If you click on the link below, you'll find a few particularly memorable photos from the book release reception for WHAT MY BRAIN TOLD ME, which took place Saturday, June 28, 2008, at The Drake in Chicago. All photos in the album are courtesy of Houston Roderick. Enjoy!

Some memorable photos from the book release reception at The Drake

Posted on Sunday 13 of July, 2008 [09:40:00 UTC]

If you visit www.bearlikemouse.net, you'll find an excellent review of WHAT MY BRAIN TOLD ME. It's written by talented musician, writer, and ChaCha superstar Justin Keller. Check it out!

Review of WHAT MY BRAIN TOLD ME

Posted on Saturday 28 of June, 2008 [17:03:42 UTC]

As a reminder, the book release reception for WHAT MY BRAIN TOLD ME will take place from 8 to 10 p.m. this Saturday, June 28, 2008. It is a formal event. Please dress accordingly. There will be a cash bar, free hors d'oeuvres, speeches, a reading, a q & a session with the author, and a book signing.

All four of my books - CONFESSIONS OF AN AMERICAN, COMMENCEMENT, OUT OF CONTEXT, and WHAT MY BRAIN TOLD ME - will be available for purchase via cash, check, or Paypal.

Here is The Drake's address (overlooking the Magnificent Mile, between Lake Shore Drive and Walton Place):

The Drake Hotel
140 East Walton Place,
Chicago, IL 60611

The room is The Venetian Room (on the Upper East Mezzanine Level). I look forward to seeing you there!

Posted on Wednesday 25 of June, 2008 [17:08:23 UTC]

This week's preview of WHAT MY BRAIN TOLD ME, the final one of its kind, is an entire chapter, the introductory title story. Enjoy, and I look forward to seeing you at the reception this Saturday night!

“What My Brain Told Me”
By Thom Kudla

“This is the great private problem of man: death as the loss of self. But what is this self? It is the sum of everything we remember. Thus, what terrifies us about death is not the loss of the future but the loss of the past. Forgetting is a form of death ever present within life.” -Milan Kundera

I first considered my own mortality as a 10-year-old standing next to a stop sign, waiting for the school bus early one morning. The sun sleepily draped itself in clouds just above the horizon. I grabbed the pole of the stop sign and repelled myself backwards and forwards, side to side, between arms, preoccupied with grandiose deliberation upon mortal recognition and spiritual revelation. Seemingly contrary to this, I had a good childhood. I just liked to think more, that’s all. Of course, thinking isn’t always a good thing. As a child, I celebrated thought with each curious gaze and innocent question. Life was so much more fun that way. As an adolescent, I revered thought with every academic venture and poetic adventure. I was deeper than the rest. My motto became, “There is no greater freedom than that of thought,” because I had yet to be set free by love and because I liked the presumed intellectual sophistication of the placement of the word “that” in such a mantra. And, finally, as an adult, I regretted thought. It made me anticipate what could go wrong at any moment. It burned my brain until my body could no longer function. It made me remember everything I didn’t do. I didn’t ask that bubbly brunette out on a date during high school. She always liked talking about ideas. I bet now she’s married to an artist like me. An artist like me. I didn’t continue playing basketball in high school. I could have gotten in better shape. I could’ve maybe even gotten an athletic scholarship to college or, at the least, I would’ve had a healthy reason to stop thinking. But these stories are not about what could have been great during my first 25 years of life – these stories are about what was unforgettable.

It was so very odd. I was an imbecilic runt for the longest time and then, without any warning or hints to growth or other such foreshadowing, I became who I am today. I suppose neurologically there is some explanation for me crying because I was unable to add single digits one day and me being able to complete multiplication tables in the fastest time in my class the next, or me struggling to speak one day and me being capable of complex sentence structures in dramatic orations the next. Regardless, I like to think there was something spiritual behind it, some divine spark. I think it was like that first divine gust when God breathed life into all of us. I think I was dead until the day I discovered intellect. It’s mostly sad and pathetic, though, because it took me a little more than a decade to cultivate and later control an intelligence higher than that of a certified idiot. They always said late-bloomer. I don’t know much about that. I do know I focus on fictional realities and spiritual planes beyond that of this world more often than most, and I cherish every moment to which I can ascribe such meaningful profundities.

Interestingly enough, before my intellect had even begun to develop exceptionally, my parents would always ask me how I had answers to certain questions, or how I knew odd things, or why I was asking specific questions, and my response was always the same: My brain told me.

“Why do I have to go to school tomorrow?”
“Who told you to ask that question?”
“My brain told me.”
“Well, your brain needs to grow bigger so it doesn’t have to ask questions like that anymore. That’s why you have to go to school tomorrow.”

