These words rang out from the interior of our shared sitting room where, through the smog of his acrid pipe tobacco, I could see Sherlock Holmes stooped hungrily over documents at his desk.
“What’s the problem, Holmes?” I inquired.
“What’s the problem?” he laughed back. “If I knew that, Watson, I would scarce have a problem!”
“And those papers . . .?” I asked with pointed interest.
“Both the source of the puzzle and the key to its solution, I suspect.” Derisively, he lifted four or five sheets of paper, remarking, “I refer, of course, to these, our notes – yours and mine, Watson — taken during the initial interview with our overwrought client, Paul Steven Stone. And never a more inconclusive set of notes have my eyes traversed.”
“And what exactly are you looking for?”
“A reason, Watson – any reason will do – to explain why a perfectly good writer like our client should suddenly run out of election-related blog posts to write about. And, perhaps, a reason to explain why, of all the possible resulting actions he might undertake, he chooses to confide his difficulties in me.
“Why me, Watson?” he queried sharply. “I’m a consulting detective, not a spiritualist, literary muse or election pundit. On the surface of things, it appears quite inexplicable.”
“Inexplicable, indeed!” I affirmed, recalling the frightening loss of ideas and inspiration described by our client only yesterday in these very rooms. And recalling, too, my sense of utter incomprehension as to how Holmes and I could possibly be of service to him.
But our client saw nothing of our ill ease as he continued to detail the scope of his affliction.
“Just look on the front page of The New York Times,” he challenged, standing up from his chair and offering the paper in question for our review. “Read it for yourself, gentlemen. Sadly, it is the same story that’s been told since the day Donald J. Trump first rode down his golden escalator and into America’s presidential politics. Quid pro quo deals with foreign enemies, the shameful self-emasculation of weak and corrupt Republican politicians, the building of immense personal fortunes at the public’s expense.”
“Yes,” Holmes replied, “it appears there is much these days, as there always is, for a writer to write about.”
“And think of all the lunacy that surrounds us!” our client exclaimed. “Should Donald J. Trump win in less than two weeks time, America will have her first fascist president living in the white House. And with Trump as Commander-in-Chief our army will be led with no sense of moral purpose; our federal giovernment will be staffed with lackeys who pledge their allegiance to one clearly confused, bitter and ignorant man. Not only that, but lobbyists and religious zealots will take control of our national agenda while millionaires in all branches of government will decide how best to serve the interests and assets of their fellow millionaires. In ordinary circumstances, Mr. Holmes, I should be able to write a dozen of my commentaries with that kind of inspiration waiting to be tapped. Yet, here I am a week late and … ?”
“You are bereft,” Holmes finished dryly.
“Yes, bereft,” our client affirmed. “That is a very good word to describe it. I have already written so many posts highlighting Trump’s ignorance and cruelty that I find myself losing my capacity for indignation. And that, just when my readers are about to make the most critical voting decision of their lives. There is no shortage of good subjects for a new Trump expose, Mr. Holmes , but I have no inclination to write about any of them. I am here before you, sad to admit, bereft of any inclination.”
And here we were but a day later, feeling bereft of answers, Holmes and I, as we ponder the curious parade of events that brought our client both to his state of desperation and to our set of rooms at 221B. Baker Street.
“Forgive me, Watson,” Sherlock Holmes said, walking over to the window, “but I feel the need to restate the particulars of our case. I know you will forbear me your ire or impatience.”
“Impatience!” I puffed as a protest through my pipe. “Not at all, my good man. No such thing.”
“As you say, good friend,” he smiled back. “But as to the facts, allow me to postulate . . .
“Our client is a writer with a variety of possibilities for the subject of his next blog post.
“’A Stone’s Throw’ being the name of his blog,” I offered.
