Unquiet and insistent history

This has been a strange weekend, but that happens sometimes. I watched all of the Friday the 13th, the series, I received (Netflix skipped over the last disc) and One Night with the King with Luke Goss and Tiffany Dupont (excellent movie) and had to download the theme song, which I've been singing since last night. This morning I woke up at the usually early plumber's crack of dawn, checked email and then dove into Secrets of the Dead: Amazon Warrior Women and was instantly intrigued. I even quit multi-tasking. It's a great archaeological find and one that everyone with an interest in history, science and archaeology should see.

I just don't get the myopic misanthropes that have populated the sciences for generations (can't say centuries because this seems to be peculiarly modern in nature). Historians and scientists look at the past from a lofty pinnacle without ever once considering that what they call mythology and fiction are nothing less than the truth. Didn't Heinrich Schliemann burst that bubble when he used Homer's Iliad to find Troy? Evidently, the scientific and historic communities don't read their memos.

What arrogance to think that man has reached the zenith of human development and achievement with their technological marvels without considering what was written millennia ago -- a lot of millennia ago. The Sumerians knew more about the makeup of our solar system over 7000 years ago than NASA and its predecessors have discovered in the past fifty years. Although no one has been able to identify who Homer actually was or whether he was a construct, his stories have been handed down intact for thousands of years and everything he wrote appears to be true. And now the stories about the Amazons (Homer wrote about an Amazon warrior in the Iliad) are proving to be true and there is DNA evidence to show that their descendants continue to live a nomadic life. Guess Herodotus told more than fairy tales and confabulated facts after all. What's next? Is it possible Plato got it right when he wrote about Atlantis and the scientists tagged the wrong place in choose Thera for Atlantis by scaling everything down? Arrogance, plain and simple!

Historians and scientists discount anything that seems like a fairy tale and call it mythology when it may well be historical fact handed down, the names changes to fit the dialects and countries where the stories were carried. There are griots, living genealogies, throughout Africa who carry the names and wars and places of generations of history in oral tradition, and they're not just names, but the deeds and lives that connect to modern people. Alex Haley found that out for himself when he went looking for the origins of Kunta Kinte's tales of bolongs, family and a gold hunt that made it possible for his mother to wear a cow on her head. We may well find that the stories we call mythology are not prehistoric men creating tales out of the world around them to tell around the campfire in the night, but based in fact.

Modern men may have reached a zenith, but not the zenith. Civilizations and risen and succumbed to the weight of their own arrogance and decadence over and over throughout the history of this planet and just because we cannot find proof of their existence, doesn't mean they didn't exist. It could well be we are looking in the wrong place or these people lived such green lives that their remains are shrouded in the very makeup of this world.

One thing that intrigues me most about the PBS special is that no one mentioned the Siberian Ice Maiden. Her clothing and grave goods point to a women of wealth and position. She had a high peaked hat and was buried with six horses. Her clothing and her soft leather boots are very similar to those worn by the Amazons found in kurgans throughout the steppes in Eurasia. The fierce warrior women written about by Homer and Herodotus and ascribed to myth by historians did exist and the DNA and their own bodies and grave goods prove they were much taller than the norm 2500 years ago. What else might we find if we open our eyes and take off the academic blinders to embrace mythology and legends as truth?

There are several cults of warrior women throughout history, women who defied tradition and took up arms and fought against and side by side with men. They are not myth nor are they some feminine longing for control over one's life and the freedom to be more than chattel and property. They were real and now they are fact.

As for me, I am off on another bug hunt. I feel stories deep down bubbling toward the surface. They are a bare glimmer, but it won't be long before they step fully armed and realized into the light not like Athena from Zeus who had swallowed her pregnant Titan mother in order to prevent her birth because it was prophesied that any child born of Metis, Athena's Titan mother, would be greater than her father Zeus.

On the links

Beanie called yesterday for a good long gossip and she mentioned, yet again, that she is getting 20 baby guineas at the end of the month just after they hatch. She tried to hatch 20 of her own guinea eggs, but Peeps didn't live long enough, or was obviously smart enough, to fertilize them before something got him and carried him away. His mate kept looking for him and crying piteously, but I'm not sure I want to know how a guinea fowl howls.

I don't get Beanie's obsession with guineas. She won't eat the eggs. "Gander loves the eggs," she told me after explaining that they were probably no good since the hen had been setting on them for quite a while. I guess Gander, the dog love of her life, doesn't mind a little rotten with his eggs. Yuck! I think guineas are ugly. They look like a cross between a dodo and a lizard with hints of vulture.