“There’s no Santa Claus.”
“How do you know that?”
“My brain told me.”

“Did you have fun at school today?”
“School was shitty.”
“Where’d you learn that word?”
“My brain told me.”

“We’re having macaroni for dinner tonight.”
“Oh yeah? Who told you that?”
“My brain told me.”

“Do you like your class at the church?”
“Hell no.”
“Where’d you learn that word?”
“Sunday school.”
“I would’ve preferred that you say your brain told you.”
“OK, my brain told me about ‘hell.’”

Awhile back, I started writing personal stories as gifts for people. At that time, I was fully cognizant of the fact that my memory wasn’t always accurate. What my brain told me to write always seemed to differ from what actually happened. And yet writing these stories – some more fictional than others – has helped me remember the people, the places, and the times that comprise who I am. I decided to write about some of my favorite moments in life up to this point because I never want to forget any of this, because I want something to look back on during my dying days to remind me of the life I’ve lived well and the world with which I’ve been blessed. I want to show my gratitude to those who have inspired both me and these stories. Most importantly, I want to share myself with the rest of the world through this memorial of, and tribute to, my most youthful years. And so I present to you what my brain told me. Hopefully, my brain recollected what matters most and filled in the rest with the best of its excited imagination.

“Thom, who are you, really?”
“I am what my brain told me.”

Posted on Wednesday 25 of June, 2008 [16:58:51 UTC]

This week's preview from WHAT MY BRAIN TOLD ME, the second to last of its kind, is an excerpt from the chapter "What She May Never Know, What I Will Never Forget."

I was sitting in the dark; I was channeling knowledge that could not have been of my own precocious profundity; I was writing eloquently; I was thinking destiny. But I was still in the dark—I was still alone. I could’ve sworn to my trembling God that my heart was taken from my chest, that the only beats pumping blood through my body were the soundscapes of music or the dreamscapes of lovely women. My heart was communing with (the dark side) of the moon. Surely this was a sign. Surely I was eternal. Surely I was free to love. No more thoughts, just dreams; no more talking heads, just intelligent eyes; no more suffering, just being. My life had flashed before my eyes, and I realized my dreams had yet to manifest, my destiny had yet to materialize, my life had yet to be lived. My heart disappeared that night into the only light of an autumnal sky—leaves falling from trees too old to live forever, too young to know any better. Their descent was my ascent. As they descended, I transcended. Every wind’s breeze was my thoughtful breath. And I was in love with her. Always had been. Since that first glimpse beyond her emerald eyes, in a place out of time, sacredly etched in my mind.

I think of these wondrous memories as snapshots of a beautiful life and these relationships as shooting stars. But there was something different about she and I. The star would flicker like romantic candlelight, enlivened by nature’s breath. Waxing and waning. And each time we tried to catch it, there would be no fall into either of our hands—it would just be there, expanding and contracting, repelling and attracting, magnetic in its magnitude, longing in its longitude, placid in its latitude. But I wanted so desperately to let it light my way, to watch it dance among the heavens—jubilant and ebullient as any wonder that’s good and true, and beautiful. Mostly, though, I wanted to wish love’s eternal embrace upon holding it there, steady, in place, so I could finally see what I missed all those years and understand what keeps this intimate light suspended in vast darkness with such fervor and enigmatic awareness.

Alas, I was still in the dark, talking to her with letters-forming-words-comprising-sentences to best express emotions even though I could not hear her or see her. No, I had to imagine her voice’s enthusiasm and empathy; I needed to envision her lovely lips lifting and lowering, rippled like ocean waves, soothing like seashells; I wanted to see her caress her necklace, massage her ear between thumb and finger, swish her hair as she swayed to-and-fro—just confident enough to be taken seriously but not so much as to forget the innocent dreams from childhood still lingering, and the resonant let-downs and frowns of a life well-lived. Most importantly, I conjured up those images of her staring—not coldly, not piercing, but deep enough to welcome me into a mysterious spirit of brilliance and complexity, of fear and suffering ego, of passion and desire—eyes bright enough to outshine the One Northerly star heavy with divinity.

Alas, I was in the dark, cradling myself to sleep, knowing full well that months into my future I’d be writing this, my last will and testament to a love unknown and unrealized, to a quiet shared moment, to a glimmering glance, to something beautiful deliberately left unrequited for fear of wind sending it away forever or breath fading its wavering flame. So I present to you what she may never know and what I will never forget—a gift without wrapping, exposed for the fascinated and the fascinating; something never lost but often unknown and unspoken and unseen. Let this story be known.