“Yes, very clever how he injects his last name into the formal title of his blog post. But enough of these incidentals…
“Our client, Mr. Paul Steven Stone, comes to us because an apparent writer’s block or severed connection with his muse has left him going weeks without publishing a suitable essay to describe—and help combat—the frightening peril in which America now stands. Yet, even though he laments his woeful lack of inspiration, he still finds he has no inclination to author a post that might help America’s voters wake up in time to avert disaster. He makes no claim to understand the changeable nature of his normally aggressive muse or why he would suddenly start acting in this timid, unhelpful manner.
“But there’s the funny thing, Holmes,” I interrupt. “Mr. Stone does not ask us to divine the cause of his writer’s block…”
“About which even the simplest of theories must consider the poor man’s emotional and physical exhaustion.,” Holmes interjected. “This is a man under great stress, Wason; a writer wound ever so tightly as he tries to produce a series of blog posts that would sound the alarm. And sound it loud enough for all to hear.
“But, no, you are correct, Watson. Paul Steven Stone does not ask us to unearth the cause of his difficulties, but rather to help him prevent a mystery that could arise as the result of his difficulties.”
“And what mystery is that, Holmes . . . ?”
“It is a mystery in the minds of Paul Steven Stone’s readers, Watson, as his tardiness continues and they begin to worry about his state of mind; and especially worry that they might have lost one of their most trusted voices for sanity, moral probity and correct action. That is why Mr. Stone encouraged us to create a document that could slyly—and ever so deftly—take the place of a missing blog post, with no one being any the wiser. A course of action, Watson, we not only have taken, you may notice, but in fact are near to completing. By the way, for your future notes, you may wish to file this as “The Case of the Missing Inclination.”
“And what would you call it, Sherlock?”
“I’m a little more practical, Watson. I’d call it, ‘Better late than never.’”
Readers of Paul Steven Stone’s previous novel, “Or So It Seems,” will recognize many themes and eccentricities revisited to sophisticated and engaging purposes in “Souljourner.” Principal among them is the central Importance in both novels of each protagonist’s membership and life schooling in The Seekers For Truth, a school of self-development whose roots and bubbling font of wisdom go back to the tradition of ancient schools like that of Pythagoras, but whose spiritual understanding and practical perspectives can be traced to an eccentric, fully realized Hindu Holy Man whose honorific is The Bapucharya (but you can call him “Bapu”).
Souljourner’s spiritually-aware narrator is David Rockwood Worthington, whose life sentence for murder explains his presence in a Massachusetts prison, but leaves much unexplained as to how his life’s journey brought him to such a dismal fate.
As David explains to his soul’s next incarnation, souls transit from one lifetime to the next in a grouping called a Karmic Pod. So an individual’s son in one life might become her mother in the next, one’s neighborhood priest might become a life-changing college professor in a subsequent incarnation, or your worst enemy could become your best friend. In David’s case, he is writing this letter to the next souljourner in his line to warn him against one specific hostile spirit. A spirit who travels with him from incarnation to incarnation with unflagging enmity and spite. A spirit incarnated in this current life as David’s second wife, Blossom, a Russian émigré who, once she secured her grip, squeezed the life out of David as if she were a serpent coiled around his existence.
David is able to warn the next incarnation of his soul through this letter—in the form of a novel—and expect it to reach its intended recipient because, as he explains, in this Karmically-controlled Universe we inhabit “everything is connected.” David only needs to set a strong enough intention for his warning to travel through time and space and eventually seek out his soul’s next souljourner.
There is much more to this utterly unique and fantastic story, but I will only relate that Souljourner, like this book review itself, offers the reader a surprise ending. That is, assuming you would consider a book review written by a book’s author to be a surprise.
I was drifting in a fog. Objects and figures would break through in barely revealed glimpses, or morph into other images, some familiar, others beyond my recognition.
Here was my brother, no longer dead but alive as he was back when we shared our cramped bedroom, Then I was lost again in the fog only to return to places of my youth, the school playground, my fifth grade classroom, my parents’ room, standing next to the bed where my father lay breathing heavily on his back. In a moment of visual clarity, I could see a crystalline drop of clear liquid suspended from my father’s nose just as I had seen it all those years ago. And just like he had been back then, my father was not conscious enough—or concerned enough—to wipe it away, no matter how embarrassed it made me feel.
