sing her heart out. Her compositions of You’ll Never Walk Alone, and Once Upon a Dream, were exemplary, like a strong yet soft bird song controlled by weather conditions.
Elizabeth and I sat at my parent’s dining room table one afternoon after school. She wasn’t in my social circle and any advice I could give her would be our secret, therefore I wouldn’t receive incivility and ugly innuendos from any outsiders.
She was smarter than me, knowing issues I didn’t know, intuitive concerns like logic and processes. She called her intuition mind culture. I called it blind ambition.
“I don’t know what to tell you,” I said, looking at her brown eyes. “Kids are mean. They criticize. They ridicule the disadvantage.”
“Why do they do that?”
“Because they’re teenagers, exempt from mature society.”
“I wish they could see,” she said.
“But they do see.”
“I mean, if they could see my world they wouldn’t be impetuous.”
“You mean cruel and condemning?”
My mother was in the kitchen listening to us. She stepped into the dining room and offered advice.
“Ignore the mischievous students, Elizabeth. Someday they’ll come around and leave you alone.”
“Go back to the kitchen, mom,” I said, raising my eyebrows.
Mom leered at me then retreated.
Elizabeth smiled. It was the first time I’d really looked at her, the little girl next door, the average looking student who didn’t look like a blind songbird. Her eyes were normal, and she just needed a cane and a dog for guidance. She wasn’t an awkward little girl anymore she was a young sensitive adult.
“What should I do?” Elizabeth asked me.
“You know what, just sing. You have a beautiful voice.”
“How can that help me?”
“Singing is your freedom. It’s a gift that will help you rise above teenage ridicule.”
“Don’t you see they’ll hate me even more.”
Two months went by and Elizabeth was held prisoner to mockery until the school’s Christmas assembly celebration. She was the headliner act. After singing Silent Night and Once Upon a Dream in her eloquent soprano voice the students and faculty were stunned into respect—except for the ones that didn’t matter, the ones that dictated social interaction and infractions. The rest of the student body came to her rescue and ignored the dozen or so jealous girls and boys who chose rudeness over courtesy.
Elizabeth was smart, intuitive and blind, and her singing voice was her savior. She went on to become an educator for the blind, and I went to Stanford University to study psychology.

ISBN 978-1-105-20495-1 (ebook)
Copyright © 2011 Ben Campbell
All rights reserved.

"Vitruvian Man" = Perfect Christmas Gift

2011-11-04T12:22:00.000-07:00

Perfect Christmas gift: "Vitruvian Man", an eBook by Ben Campbell. In most eBook formats including Kindle at smashwords.com. At checkout enter coupon code WK96Y and upload "Vitruvian Man" for $0.99.

http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/34061

Snoopy Demolition Jet Setter

2011-09-23T20:45:00.000-07:00

Clint Eastwoods' Mission Ranch Restaurant

2011-09-12T10:34:00.000-07:00

Tao Weekend

2011-09-01T13:29:00.000-07:00

Tao weekend in San Francisco.

http://redroom.com/member/ben-campbell/blog/tao-weekend

"Vitruvian Man" Editing

2011-06-28T16:48:00.000-07:00

"Vitruvian Man"

2011-05-14T15:03:00.000-07:00

Vitruvian Man was one of the most revered descriptions of a human composition in the Renaissance. You can upload the urban action/adventure novel "Vitruvian Man" on your Kindle in just a few seconds for $2.99, or purchase the paperback for $15.95.

San Miguel de Allende

2011-04-26T16:01:00.000-07:00

Dr. Seuss AKA Theodor Seuss Geisel

2011-04-11T13:25:00.000-07:00

Dr. Seuss hand written stories found...fiction or not? Find out here amazon.com Kindle edition. http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004Q7CIVM

2011-04-09T19:00:00.001-07:00

I've decided to take stewardship over ebook publishing, and that meas "duty of service, responsibility and management" of publishing and promoting ebook publications. Any one of you can do the same for your passions. Do something big everyday , a statement or cause that creates a positive difference about your life. And BTW read WHEN GIANTS DANCE for your entertainment.

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004TXN5BK

Ben Campbell Books

2011-03-05T18:32:00.001-08:00

When Giants Dance is coming soon. I have yet to finish writing 402 Avalon. You can preview and purchase the other five novels as eBooks on smashwords.com.