While I was looking for a picture I noticed that there are uses for guinea fowl, as in roast guinea, and the feathers are lovely. I don't think Beanie would ever kill and cook her guineas. To her, they are simply pets. I just don't get it. Horses as pets, I can see. You can at least ride a horse or use the horse to pull carts, wagons, plows, etc., but you can't ride a guinea. They are too small and get lost under the saddle. Pets like dogs, cats, birds, fish I get. They provide companionship and fish provide an interesting and relaxing show as they swim in their confined kingdoms. Guineas are not companionable and they would drown in the aquarium.

I suppose watching a flock of guineas chasing bugs and hunting for worms and grubs could be interesting and even soothing, but I doubt a flock of guineas would go unnoticed in Beanie's quiet rural bedroom neighborhood. Although their feathers are quite pretty, they don't have the spectacular and breathtaking color of, say, a flock of pink flamingos or a dazzling peacock.



As far as I can see, there is no real use for guineas, except that Beanie loves them for some odd reason. She is like Dad that way, except that Dad's chickens laid eggs he ate and provided many chicken dinners. The roosters provided quite a bit of slapstick fun, especially when he got out the blue bucket. That was a sign for the roosters to stop fighting and run for their lives before the flying blue bucket hit them in the head. I can still remember Dad chasing the recalcitrant roosters around the yard with a switch because they wouldn't stop fighting. He would have made a lousy cock fight wrangler. He didn't let them fight and they didn't dare spur him. He'd have had them for dinner.

Oh, well, everyone has some little quirk, like my quirk of posting news and links to the blurb for my new novel. One more link in the publishing chain that will end with the book's debut -- soon, I hope.

With that, I shall leave you with an amazing performance of Toto's hit, Africa, done by a Slovenian Acappella choir.

Grammar: You can quote me

Quotation marks give some people trouble, but they are really not that difficult to use -- or, evidently, to mess up.

When making a direct quote, the quoted text is enclosed in quotations (they always come in pairs) and the first word of each sentence within the quote requires capitalization.

George Bernard Shaw writing on education said, "A fool's brain digests philosophy into folly, science into superstition, and art into pedantry. Hence University education."

When quoting a fragment of a sentence, the first word is not capitalized.

I couldn't believe what Chili Bob told me so I checked it out for myself in the Cleveland Plain Dealer. I found an article with a diagram that showed how the utility company will be able to manage "power on the grid by automatically adjusting smart thermostats and smart appliances via radio signals" or turn off the electricity from company trucks cruising the neighborhoods.

When breaking a quotation, the second half of the sentence is not capitalized and both parts of the quotation are enclosed within quotation marks. (that's a lot of quotation)

"I do not require a Black president to know that I am a person of worth," and that life is worth living. I do not require a Black president," wrote Dr. Anne Wortham in her short article on the results of the 2008 election, " to love the ideal of America.

If a quotation has a spelling or grammar error, transcribe it as written and follow the quotation with SIC in italics between brackets -- [sic] -- directly after the mistake. SIC is from the Latin meaning"thus," "so," or "just as that." In plain old American language, it means "it's their mistake not mine."

During the 2008 election, Jerome Hudson wrote an op-ed article about being a young, black conservative. On "liberal yammering," he wrote. "But I guess I had made the mistake of buying into all that liberal yammering about being “open minded” and supporting “diversity” that I’d deluded myself into believing that a civil, discussion about the herd-like ideological mentality of so many of my contemporaries suffer from was possible. [sic]

Be careful when using quotes in an article or paper and use them sparingly, otherwise it will look like you didn't do the necessary research and are simply regurgitating someone else's hard work and dressing it up with quotes.

Now, indirect quotations give some people trouble. They shouldn't as long as you provide sufficient citations to avoid the inevitable accusation of plagiarism, and no one wants that.

One of the things I learned from reading Oliver Wendell Holmes is that the best way to expand the mind is not through drugs but by being willing to embrace new ideas. You will never see the world in the same myopic way.

When the language is emotionally or intellectually striking, don't dilute it by paraphrasing.

Martin Luther King Jr. believed that the end of slavery was important and of great hope to millions of slaves done horribly wrong.

Take the time to quote it properly and exercise those quotation marks.

