i'm cool. i have tattoos.

A Heap of Broken Thoughts
Sean Pearson


Just shy of two years ago, one of my best and oldest friends informed me that he was looking at self-publishing a collection of short stories, poetry, and miscellaneous odds and ends that he'd written throughout the years and asked if I'd write some copy to put on the back cover. Never one to shy away from a challenge, I happily accepted. But although I'd read most of the book's contents, I hadn't actually read the book itself.

Which, as you might imagine, made things a little complicated.


Nevertheless, having known the guy since I was five (maybe even a little before that), I figured I was in as good of a position as anyone to do the job, so I gave it a shot:

Since the dawn of time, man has pondered the ineffable. What is the meaning of life, the universe, and everything? Where does the one sock go when half the pair disappears in the dryer? When is the right time to tell your lover that yes, those pants do make your ass look big? Who was it that first dreamed up the hotdog/bun conspiracy... and for the love of god, why?!?? 

And how did we get started on this conversation in the first place?

Does Mr. Pearson's book contain the answers to the aforementioned questions? Most assuredly not. But what it does hold, dear reader, is far better. Through a selection of brief—yet brilliant—strings of syllables, sentences, and the occasional well-placed conjunction, the wisdom of one man's unique and at times terrifying vision will be revealed.

Do I personally know what mysteries lie in wait for your hungry eyes to devour? As of this writing, no. No, I do not. I do know that it will at some point or another involve Mondays, but on that subject I will say no more. I'd hate to spoil the surprise (and it's a good one (trust me on this, I know (really))).

So join me, precious, intrepid, reckless, and/or inebriated reader, on this most exquisite of literary journeys.

And you. Yes, you, the timid sober person holding this book betwixt thumb and forefinger, shaking your head at my words which undoubtedly make little to no sense. It's time for you (yes, you; we've been over this!) to man up and turn that cover... for glory awaits you on the other side.

Well... glory, and of course these words again. Which I give you full permission to ignore.

I'm Lisa Brown, and I approve this book endorsement.

Today, I finally got my shit together and finished reading the collection, A Heap of Broken Thoughts. What follows is my honest (albeit probably biased) review.

From the introduction, in which the book addresses the reader directly, you know you're in for a treat. The collection is separated into three parts: Stories, Poems, and Frust (which, according to Urban Dictionary, is the small line of dust/debris that collects during sweeping and refuses to be swept into the dustpan (so, in other words, it's the miscellany that Pearson didn't feel was properly categorized as story or poem)). Among the hidden gems contained within Frust are a song entitled "Jesus Was a Samurai" ("Danger / Danger / Danger / In the manager"), a statement from the Living Carefree Dangerously Institute ("Reaching the Youth of Tomorrow, Tomorrow"), Fortune of Mondays! ("Putting beer if the waffle iron will only cause confusion later on. Optimism is like leaving shampoo in your hair, when you bring it to work, people can smell it and don't forget it."), and a series of instructions to be carried out upon the author's death.

Frust may be my favorite part of the book.

But then there's "A Story," where a stapler plays the unlikely role of protagonist, "Chikkens," in which a little girl communes with dead animals while an elderly farmer loses his mind and quaffs poultry blood from a flask, "The Roommate," co-authored with David Jaloza in which sloth and contempt meet murder and mermaids, and ever so much more. Plus poetry with lines such as "I should've gone barefoot / a classical vintner / in my cushiony field," "A tiresome life of work and worry we spend, / preoccupied with the life next-door, / needlessly striving for a better future. / How dare we waste what life we have?", "If I were a dinosaur / and lived in your pantry / please do not step on my tail" — how can you really expect to pick a favorite?

Maybe this review is going to leave you more in the dark than anything, and maybe that's as it should be. This really is a book that needs to be experienced first-hand to be understood and appreciated. All I know is, I'm damned happy to have a copy on my shelf.

In closing, I think I'll let the author speak for himself:

Art created for the self finds its existence teetering on the scale of the artist's own self-confidence in the work, a scale which can push it forward into the public's eye or obscure the art into relative non-existence. ... So to this end, put out anything you've created that you find beautiful or compelling. You are bound to touch at least one individual.

Well, Seaneo: Mission accomplished.