“William,” my mother’s voice called through the fog. “Look who’s here!” I looked up from my father to see George C. Scott standing by the door, his extravagant sideburns reminding me of something I could only vaguely recall.
“But I want to stay with Dad,” I argued.
“William,” George C. Scott said, raising his cane in an affable gesture. “Come away, my good lad! Your Christmas dinner awaits in the kitchen. Fattened goose cooked to a mouth-watering crisp and blood pudding smothered in the drippings. Come away, my lad. You don’t belong here with your father.”
“Yes I do!” I protested.
And that’s when I woke up, the echo of my protest still ringing in the air, fighting for my attention with the sound of the movie playing on TV. The movie I was watching when I fell asleep. “A Christmas Carol,” wouldn’t you know! The version with George C. Scott playing Scrooge, which was my personal favorite. Pretty much, I watched it every year; usually on TV, even though I owned a DVD copy that sat on one of the bookshelves in this very room.
I struggled to break through the miasmic fog that still filled my head, if not my dreams, a state not unfamiliar to me from numerous other movies only half-watched from the recliner in our den.
“William,” my wife Adelaide called, walking into the room. “How are you feeling, honey?”
“How am I supposed to feel with you constantly taking my emotional temperature?” I answered with ill-concealed irritation. I should have been ashamed of my harsh reaction and depleted store of patience. But Adelaide knew enough not to take it to heart. After 38 years of being married to me, she knew my ways, and knew my disposition always turned sour when I fell into any form of sickness.
It all went back to my childhood, of course, as most things do. Back to the day I had just been reliving in my half-sleep daze, when I stood next to my father who was ill in bed, only to watch in frozen horror as two men—total strangers!—came into the bedroom carrying a stretcher and asked me to step aside so they could pick Dad up. They had come to take my father to the hospital. Only for a few days, I had been told, but that was a lie; for I never saw Dad again until they held his wake in the Sullivan Brothers’ funeral parlor downtown.
In case you were wondering, my father’s nose was dry that night at the wake, and no longer leaking.
Adelaide walked over to my end table and grabbed the remote. In a moment, the screen went black.
“What did you do that for?” I questioned with a surly voice that rose straight from my throat. “I was watching…”
As was her practice, rather than answer my question, she voiced whatever it was she intended to say, “The grandkids are here to see you. Robin and Ellie.”
“What do they want?” I almost growled back.
“To see their grandfather. Sally told them you were sick, and they were worried you might not be around for the family Christmas dinner.”
“Hey,” I exclaimed, “I’m only sick, I’m not dying!”
“Tell that to yourself,” Adelaide wryly responded with that smart-as-Einstein look of hers she knows I intensely dislike.
I couldn’t argue with her, of course. Every time I get sick, she’s usually the one who suffers the most. For the most part I hang around the house and mope. Or accuse Adelaide of eagerly waiting to get her hands on my union retirement checks. Or complain about my ailments like they were nearing their completed task of killing me.
I do not do illness well. Perhaps it would have been different had my father returned from the hospital before dying. Like I was told he would.
But he didn’t.
And now, in some subtle undefinable way, every illness I experience seems as deadly and inescapable as the one that will eventually bring me to a long-awaited reunion with Dad.
“Hey, Pops!” two voices greeted me from the threshold of the den.
“Hey, you yourselves!” I shouted back, reminding myself to smile. “Why are you two standing there like that? What are you, statues?”
“No, Pops,” Ellie, the older of the two, answered. Robin stood next to her in expectant silence, his awkward smile held tightly in place.
“Well, if you’re not statues, then you can come over here, right?”
“Yes, Pops.”
“Besides, you’re blocking up the door.”
“Oh, really!” Adelaide fumed at me, walking over to her grandchildren. “Why don’t you come in and stand next to Pops’ chair where he can hear you.”