Martin Luther King Jr. said of the Emancipation Proclamation, "This momentous decree came as a great beacon light of hope to millions of Negro slaves who had been seared in the flames of withering injustice."

Forget the quotation marks when summarizing key incidents or the details of a large amount of information and use them judiciously (and correctly) when quoting an author who has coined a unique phrase or term that is unique to your point and relevant to what you're writing, and when you're highlighting the dialogue of a conversation. Sometimes it is better to let the words stand on their own rather than putting your own spin on them.

Until next Thursday, keep those grammar goofs to a minimum. When in doubt -- check it out.

Cock-a-doodle-doo

I just received the most wonderful piece of news in my email. The cover for my new novel, Past Imperfect.



>


Wasn't that worth the wait?

That is all. Disperse.

Tarot -- Gemini Choices

I drew the cards for today's post on Monday night. I had no particular question in mind, just wanted to know what the future had in store. If you find these readings seem to be about you, they probably are, or maybe you see something of yourself and your situation in them. After all, we are all connected. A leaf to one person is a road map of the future to another. It's all in how you look at things.



The Knight of Swords, like all of the knights, embody the element of fire as well as their own element, in this case the element of air associated with swords. In a sense, the Knight of Swords is all about hot air, or you could say that air increases the intensity of the fire, as oxygen is needed to keep a fire burning.

The knight's steed is ready for action and so it seems is the knight with his sword upraised and shining in the sun, but look closer. He holds the steed in check, eyes front, focused on what's ahead with no thought of what is behind him. An owl flies above, the symbol of Athena/Minerva, her familiar, a symbol of wisdom. The Knight of Swords, as all of the knights, is ruled by intellect, more so because the swords symbolize the element of air that governs inspiration and intellect. The knight is focused, committed to the future. He does not look behind. He knows what lies ahead and exactly how he will deal with it. He is single-minded in pursuit, certain of his goal, but he misses what is going on around him, ignoring and being insensitive to those who could and would help him if he doesn't stop in his relentless drive in pursuit of his quarry/goal. He is in danger of moving ahead without thinking of the consequences.

Associated with the astrological sign of Gemini, the Knight of Swords can be equally as foolhardy as he can be wise and courageous, depending on which way the wind blows and which side of the bed he gets out on.



The Seven of Pentacles shows a woman with a basket assessing the harvest. A squirrel in the tree is about to make off with one of the pentacles and sheep graze placidly nearby. The woman has worked hard to help this tree bear fruit, but, instead of climbing the ladder to harvest the fruit, she's already contemplating what she will do with her harvest. Will she bake them into a pie? Preserve them for the future? Call all her friends for a feast? How much money would she gain by selling the fruit so she can plant more trees, grow more fruit and plant an orchard that will necessitate hiring workers to nurture and harvest the fruit so she can buy a bigger house, fancy clothes and spend her twilight years in luxury? She is counting her pentacles before they are harvested and that usually ends up being less successful than the dreams conjured at the sight of a job not yet done.

It took a lot of hard work to sow the seeds, watch over the tree, nurture and protect it from nature's wrath and changeable weather and to bring it to this point, but the job's not done until the fruit is harvested and the best use of its produce is made. It's not enough to do half the work when there is still so much left to do. The job isn't over until the last fruit is picked and the tree made ready for the long sleep of winter. There is no time to daydream and wonder what if? when there is work still to be done.



In older decks, The Lovers were drawn as Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden and symbolized choices. In the Gilded Tarot deck, the couple are clothed, more or less, not standing apart, together, grounded in the earth and surrounded by the waters of change. The warrior lifts his paramour up, but she isn't looking at him; she looks upward towards the heavens, jubilant and safe in the warriors arms. Although it would seem from the name of the card and the symbolism that this card is about romance and love, it's really about partnership and communication and the choices we make.

In the background, dolphins leap playfully around the couple. Dolphins are creatures of the water and the air, so it's no surprise that The Lovers has a connection to Gemini. Gemini is a continuing theme in today's cards, Gemini of the dual nature and double meaning. Dolphins are also very intelligent creatures and in Celtic mythology the dolphin is a symbol of good luck, as it is in many traditions. Sailors saw dolphins playing off the bow of their ship as a good omen of clear sailing and calm waters and if a sailor went overboard, a dolphin would rescue and guide him to safety. The ancient Celts viewed the dolphin as a embodiment of prosperity and guidance, a sign that trouble and strife and the old life had passed away and a new life was dawning. The Chinese believed the dolphin to be tangible proof of the forces of yin and yang, the symbol of harmony, the dream and the world of reality.