Posted on Thursday 19 of June, 2008 [00:15:59 UTC]

This week's preview is in honor of Father's Day. It's an excerpt from the chapter "Legacy," featured in the forthcoming book, WHAT MY BRAIN TOLD ME:

My dad was always so strong. I hadn’t seen any weakness in him, from the steadiness of his arm as he caulked our home’s side door to the booming commands of his voice as he told me how to throw a football. He was Hercules to me; he was Einstein to me. He was some sort of superhero capable of extreme feats of strength and intellect, simultaneously, never hindered, never faltering. Serious issues would arise, like our friend’s bout with a brain tumor or my grandma’s death, and my mom would be a nervous wreck while my sisters would be disillusioned, but he would sit there, hands behind head, chuckling- unfazed, unworried, resilient. I admired this strong foundation for our family, this pillar of stability and security. (Of course, it wasn’t until much later that I realized his way of coping with nervousness led to those curious grins and chortles.) Whenever my sisters or I brought home positive school reports, he always pointed to the side of his slightly disproportionate head, eyes and mouth wide with glory, telling us we were lucky to have inherited his “superior intellect.” He was my intellectual role model in that sense, though it did take me quite some time to see beyond the lack of dynamics and liberalism in the books he read. His stoicism kept me calm, even when I knew in the back of my mind that repressing emotions was ultimately unhealthy. When he told me to ask girls on dates, I said I wasn’t interested, but he kept on encouraging me, egging me on like a peer. I took this social criticism seriously until his brother told me what a failure at flirting my father had been. That was fine, though, because he was still all-powerful in my mind. He was all these things to me. And I often thought he believed the same things about himself, especially when I caught him flexing forcefully in front of mirrors or furiously flipping through the pages of dense readings. Then, when I was 14, I realized that he was vulnerable, that he was human like the rest of us, that he also suffered from the fatal conditions of this life.

What he left me- other than the obsessive self-consciousness and the precocious intelligences, or the photographs of joyless smiles and the memories of insecurities scintillating off of the basketball court with each awkward dribble, or even the money for a college education in a poor man’s field- was that scar on my fingerprint, that little black dot surfacing from my right index finger’s soft pad as if having been pricked by a sharp pencil. That was the most important thing my father left me with. And I could not have asked for anything more profound.

Posted on Wednesday 11 of June, 2008 [21:34:25 UTC]

The book release reception for WHAT MY BRAIN TOLD ME has been relocated to The Drake Hotel in Chicago and will take place from 8 to 10 p.m. Saturday, June 28, 2008. It is a black-tie event. Please dress accordingly. There will be a cash bar, hors d'oeuvres, speeches, a reading, and a q & a session.

All four of my books - CONFESSIONS OF AN AMERICAN, COMMENCEMENT, OUT OF CONTEXT, and WHAT MY BRAIN TOLD ME - will be available for purchase at $10 apiece. Please let me know if you would like me to reserve any copies of the books for you.

Here is The Drake's address (located on the Magnificent Mile):

The Drake Hotel
140 East Walton Place,
Chicago, IL 60611

The room is The Venetian Room (on the Upper East Mezzanine Level). It's going to be a tremendous event! I hope to see you there.

Posted on Thursday 05 of June, 2008 [21:28:03 UTC]

An excerpt from "The Summer's Maddest of Loves," a short story featured in WHAT MY BRAIN TOLD ME:

Hope disguised herself in a gorgeous love at first sight that summer. She wore punk rock like a diamond ring and heavy metal like a rosary. Hail Mary, full of grace, scream your beauty into my belly. When she sang about love, she danced to the heartbeats of revolution. Blessed art thou who find love in poetry, photography, and deathly imagery. She brushed her hair in rainbows, just because she knew most everyone only pretends they’re color blind. Holy Mary, mother of rock gods, break the strings on our guitars with the passion we thought we lost. She looked to the sky from the mosh pit.

The summer’s maddest of loves stares at me in the mirror each morning. Some days I look away. I don’t want to believe in love. Other days I trace it with my fingertips. Why’d it have to stop? Its red infinity sign holds an imaginary savior’s arms like wings. Fly away to Heaven, and there’s always hope. Hope will look at me from that crucifix on my arm even if I ignore her. She’s as much a part of me now as my heart itself.

The summer’s maddest of loves hopes I look at her grace and meaning not out of appreciation, but out of reminiscence. She drew herself from my heart onto the bloodied canvas of my tattooed bicep. The red of the infinity sign is borne from my heart. The summer’s maddest of loves knows this and will keep reminding me until her hope becomes reality.