Hesitantly, as if uncertain of exactly what it was they feared, my two grandchildren walked up to my chair and Eleanor put her tiny hands on the chair’s soft cushioned arm. Robin stood a step away from the chair, holding a small box gaily wrapped in Christmas gift paper in both hands.
“Good to see you two,” I said, smiling broadly. “Tell me how things are going…? Are you ready for Christmas? It’s only two days away, you know. You first, Eleanor. Then you—I keep forgetting your name…? Oh yeah, Robin Hood, you go second…”
“I’m not Robin Hood,” the boy protested in a squeaky voice, swiping back rebellious bangs from his eyes, “My name is Robin!”
I imagined my mock surprise deepening the lines in my forehead, because I had furrowed those brows dozens of times expressing the same shocked disbelief at the fact of my grandson’s name.
“Now, wait a minute; you’re telling me you’re not that crazy fellow with the bow and arrows? You don’t rob from the rich and give to the poor? Are you sure about that?”
“I’m Robin Stewart Underwood,” my grandson insisted. “And I’m in the second grade.”
“Well, let’s not argue,” I said, dismissing the argument with a wave of my hand. “Anybody can make a mistake, even Pops.” I smiled, and in the instant after the smile fell away, I looked into their solemn faces. “I’ve seen droopier faces,” I finally declared, “but only on bloodhounds. Did you come here to practice for a frowning contest?”
“No, Pops,” Ellie answered, smiling at the foolishness of my question.
“Speak up, darling,“ I said encouragingly, “I can’t hear you.
“I said no, Pops,” the girl repeated. “Mommy told us we could come.”
“She probably wanted me to cheer you up. Well, what else are grandfathers for?”
Slowly, I lifted my hand to cover my face. “Tell me what you think of this one?” I asked. The next moment, I cried, “Ta da!” and pulled my hand away.
Both my grandchildren, polite to the core, dutifully laughed at the face I suddenly revealed. A face all twisted out of shape with giant flaring nostrils, two eyes a-popping and widely separated lips that revealed glistening gums and two rows of gap-studded teeth.
“Oh, Pops!” Robin cried, unexpectedly bursting into tears.
Moving the muscles in my face to release the tension, I asked in a tender voice, “Was it that bad?”
“No Pops,” Ellie answered, quickly, “It was very good, really!”
I leaned over, surprised to find myself short of breath, and lovingly stroked my grandson’s head, as if there was a certain fragile quality that only my fingers could lovingly wipe away.
“Well,” I said, putting an end to the matter, “there’s no accounting for taste.”
Ellie reached for her brother’s arm, pulling him closer to the chair and explaining, “Grammy said we couldn’t stay very long.”
I growled at that, only remembering to smile when the growl was fully released.
“Grammy says a lot of things,” I commented tersely.
“Come on Robin,” Ellie said, pulling on her brother’s arm. “Time to give Pops his presents.”
“Presents?” I exclaimed, surprised.
Robin held up the small box wrapped in holiday paper I was certain I had seen before, some earlier Christmas most likely.
“But it’s not Christmas yet…?” I exclaimed questioningly.
“We know that,” the boy explained dryly, “but we brought you your gifts anyway!”
I held the box close to my ear and rattled its contents. “I wonder what this could be? Golf clubs? Maybe a set of barbells…?”
“You’re not even close,” Robin answered seriously.
I quickly removed the ribbon and wrapping, beneath which sat a small white box, no bigger than the box that contained the Apple Magic Mouse I had purchased for their mother last Christmas. Inside the box was a plastic change purse covered in a picture of a black cat with white paws. The name “Kitty Cat” was scrawled across its chest. Inside the purse, I found a shiny brown and white seashell.
Robin excitedly leaned against the armchair to point out the features of what was clearly his own personal gift pointing to the notched seam that ran lengthwise across the shell.
“If you put the shell to your ear, you can hear the ocean!” he proclaimed, like a proud salesman.
I sat there for a long moment, my eyes having fallen on my grandson’s face, my eyes fixing in surprise on his features.