The very nature of the bond between warrior and maiden is one of joy and excitement. The Lovers are connected but still able to reach for the sky, grounded firmly and surrounded by water so if they fall they won't get hurt. The warrior is focused on the maiden, supporting her, holding her hand, but not holding her back. He knows she will always come back to him because he is her stable support, her solid foundation, her reliable rock. They are connected and completely in tune with each other. As in older decks, they have made a choice to move forward and not to stagnate. They choose to push away from the safety of the shore to explore what the world has to offer, to reach for more, certain that no matter what happens they can face it together and, if they are separated, they will be guided toward safety.

When taken altogether, the theme is one of choices. There is work to be done, a job to find, a world to conquer, but it's not advisable to focus on one single goal, one aspect of the future. There are other things to consider. Among the choices offered, don't take the first one or the one that will provide immediate reward, but consider the options. Go for the bliss. What at first seems like a good idea may turn out just to be the safe choice, the expedient option. It's not always about the money or clinging to the same old patterns. Sometimes it is better to reach out and find what will provide the most happiness and joy in the task and the end result. What may not pay well at first could well end up nourishing not only the body, but the mind and soul. Consider all the options before making a choice, but don't waste the time dreaming without moving forward. Don't hold the reins too tightly or forget to look around. Keep the mind open, the spirit willing and don't forget that in order to get to the harvest the ladder must be climbed.

Letting one choice overshadow everything else will blind you to the other options. To quote Barbara Moore, "...a career decision with only an intellectual [or financial] appeal or a home opportunity with decadent amenities may not be the best choice in the long run."

Wedding errata

Don't have time for a full update or post, but I thought people might find this as interesting as I did. It arrived among my Google Alerts yesterday and was news to me. At least I was told in plenty of time to get ready for the event.

It never occurred to me that anyone who knew me well would mistake the announcement as mine, but some of my friends did. A couple friend called last night to congratulate me on my upcoming wedding and wanted to know why I hadn't mentioned Christopher before. Uh, because I don't know him?

I knew there were at least three other people who shared my name, although I doubt we are related, but I didn't expect a wedding announcement. So, just to be clear, in case you're planning to spring for a wedding gift and a trip to Washington to attend the nuptial celebration, I am not engaged or getting married on August 22nd. I do, however, wish my namesake (I am older than the other three) congratulations and a very happy life.

That is all. Disperse.

Beware, she bites

"I have come to the conclusion that one useless man is called a disgrace, that two are called a law firm and three or more become a Congress."

~ 1776 The Musical

It's 6:30 a.m. and the phone rings. I check the Caller ID. It's work. My boss's brother, Joe, said I had an operative report from Thursday that had not been sent back. He gave me the number. I hadn't even gone into my office yet. I was eating breakfast. I said I'd call him back. I checked. It wasn't on my computer. I checked the very careful list I keep of the jobs and there it was, one of the third batch of reports I downloaded, typed and sent back. I called Joe.

"I don't have it on my system, but it's on my list."

"We don't have it."

"It was signed off. It was a duplicate dictation. I sent an email."

"Oh, I haven't read the emails."

I gave him the number of the original report, said goodbye and hung up. It was 8:30 a.m. there and he was calling me before he had checked the list of returned jobs and the emails. Good. All right then. I can already tell this is not going to be a good week. So much for the five hours of sleep I got last night and I still have to take out the trash.

I got my semi-annual review in Friday's mail. There was good news and bad news. The good news is that my error rate for the previous six months was 0.09%. I had one error and I think it's in one of my macros. A word was missing. Not a major error, but it cost me 4 points and hence the 0.09% error rate, when it should have been a 0% error rate. Oh, well, there's always the next six months.

I have typed more average pages over the past six months than I did the previous six months, but my average page total is down nearly three pages. What's up with that? Therefore, the bad news is that I get less money for vacation and sick days. Good. All right then. And this is on top of all the times that the office calls, usually Joe, and asks me if I can do a few op reports that should have been done earlier in the day, the day before or the week before and need to go out NOW. I always do them. I even stop whatever I'm typing during the day to do special reports for doctors who must have their reports done first and can't wait in the queue for an hour or two. I'm their Go To Girl whenever they need something done quickly and accurately. That should make me feel good but it doesn't, especially not in light of a one-word mistake and a miscalculation of my page totals, in addition to working on the worst account in the company where my pay is automatically docked a minimum of 30% (according to their records and 45% according to my records and math skills).