Dubrovnik - a novel by Ben Campbell

2011-02-11T19:52:00.000-08:00

2011-02-09T17:02:00.001-08:00

Reggie Rocketship and His Boom Boom Pow Galaxy of Secrets by Ben Campbell

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Ten year old prodigy Reggie Rocketship had a few secrets which he shared with his parents, except for one recent undisclosed discovery. This one little secret was a rumor until two crooks tried to kidnap Reggie for it, led by an insider who would do anything to possess it.

Luna and Eddie Rocketship, Reggie's mom and dad, had also made undisclosed discoveries. They each kept their own little secrets not knowing the celebration or gravity they would cause their family and the literary world.

If it wasn’t for Slipstream, Reggie’s spacecraft playhouse in his backyard, his secret would have been stolen. If it wasn’t for Byte, the neighbor’s dog, Reggie would have been kidnapped. If it wasn’t for the FBI’s clumsiness, the Rocketship family secrets would have been confiscated, depriving the world a chance of historic, classical literary revitalization.

This is an excellent classical piece of modern literature. It's so sweet and cute with educational scientific technology and terminology whereby Dr. Seuss history and futistic designs are intertwined.

Get Reggie here. https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/36080

View all my reviews

eBooks

2011-01-22T10:28:00.000-08:00

If you enjoy reading eBooks on your e-reader, you have to experience smashwords.com. Hundreds of Indy and established authors have listed their eBooks at hugely discounted prices as well as offer discount coupons. Go there and browse. Why pay high prices for a Kindle edition?

James Dean

2011-01-11T14:36:00.000-08:00

"This is my gift to you," my dad said to my older brother. "For your twenty first birthday I give you my Doggie Diner on El Camino Real in South San Francisco."

My dad, Albert Campbell, and oldest brother, Ronald Campbell, stood in our big kitchen of our 80 year old 24 room farmhouse at 402 Avalon Avenue in San Francisco. My family of two older sisters, one other older brother and my mom and I stood beside my dad listening and watching. My dad's generosity was voluminous; my brother's acceptance was denial. The day was Saturday morning, the month and year was October 1, 1955.

"I don't want the Doggie Diner dad. I want to go to college and study Eastern Philosophy."

"Listen to me, son. I've worked hard for thirty years for the Southern Pacific Rail Road, I've created the Cal-Core fire extinguisher and sold it to hardware stores across the United States, I hold the blue prints to the electric wheel chair and electric lawn mower, and I've owned the Doggie Diner for two years. The restaurant is profitable and I'm giving it to you as a birthday gift. You have to think like a business man, get educated in economics, know your way around a profit and loss statement and most importantly earn a living."

"Listen to me, dad. James Dean died yesterday. He was the rebel, my generation's breakaway from all the old cultural stigmas. I knew him, dad, I studied acting with him, he was my mentor for one semester at UCLA. I don't want the Doggie Diner. The Diner is you not me. Your work history is you not me. I'm looking at options for my future, dad. I want to study Eastern Philosophy."

"Listen to me, son. James Dean is a fluke, a silly idol of hype the movie industry is flaunting at us. He is dead now and just another lost soul. Eastern Philosophy will not earn you a living. You need something concrete to rely on. You need skills like a plumber, an electrician, a carpenter. You need to be educated in entrepreneurship not philosophy."

"Listen to me, dad. I can't stand this. I can't be your pet, your dog, like you have me leashed, dragging me around by the neck, guiding my life, making me do things I don't want to do. I'm an individual, dad, not a zombie; I'm a human being, not a dummy. James Dean died but he was happy because he was doing what he loved to do. I want to do what I love to do."

"Listen to me, son. You love to study Eastern Philosophy? Well, Eastern Philosophy won't kill you. Forget about my gift. Pretend I didn't offer you the ownership of the Doggie Diner. If you want to die doing something you love to do go to your Eastern Philosophy classes and meditate yourself to death. I won't condemn you for it, but I'm telling you right now that two years from now, after you've graduated college, you'll be in dire need of a job that requires physical and mental skills that Eastern Philosophy didn't prepare you for."

That was the end of the conversation and the end of my dad's and brother's relationship. My brother didn't graduate college yet he continued to study Eastern Philosophy for the next thirty years. He never acquired a job, he married his best friend's mother, he lived off her deceased husband's life insurance, wrote and self-published three insignificant manuscripts and passed away from respiratory disease at 73 years of age.

Whether our dad was right or wrong or my brother was right or wrong, my brother lived his life the way he planned his future, but he didn't die doing what he loved to do. He never achieved notoriety even though he adhered to the rebellion ideal the movie industry hyped the public about. And, the legacy of James Dean lives on.