How had I never noticed it before? With an unsettled sense of shock, I saw that Robin’s face was almost a carbon copy of my father’s! With allowances made, of course, for the difference in ages and the adorable vulnerability with which Nature endows the young of any species.
Ellie explained in that schoolmarm attitude she sometimes fell prey to, “The Kitty Cat purse is from me, Pops. I thought you could use it to hold your pennies and change.”
“And I will do just that,” I replied, holding it up with beaming satisfaction.
“What about the seashell?” Robin asked. “Don’t you like it?” He began to extend a surreptitious hand towards the shell.
Without ceremony, as I answered, “Sure, I like it! “ Robin took the shell from my hand and held it up to his ear. “I can hear it,” he exclaimed with wonder, “I can, I can!”
Rescuing the shell from his tight grip, I conveyed it to my right ear and reported, like a TV weatherman, “Sounds like there’s a storm on the way, moving up the coast.
“Here,” I said, returning the shell to Robin, who was radiating beams of pride over the great gift he had just given me.
“See what you think,” I suggested.
“We better go now, Pops,” Ellie decided.
“I can hear it!” the boy exclaimed. Then, with less certainty, “I think I can hear it.”
Ellie again pulled on her brother’s arm.
“Come on,” she insisted.
“Before you go,” I said, stopping them with a gesture of my hand. “I want to say something about my Christmas gifts. I want you to know they are very special to me. And I want you to remember why they are so special. Will you promise me you’ll remember?”
Both heads nodded in silent agreement.
“Well, my darling grandchildren, with these two gifts, you’ve given me something I need more than anything else in the world right now. You’ve given me reminders. Two wonderful reminders.”
“Reminders?” Robin asked.
“Yes, reminders. The only gifts I honestly needed for Christmas. People tend to forget things, so they need reminders. Right now I needed both these reminders and you’ve furthered my belief in an intelligent Universe by giving them to me.”
Ellie stared with great concentration at the seashell and the Kitty Cat change purse in my hands. “What do they remind you of, Pops?” she asked.
I closed my eyes and rummaged in my head for words that might explain my meaning to two children still in elementary school. Two children who had had no real exposure to the concept of death or dying. Or to reincarnation, for that matter. Adelaide and I had spent years in a spiritual school—a school of self-development called The Seekers For Truth—where the transit of the soul after dying was a foundational belief. Not surprising, since the school’s spiritual outlook and teachings had arisen from a Hindu-based philosophy.
This was not the time to share my belief that we live multiple lives in our soul’s journey. Or that we carry the name ‘souljourners,’ in each visitation, as The Seekers For Truth had revealed to me. Or that we travel from lifetime to lifetime, incarnation to incarnation, with fellow spirits who occupy different roles in each incarnation. So a friend in one life might be a brother in another, or a parent in the next. Which was why I still harbored hopes from all those years ago that I might one day reunite with my father.
Staring at my two Christmas gifts—my two reminders—it struck me for the first time how my “fear” of death, as experienced whenever I fell sick, was directly in opposition to the lessons Adelaide and I had studied all those years with The Seekers. But then I had also been taught by The Seekers that to be human was to be steeped in irony and inconsistency.
“Well, this seashell once had an occupant, you know,” I began my explanation. “Something that lived inside until it was time to move on. Know what I mean, like a boarder or an occupant? Then one day, whoever it was, packed his bags, took off, and left his shell behind. So, speaking of it as a reminder, it kind of reminds me that everybody’s got a shell.”
“Like a turtle?” Ellie asked.
“Right!” I responded cheerfully. “And like a person, too.”
“That’s silly,” Robin said, lending an appropriate facial gesture to his words, “People don’t have shells.”
I smiled. It really didn’t matter if they ‘got’ it, only that they let it go into their minds. And, hopefully, remembered it for future use.
“See what I mean?” I asked his sister, who was characteristically still mentally chewing on what she had been told. “Robin Hood clearly needs a reminder,” I finished.
“I’m not Robin Hood,” he dutifully protested, but there was a smile on his face.