This is no way to start the week and I can't take vacation until after September. I won't ask if things could get any worse, but then they would.

It's not like I don't have a job. I do. It's not like I don't like my job. I don't. It's not like I have to go to work in an office all day. I don't. And it's not like I have any other options -- at least not until my novels are published and I have a movie deal or two. I don't, not if I want to continue to work at home, thus saving gas, wear and tear on my car, the need for a whole new wardrobe and shoes and boots for inclement weather and my sanity. So, just to be clear, I'm not whining, just reminding people that this week is not a good week and that you should read the warning signs. Beware, she bites.

That is all. Disperse.

Fading away

Mom's favorite Campbell's soup was Chunky Vegetable Beef, a hearty concoction that was true to its name with hearty chunks of beef and vegetables in a thick beef broth, not quite beef stew, but the next step down. What she didn't realize is that the flavor was enhanced by wine, an ordinary wine to be sure, but wine all the same. It's a flavor I easily recognized and enjoyed on many occasions, but I should have kept the information to myself and not told Mom. She quit buying the soup.

I offered her a bowl when I made some the last time I visited. "No, it has alcohol in it."

"Mom, there's no alcohol in it."

"The label says it has wine. That's alcohol and I don't touch alcohol."

"The alcohol is burned off. All that's left is the flavor of the wine, an ordinary wine to be sure, but there's no alcohol."

"It says wine and that's enough for me. No, thank you."

Mom does not drink wine, or alcohol in any form, because of her religious beliefs. In fact, she won't patronize any restaurant or store or establishment where alcohol is available because someone from her church or someone who knows of her oft touted religious beliefs would see her going in or coming out and immediately assume she's after alcohol. The only concession she makes is the grocery store. "Well, I do have to eat. Don't I?" She sticks out her chest and her chin and defies anyone to to accuse her falsely. After all, she has no other choice. She could have her groceries delivered so she doesn't have to go into the store where they sell alcohol, but that would mean ten dollars less for junk food and jewelry.

I remember when Mom did drink, although she swears she just carried a drink around parties and didn't actually have any of it. She was just being sociable. I remember my parents' parties and I remember Mom with a drink in her hand, usually rum and Coke. I also remember how the level in her glass had a tendency to change frequently, from full to empty and back to full again. Must have been evaporation, although I doubt it. Panama is a rain forest and evaporation happens slowly, if at all. I even remember the night she stumbled into the bedroom and shut the curtain. Giggles and the rustle of clothing preceded a muffled thump as my parents fell onto the bed. It was shortly after that we found out she was pregnant.

There was alcohol in our house and lots of parties until we moved to North Olmsted and Mom started going to the Baptist church down the street. One day, the blue smoke that followed her everywhere ceased and she threw out a newly opened carton of Winstons. Alcohol was banned. Mom got religious and the smell of stale cigarettes slowly dissipated. I was fourteen at the time.

When we moved back to Columbus, Dad remodeled the basement and put a bar down in the family room. Drinks were served whenever Cal and Kay Kinsley came over, but Mom no longer carried a magical glass of rum and Coke. No liquor touched her lips again, except for the soup and that was only until I spilled the beans a couple decades later.

Mom stopped having fun when she gave up the cigarettes and alcohol and the cartload of cigarettes bought once a month at the commissary at Rickenbacker AFB was less full. Only Gram, Grandpa and Aunt Joan, my mother's family, still smoked. Dad had never been much of a smoker, having a cigarette only when there were parties, which became rare as hen's teeth. Eventually Dad gave in and followed Mom to church and the bar in the basement was cleaned out of alcohol.

When you get right down to it, I think Mom is afraid to enjoy herself. Her father was an alcoholic and drank away a considerable fortune before he came to his senses, all of which happened long before I was old enough to understand what was happening. Mom was afraid she'd become an alcoholic like Grandpa. Her brother, Bob, was well on his way to an alcoholic future until his six-year-old son, Mike, told him he couldn't wait to grow up and drink the same beer and smoke the same cigarettes that Daddy did. Uncle Bob didn't give up having a good time though; he just does it without the alcohol. Mom either won't or can't enjoy herself unless she's spending money and eating junk food, anything to replace what's gone from her life. She does, however, still cling to her narcotics for her pain and to be able to sleep, but that will doubtless never change. She has learned her limits and rations her medications, but not her spending or her junk foods.