Fearing Age

2011-01-09T13:51:00.000-08:00

Where does the fear of being old and growing older come from? Does it come from health insurance companies, the government and even one's relatives and neighbors?

My mother-in-law just turned 90 years old. She has buried two husbands and one son. She has never traveled or exercised. She has never smoked or drank alcohol. She seldom swears. She is old now but when she was younger she seldom showed interests in outdoor activities for fear that something physically bad might happen.

She now has physical problems, and none are associated with outdoor activities. They are related to non-activities like sitting and watching TV, reading books and writing notes to herself. No activity relates to limited circulation. She doesn't worry about high cholesterol, chocolate overdose or high blood pressure. She suffers from all three.

She's mentally astute, sharp witted, and is always asking questions; where is my black pen? Why do I need the six outlet power strip in my room? Where are my pajama bottoms? Do you have my check book? I'm still in control of it you know! Where is the chocolate? Do we have any black licoric?e I don't feet well, can I have hot chocolate now with potato chips?

Yet, she fears having a bladder infection, incontinence and wonders why she is still living. She does not have and has not had any urges to live a full life outside of herself even at younger ages. She's had the money to do most anything but no urges because she would miss drinking or eating chocolate and watching depressing news on the TV, and besides something disastrous might happen to her.

Isn't the act of growing old disastrous?

My question is; why do some people, that have the resources, not live their lives because something disastrous might happen to them?

2011-01-07T17:04:00.000-08:00

My dog Missy wasn’t my dog. I was her boy. She took license with knowing and understanding my personality. She knew when I was playful or serious, hungry or sleepy, she knew when I was in danger and even knew when I was sick and then she would comfort me.

As a boy who had a dog as his master I came to understand the intuition animals possessed, and the extenuating circumstances of learned socializing, not with other breeds of animals but with humans. A child can formulate abundant specifics of an animal’s interactions on levels of interests and equality whereas adults take initiatives of friendship, discipline then dictatorship.

Missy and I were the same age. My parents adopted her from the SPCA in San Francisco when I was two months old. She was a mixed breed of rough collie and German spitz. Her brain was a hybrid of Albert Einstein, Pablo Picasso, Cyd Charisse and Groucho Marx. She formulated ideas like Einstein, foot pad painted like Picasso, danced like Charisse and joked around like Marx. I was her complete opposite in intelligence, art, skill and entertainment. She coached me into being a boy, tutored me on how to communicate, laugh and play. Missy was my educator.

We matured together, learned how to crawl and walk and run, and we were surprised at being potty trained. We told stories to each other, learned how to read and write and spell the exploratory words discipline and obey in capital letters. My parents were not consistent disciplinarians but they were consistent with ignoring, therefore Missy and I had hours of play time together.

After Missy and I had learned to laugh together we couldn’t stop the dizzying effects until eating time. We both smiled when food was placed in front of us. We both ate off of plates, hers on the floor mine on the table. I drank my water from a glass using a hand and lips; she drank her water from a bowl using her tongue.

Living our lives passed quickly like a blossoming rose. Days were filled with challenges for both of us. As a teenager Missy was still my mentor, expanding my repertoire of friendships and loves. She was also my savior, keeping me from stepping off a sidewalk on Mission Street in front of a city bus. One summer evening she rescued me from being kidnapped by strangers in a car that followed me home. Missy greeted me on the corner of Avalon Avenue and Madrid Street, growling at the offenders and scaring them off.

Without Missy as my best friend I would have become another victim of circumstances and melted away like the irascible Wicked Witch of the East in the Wizard of OZ. Because of Missy owning me I became a well-adjusted, educated and aspiring adult. Missy was my shrink, guide, supporter and guru. Since I did not have the intelligence of Einstein, the artistic talent of Picasso, the physical skills of Charisse or the gratifying comedic skills of Marx, I did have the unconditional friendship and protection of Missy, my owner, the dog of my dreams.

When we were together we shared everything imaginable; food, laughter, play, information, and best of all, warm hugs and rest.

My dog Missy wasn’t my dog. I was her boy.

Please visit me on smashwords.com, facebook, twitter, YouTube and flickr.

Reggie Rocketship

2011-01-03T17:03:00.001-08:00

The new graphics for the front cover.

eBook Going Viral

2010-12-20T19:54:00.000-08:00

KISSING FREUD made the cut. eBook gone viral via smashwords.com international distribution. Preview and purchase your copy HERE on your Apple iPad, Barns & Noble Nook, Sony Reader, Border's Kobo & amazon.com Kindle.