Posted on Wednesday 04 of June, 2008 [20:36:57 UTC]

An excerpt from "We Imagined Ourselves Gods," a short story included in the forthcoming book, WHAT MY BRAIN TOLD ME:

The greatest summer I ever had was also the summer I became what I hate. We imagined ourselves gods that summer. It started with me carrying cases and cases of beer into my parents’ basement. I think they were concerned, but I tried to explain it all.

“This isn’t just for me. We’re having some parties, and my friends needed a place to store it all. Plus, I’m in college now. This is just how things are, you know?”

My parents had to have been concerned. But they didn’t intervene, and I’m glad they didn’t intervene. The consequences would be all mine. I would learn from them and I would grow from them. I would take risks. I would live with irrepressible recklessness. I would be a college kid, at least for this summer. And hopefully I would get lucky and no one would get hurt, myself included. My life as a twisting and climbing drive after having too much to drink. Flip a coin; flip a car. See who lives to tell the tale.

It was the summer after freshman year in college. I was back in my hometown. My old high school friends became typical college students. Booze and sex. That’s all that mattered. Don’t worry, world – your future is in safe hands, one holding a forty and the other holding you, while we stumble through life, cigars jutting out from the corner of our drooling mouths, blackening our lungs and graying the sky, fucking in different ways because we’re too lazy to buy condoms. No, you ought not worry world. We have it all under control. Booze and sex. The greatest summer I ever had.

We imagined ourselves gods, making up the rules as we went along, challenging each other to feats of mortal stupidity, celebrating each moment like Bacchus climbing grapevines, forgetting there’s such a thing as time, knowing everything without knowing a thing. We imagined ourselves gods, downing gin and screaming sin, punching fists and throwing fits, smoking bowls and drowning souls, driving drunk and getting crunk. We imagined ourselves gods that summer, and then we lost ourselves in imagination. And there was nothing left to imagine.

Posted on Thursday 29 of May, 2008 [02:25:21 UTC]

"The Apple Exchange"
By Thom Kudla

"No man can reveal to you aught but that which already lies half asleep in the dawning of your knowledge." -Kahlil Gibran

TEACHER: Hello, bright one. Where have you been?
STUDENT: Sorry for my tardiness. I was busy picking this for you.
TEACHER: Oh, an apple! Do you know the story of the apple exchange?
STUDENT: Children like me have been giving apples to their teachers – like you – for years. Of this is all I know.
TEACHER: Why do you suppose they have been giving their teachers apples?
STUDENT: Perhaps they are in season and taste good.
TEACHER: Consider the apple as a symbol. Where have you heard of an apple as anything other than a fruit?
STUDENT: I have heard of the apple from the Tree of Knowledge in the Garden of Eden, the one that the devil disguised as a serpent tricks Adam and Eve into eating.
TEACHER: And what is the result of this?
STUDENT: Adam and Eve get kicked out of paradise for disobeying God’s rules.
TEACHER: Now, why would you be giving me an apple?
STUDENT: Out of gratitude for you helping me gain knowledge.
TEACHER: But why would I need the apple if I am the one already possessing the knowledge to teach you?
STUDENT: Maybe it is not literal.
TEACHER: Then what is it?
STUDENT: It is a symbol like you first said.
TEACHER: A symbol representing what?
STUDENT: It is an unbitten apple, so I have yet to be seduced into gaining knowledge from it.
TEACHER: But is it really a seduction?
STUDENT: I suppose it is more of a choice. I chose not to bite into that apple just as Eve chose to urge Adam to bite into it at the serpent’s persuasion.
TEACHER: Why would Eve do that?
STUDENT: The apple is delicious.
TEACHER: You know better. Once again, why would Eve urge Adam to eat the apple from the Tree of Knowledge after taking a bite of it herself?
STUDENT: As God suggested, they would gain knowledge of what’s good and what’s bad.
TEACHER: But why would they seek that knowledge?
STUDENT: They weren’t really seeking that knowledge. They simply wanted to eat the fruit like any other fruit in the garden. The serpent tricked them by saying they wouldn’t die by eating or even touching the fruit as God had warned. He tempted them to disobey God.
TEACHER: So, they didn’t know they were disobeying God?
STUDENT: No, they were tricked by the wicked serpent.
TEACHER: Were they innocent?
STUDENT: As innocent as I.
TEACHER: Do you know why you have given me the apple today?
STUDENT: So you can teach me enough about the world to know what’s good and what’s bad.
TEACHER: Very well then. Let us begin class.
STUDENT: But wise one, you haven’t told me if I’m right. Am I right?
TEACHER: We must wait and see.

Posted on Wednesday 21 of May, 2008 [16:59:27 UTC]