“Okay,” I casually agreed, “so I made a mistake. You know, my young friend, you don’t yet know everything you’re going to learn in this lifetime. Not now at least. I hope to heaven there’s more to me—your favorite grandfather—than just this frail old body of mine. I’ll sure be disappointed if I learn otherwise,” I plucked the shell from Robin’s hands and held it up to my ear again. The ocean was still there, I was happy to notice. Nothing is more reassuring than constancy.
“If there’s any fairness in things, we have to be more than our bodies, more than these shells,” I insisted, more to myself than to the two youngsters by my side. “Elsewise, you and I might never meet up again, and I don’t see the Good Lord creating mischief like that.”
Ellie leaned over to pick up the Kitty Cat change purse.
“And what’s this remind you of?” she asked.
“My dad,” I answered, wondering if they could hear the sorrow in my voice.
“Enough of all this stuff,” I declared. “Doesn’t matter if you fully understand what I said. Just that you’ll remember what I said?
“Now kiss me goodbye,” I directed, pointing to my cheek and leaning over.
“We’ll remember,” Ellie promised. She reached up, using the armchair for support, to kiss my proffered cheek.
Looking over to her brother, I could almost read the resistance on his face. I knew Robin never liked kissing me, mostly because of the rough bristles on my face.
“What about you, Robin Stewart Underwood?” I asked with a forgiving smile, “Can you put up with a little sandpaper to give your grandfather a kiss?”
“Maybe next time…?” he shyly suggested.
“Next time it is!” I agreed, falling back into the comfortable embrace of the chair.
“Goodbye Pops,” the boy uttered, his sister joining in with her own softly whispered goodbye before both of them walked away towards the kitchen where Adelaide waited with little bags of treats she always kept handy for such precious visitors.
At the threshold of the room, they turned around to see me, the grandfather they had known all their life, staring silently at the blackened TV, both the seashell and change purse held firmly in my grasp.
“Merry Christmas!” I called out to them softly. “I love my presents. And don’t forget you promised to remember.”
Well, I guess I died.
And so it was that six days later, a respectable four days after Christmas, I found myself floating above a large crowd in a chapel, staring down at people who represented most of the phases and varied pursuits of my life. At the front of the room, in a highly polished mahogany box, I saw my body, dressed in a suit and tie that struck me as highly incongruous, given my dislike in life for wearing such clothes; clothing I literally would not have been found dead in, given half a choice.
Yes, just six days after their visit to Pops—their last visit, as it turned out—Robin and Ellie were sitting in the front row, as befits close relations to the deceased.
I guess your ego outlives your body, because I was definitely gratified to see I was doing standing-room-only business in this my last chance to gauge the impact of my life on others in this particular turn as a souljourner. Also pleased to see there was a somber sadness prevailing. A few people were crying, but mostly everyone looked sad. At the front of the room, my old friend from college, David Warren, was delivering my eulogy, thankfully excluding some of the more shocking and egregious adventures we shared in college. I could tell neither Robin nor Ellie was listening to his speech.
“I still don’t get it,” Robin said. He held the seashell in his hand as if it might reveal its sacred secrets at any moment. “When I saw the gift box under the tree with Pop’s name on it, I figured he’d asked Grammy to get us something. But why’d he give me back the shell? And you the Kitty Cat purse? Don’t you think he liked them?”
“He liked them a lot,” his sister replied. I watched my lovely granddaughter as she fiddled with her blouse buttons and checked her headband to make sure everything was under control. Looking up from the change purse I had returned to her as my Christmas gift, she asked her brother, only half curious, “Do you feel like crying?”
“Nah,” he replied. “I don’t think so. You?”
“I thought I would,” my granddaughter answered, “but I don’t.”
“You think we’ll ever see Pops again? You know, like he said…?”
“I don’t know. Do you?”
“Yeah,” the boy said, smiling. “Pops always gets his way, you know.”
“Ellie smiled, adding, “I’ll bet he’s making an awful fuss in heaven right now. Grammy was the only one who could make him behave.”