That's the thing about people coming from families with addictions. They either follow the addiction, adding a few twists or substances of their own, or refuse to go near anything that makes them feel so good they might become addicted -- even love.

A friend told me a few years ago that he'd never tried alcohol or pot. "Why?" I asked him. "Because I might enjoy it."

The fear of enjoying anything too much is ever present and it extends to everything that end in a spiral into oblivion with a smile and the feeling of peace and joy running rampant. What they fail to realize is that such tight control is just as bad, if not worse, than giving in and giving up control. Unbending control strangles every aspect of life until all that is left is a joyless darkness that paints everything black. Losing control is an overriding fear and even the simple joy of falling in love and giving in to losing oneself in communion with another is terrifying. The answer for these control freaks is either abstinence or rationing.

How do you ration love? How do you ration the feeling of excitement at being with the one person that makes you feel as though you could fly? How do you measure out time when time has no meaning when you're together? You don't.

Instead, you keep putting off seeing or being with the person who makes you feel so good that you're willing to give up everything to be with them until the very thought of seeing them again fills you with fear. A couple of weeks becomes a month and the month stretches to three, four, five months. You're paralyzed by fear and you dare not let them know because you're afraid that the won't understand. You make excuses. You find other ways of keeping in touch without them knowing. And if they find out you've been watching from the shadows, you ration that as well.

How much time, how many kisses and caresses, how much physical contact does it take before feeling good is too good? How many minutes before the sense of falling into bliss is too strong to pull back? It's not narcotics or drugs or alcohol, it's love. There are worse things than being addicted to love, especially when it's not the idea of love but a person.

Living like that is emotional constipation and there's no emotional Ex-Lax to move things along. In essence, rationing love and joy becomes emotional castration. Live long enough like that, and your capacity to feel and give love diminishes, slowly at first and then more quickly. Any return of feeling is like being struck by lightning, an emotional shock to the system that overloads mind and heart, until the only answer is a new addiction, like jewelry and junk food or physical and mental exertion, anything to keep the mind occupied and the heart engaged only in mechanical mode pumping blood and keeping the body alive. It's no way to live because it's not living. It is merely existing.

Wouldn't it be better to burn out than fade away?

The long and short of it

I came to a screeching halt while reading Texas Heat by Debra White Smith. It happened several times during the course of the book, but when I hit one particular sentence I couldn't go on and packed it in for the night. Ms. White Smith has over fifty books in print and even she got it wrong. It could be because she likes the word and uses it frequently or maybe she didn't take the time to edit her work, but someone of the many people who read and edited the book from manuscript to printed stage should have caught it.

Page 138:"For some reason Charli Friedmont had dumped him for a looser."

For looser what? Bonds? Clothes? Grammatical senses?

The word is LOSE. There is no substitute and it's not a matter of mixing up tenses (past, present, future, future perfect, etc.) He didn't want to LOSE her.

So many people make the same mistake, but for some reason they always switch LOOSE with LOSE. It's a simple fix and doesn't need to be an issue. When editing, read your work out loud and you'll hear what's wrong when your eyes are glazed with lack of sleep and poring over printed page after printed page. Spell check won't find it because it's spelled right, so you'll have to be more careful about that.

LOSE is from the verb TO LOSE.

I LOSE.
S/He LOSES.
S/He LOST.
We LOSE.
They LOSE.
We/They LOST.
You are going to LOSE all credibility if you keep misusing LOSE.

LOOSE has many grammatical jobs.

Your pants are so LOOSE you might LOSE them if you don't get a belt.
You're going to LOSE credibility as a writer if you let your hold on grammar get LOOSE.
She is going to LOSE that LOOSE tooth.
Let LOOSE of my arm or I'm going to LOSE my temper.

It's simple to see the difference and even simpler to hear it. If you're unsure, or just a lazy typer, read your sentences aloud and make sure you have the right number of Os in your words.

Lose and loose aren't the only ones to give some people problems. There are also CHOOSE and CHOSE. The difference here is that they are present and past tense of the same verb: TO CHOOSE.

I, you, we, they CHOOSE.
S/He CHOOSES.
I, you, we, she, he, they CHOSE.
I, he, she was CHOSEN.
We, they, you were CHOSEN.