You are forewarned, sexuality and profanity are explicitly portrayed in KISSING FREUD.

Reggie Rocketship and His Boom Boom Pow Galaxy of Secrets

2010-11-26T17:40:00.000-08:00

Anita wants to purchase REGGIE ROCKETSHIP immediate4ly: "Is the book ready for publication and if so where might I get a copy for my grandson who is into rocketships and outer space ..." But wait, Anita, REGGIE ROCKETSHIP won't be ready until after Christmas. Keep your grandson's spirits high.

Dubrovnik

2010-11-07T17:45:00.000-08:00

There is a mini-run in Europe on the amazon.com Kindle edition of DUBROVNIK. 32 copies have sold in October. I hope that a maxi-run catches on in the USA. Click here to preview DUBROVNIK.

KISSING FREUD excerpt pages 23 - 24

2010-08-28T16:00:00.000-07:00

THE PAIN of three analysts inside one head was like being decapitated half-way. The cracking of the skull like a walnut, and splitting one scrambled egg into three annoying parts isn’t an exhilarating feeling. We were triplets, not identical, each wanting singular lives from one entity. That could kill the host and I wouldn’t let that happen. Nate’s body was too beautiful and valuable to let go since I was the one to inherit it.

Madness is liberating though even with a shattering convoluted brain arrest. It’s freezing off the old cancer while restructuring and growing new cells. I keep telling Nate madness isn’t enslavement. It’s a spiritual catharsis that disregards all social and cultural rules. It ignores the laws of nature and gives relevance to the unknown. It releases the conventions that keep us prisoners in own minds.

Like shaving your head, insanity is liberating. Like shaving your nuts, it’s scintillating. Madness is therapeutic, energizing and healing. People take notice and strangers stand away from you. Lunacy mends the sanity of futility. It heals the past, keeps things present and doesn’t give a fuck about the future.

Everything mental equates to freedom. Does Nate believe me when I tell him that? Hell no! Eerything mental is fucking thrilling. That’s what I tell Nate. Does he believe me? Hell no! That’s what I tell Nate every fucking day, every fucking time he neglects to listen to me and shoves me back into that shit jail cell inside his brain.

He earnestly listens to me when I burst into his thoughts, pretending toleration and admitting concern. After a minute of my profound ideas echoing in his head, he pounds his ear and throws up—usually from me screaming in his face, requesting freedom, demanding independence and declaring everything mental equates to freedom.

Toleration and concern my ass; that’s my gift to him and he treats me like a lethal felon, like a vampire addicted to drinking infected blood, like a sexual psychopath addicted to excessive masturbation and self-mutilation. Fuck that shit.

Every fucking time I confront him he isolates me. You’d think he’d be bulimic by the way he always throws up. Nate uses vomiting as measures against our brother Sam and me. It’s a measure of control and condemnation, an appraising of conceit and compensation. He’s insecure, he’s insignificant, and by obliging me he’d become an obloquy; a disreputable, hairy ogre unable to command respect from anybody.

Sam’s the timid one. He looks for excuses to hide. He never wants to be exposed. He never asks for freedom. He voluntarily goes into hiding in his fucking shit jail cell. If I weren’t so intelligent I’d believe Sam was hiding something. Maybe it’s a plan to escape, downtime when he could disappear without us knowing it. But I’m smarter and Sam would never initiate that idea.

After Nate gets irritated from my insistent declaration for autonomy, I fight him all the way into my cell, screaming obscenities and threatening his life. But neither Sam nor I want to materialize with a concussion from Nate’s pounding, or broken eardrums and ulcers from Nate’s idiotic, intense beating on his ears. That’s one masochistic irritation I’ll eliminate after I take over.

Sam is in his own realm of isolation unwilling to share his personality, his own shit jail cell if you will. Every time I appear Sam slinks away in a hole like an anxiety-ridden mole. He’s a freak of nature, a paranormal twerp, a she-male with tits and a dick with castration anxiety. If Nate had his emotional crisis I’d be dominant in this ministry of fools.

Celestine

2010-08-12T11:29:00.000-07:00

An excerpt deleted from my novel DUBROVNIK:

In her strong, throaty Russian accent, Celestine said, “Pull your pants down around your ankles, and don’t try anything stupid.”

I wasn’t wearing a shirt or shoes and didn’t want to drop my pants. I stood by the bed the Broz family let me use in their house for the night.