I laughed at that. If they only knew…
Robin also laughed at the idea, but then a quizzical look crossed his face.
“So why do you think he gave me back the shell for my Christmas present?”
“Oh, Robin,” she said with a fond smile, “Can’t you see—it’s a reminder, just like Pops told us.”
“Yeah, but, a reminder of what?” he asked, confused. “I still don’t get what he was trying to say.”
Putting her arm across his shoulder, she answered, “A reminder that he loved us, and will always love us. Maybe through eternity.”
It didn’t surprise me that neither of them thought to ask about the Kitty Cat change purse. That was the gift that really struck me when I first saw it. And made me happy to think about the things it brought up for me. Thoughts about dad, thoughts about me, thoughts about all of us.
“That’s a lovely light,” Timothy Leary said, smiling.
Fifth amongst my greatest hits, the Wolfers Lighting “Surreal Context” campaign. A series of ads celebrating the lost years of the sixties, with all its surreal imaging, M.C. Escher perspectives and Kafkaesque mind twists. Offering the elegant thought, “Anything goes when it comes to creating lighting environments.”
The above ad was the vanguard of the campaign, its graffiti backdrop serving as the ideal springboard for both the ad and the campaign that followed. Debra Elliott, the campaign’s art director, created the image of the lamplit graffiti wall and, almost immediately, we were off and running. Deb and I collaborated on all ads in the series.
It’s important to note all the heavy lifting is done by the visuals in each ad. Our headline had to be simple and dry, serving as contrast to the wild whimsy of the visuals. Once you see how the series unfolded you can easily begin imagining any number of illogical environments that could be enlivened by beautiful lighting. Purchased of course at the magical epicenter of all this fabulous advertising whimsy, Wolfers Lighting.
Now, of course, it was time to talk about surreal lighting applications.
To view my #1 Greatest Hits advertisement, click here. To view my #2 Greatest Hits advertisement, click here. To view my #3 Greatest Hits advertisement, click here. To view my #4 Greatest Hits advertisement click here. To read my story about creating “Who But W.B. Mason!,” click here. Or, if you’re interested in seeing other examples of my mind at work, visit my web site.. To speak with me about building or creating your company’s brand, contact me at 857-389-2158 or at PaulStevenStone@gmail.com.
The posters on this page were created by Paul Steven Stone and Bill Dahlgren to help sound the alarm about global warming in a way that would both engage the reader and make the issue indelible. Keep in mind, with a little more work and expense, these could be billboards or subway posters. As they are, they could be immediately used as digital advertisements or email campaigns or—and something especially powerful to consider—as baseball-type collectors cards for kids. We’ve created thirty posters in all, some of which relate to future realities, others to what is happening today. All of them use humor or irony to engage and hold the attention.
It’s almost indecent that we’ve been as complacent as we have about Global Warming. This is our children’s future at stake. It’s also the greatest planetary challenge the human race has faced in our lifetime. There is no more room at the conference table for Global Warming deniers; no more time left on the game clock for their obstructionism or their resistance to making the hard decisions. It’s time we blew the whistle and threw them out of the game.
Forgive me for being immodest, but the posters on this page represent the beginnings of a Global Warming Awareness Campaign worthy of the size and scope of the colossal disaster we’re facing. It is a campaign that uses shock, humor and a hard look at the future to shake the viewer out of his or her complacency. It is a campaign that reminds us we’re all in this together, whether we’re swimming in the streets of our hometowns, watching our crops wither to dust in a drought, fighting wildfires, or dodging twisters in our once tornado-free cities and towns. The campaign’s message is solemn and its clear: nobody escapes the wrath and destruction of Global Warming.
If your group or organization would be interested in using/sponsoring these posters, or dovetailing them into your own campaign, please let me know. I can be reached at PaulStevenStone@gmail.com.
Do yourself a favor and review each poster BY ITSELF. Stop and absorb the entirety of one concept before you move onto the next. Do not quickly scroll through them. Most likely the posters will be viewed one at a time when they’re out in the world, and should be seen that way here for their full effect.