“Or what,” I asked, “you think you can scare me?”

The twenty-year old jammed the pistol in to my ear and said, “Listen to this.”

The trigger cocked, sounding like a hammer bouncing off a metal rod. For some spectacular reason I knew she wouldn’t pull the trigger but I unbuckled my belt and dropped my jeans. I wasn’t wearing underwear.

I was her new friend not her enemy. Her life was full of threats by outside forces that she distrusted everybody, including me, a Special Ops sent to protect the Broz family.

In my nakedness I said, “I’m here to help you fight the Serbs not be killed by friendly fire. I’m an American not a Serb. Let me help you now then you can kill me later.”

“I kill you now,” she said, then looked down toward my midsection. “But my father would object. He is the great son of the great Marshal Tito you know. He wants you alive so he can kill you himself.”

“Your father won’t kill me. He needs my assistance, my expertise to help fight the enemy. You won’t kill me either because you are too beautiful to kill anybody.”

She withdrew the pistol barrel from my ear and pushed it against my temple. Her soft hand slapped me hard on the rear. I was fully embarrassed and wanted to cover my spare parts with my hands but I knew she wouldn’t like that.

“Why do you say that? I am beautiful by American standards or Croatian standards?”

“By all standards,” I said. “Beautiful women don’t go around killing people. Why would you want to kill me? You love me not hate me.”

“I don’t love you. Soldiers kill people and I am a soldier. I will kill Serbians.”

“Stop talking about killing. You can resolve your political conflicts by negotiations.”

“In this country we kill first and negotiate afterward. Our culture is about ownership. When our property is threatened we kill to defend it, in honor of our heritage.”

“You at least like me,” I said. I couldn’t disagree with Celestine about her Croat heritage. Americans would also kill to defend their property and heritage.

“Go back to your country and leave us alone. Let us fight our own battles. Perhaps I like you a little.”

“You like me a lot,” I said. “Can I pull my pants back up, please?”

Celestine lowered the gun and I grabbed it out of her hand. She stepped away when I checked the chamber for ammunition. It was empty. She started giggling, took me into her arms and deeply kissed me.

I threw the pistol on the bed. She tricked me into dropping my pants and I didn’t appreciate that. But the kiss, well, was worth the exposed humiliation. And, she did love me after all, even if I was American.

Croatia

2010-08-01T13:47:00.000-07:00

This is an excerpt deleted from my novel DUBROVNIK:

When I lived in communist Croatia, working as a spy, I was privileged to meet Marshal Broz Tito, who was then the president of the Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia. He was too busy with formalities—becoming ill, facilitating his 32 palace residences and commanding the Yugoslav People’s Army—for extended interactions with me. My attempts to visit him were conveniently dismissed.

Through one of my acquaintances in the city of Ljubljana I’d met one of Tito’s illegitimate sons, Nikola Broz. Throughout Tito’s life administrating communism, he was busy marrying then divorcing and having affairs, and his illegitimate children were mostly unaccounted for…Nikola and one other person were identified as his. This illegitimate son had an illegitimate half-sister, Lulia Zois.

At the time of my second assignment, one month after the death of Marshal Tito in May 1980, Nikola and Lulia were feuding over Tito’s winery situated on two-hundred fertile acres of land near Dubrovnik. The main conflict wasn’t just about the property; the monastery winery was the actual artifact they both wanted to possess. Once a church, the Bogorodicin Manastir—monastery of the Mother of God—was a type of fabulous fascist hacienda. Through decades of warfare as well as being a hiding place for priceless Croatian religious artifacts and Yugoslavian artwork, the monastery became the Broz family cache.

But this blog isn’t about the unaccounted for treasure Tito had accumulated. It’s about the angst of the youth, the newest generation of Croatians who suffered under an oppressive regime. I told this story to Nikola and Lulia and they were mostly amused and then, suddenly, Western ideals swirled through their minds that possibly American culture was more than just brainwashed ideals we suffered from. Croatian youth strove for independence and achieved it. Hopefully fewer Americans will examine their indifference toward freedom and cherish it as much as the Croatian youth strove for theirs.

Enthralling Books for summer reading

2010-07-12T11:38:00.000-07:00

1. ROCK PAPER TIGER by Lisa Brackmann

2. THE DOME by Stephen King

3. The Paris Vendetta by Steve Berry

Real all three. You won't be disappointed.

REGGIE ROCKETSHIP

2009-10-05T21:22:00.000-07:00

Become a fan of REGGIE ROCKETSHIP. Click HERE