You CHOOSE to make mistakes, but I CHOSE to fix them.
I CHOOSE to write about grammar and I CHOSE these words because the are so often misused.

I wonder if the letter "O" is what gives people so much trouble and that's why they make mistakes. I don't think it's a mistake in spelling or typing, but a mistake in understanding, and possibly a pandemic case of laziness. Three words that sound alike and mean something different (homonyms) are: TO, TOO and TWO. A lot of people mix them up.

TO is a preposition, an adverb, a noun and is usually combined with other words as a verb.

I am going TO the store.
You are driving me TO drink.
Get this right or I'm taking you TO the woodshed.

TOO can be used as an adverb or adjective.

Are you TOO lazy or is it TOO hard to remember which word to use?
You are just TOO funny for words.
I want TO go on vacation, TOO.

Two can be an adjective, pronoun or noun.

I've just TWO words to say: bite me.
There are more than TWO ways to do this.
More than TWO mistakes were found.
She chose the TWO of cups.

Grammar isn't that difficult, most of the time, and it can be fun. Grammar is also your best friend if you want to be seen as an intelligent, well read, careful and often read author. It takes so little effort to do it right. So, when in doubt, read it out. Repeat after me. When in doubt, read it out. It takes less time than trying to find mistakes by reading and it's a lot more accurate. You're also less likely to miss something that will make your readers groan and throw your book across the room even when there's no spider or insect to be squashed.

Texas Heat has quite a few more problems hiding in the prose, but that's a subject for the review I'll write later. You can check out my reviews at The Celebrity Cafe (six years and counting) where I wax philosophic about grammar, tortured prose, plot and characterization.

Spiders and tarot

When I went to bed last night I noticed a spider on the ceiling above the bed, right above the pillows. I thought the spiders and I had an agreement. They can wander in any part of the house as long as they stay out of the bedroom.

I read for a while and hoped the spider would move on, but he stayed in the same position for a long time. I kept looking up to see if he'd moved, but he was still there. I wanted him to move on and he obviously waited for me to turn out the light so he could wander down onto the bed and across some part of my body so he could bite me. I didn't agree with his plans, so I gave him a choice. I sat up, pulled out my journal, did a little writing and then decided to pick up the tarot cards and see what inspiration they could give me -- about writing, not about the spider. In the spider's case I decided that if he hadn't moved by the time I finished I'd move him myself.

I shuffled the deck and pulled three cards; Two of Cups, Six of Swords and The Sun.



This is what the cards suggest to me.

There are two people in a relationship. They are in love and devoted to one another. Like the water that is the element of cups, things have not gone smoothly. There have been calm days and there have been days when things are turbulent and unsettled. Despite it all, they remain together. The Two of Cups reminds me of an old song: Drink to me only with thine eyes and I will pledge with mine. Or leave a kiss within a cup and I'll not ask for wine. (I always hear an Irish tenor when I think of that song.) These two lovers have traveled a difficult and stony road together and apart, but they keep coming back together. They are both wounded by the past and the scars are deep. Obstacles remain and are not easily removed. To remove all the obstacles at once would sink them; they are too deeply embedded. Until they reach the safety of the solid shore it would be dangerous to remove all the obstacles. They have moved through rough water and have reached calm waters where they can rest and reap the rewards of their trials. They are ready to stand together in the clear light of day where they can grow together and have their time in the sun, a time for passion and joy, a time to be together at last.

The Six of Swords suggests to me a time when thoughts have been cloaked, hidden from the light of day, but that time is nearly past. The Sun is the aggressive, powerful and passionate symbol of growth. Nothing is hidden any more. The light seeks out all the dark places, things left unseen and words left unsaid, shining a bright and powerful light on everything and everyone. No more secrets. No more hiding. Everything is clear and plain to be seen. Even behind shuttered windows and heavy drapes, the light breaks through the gloom and depression to light the darkness. It is a joyful time full of life and laughter and promises fulfilled.

These cards may suggest something else to you. Look at the images. Create your own story about what you see. What I see won't be what you see, just as any group of writers given the same theme or image will end up with different stories. Whatever you see in the cards, make it your own. Write it down. Keep it to yourself or share it, but give it a try.

Just like with the spider on the ceiling above my head last night, someone else would have responded in a different way than I did. Experience has a lot to do with why I don't want spiders in my bedroom but will tolerate them anywhere else in the house. A spider bit me in my sleep one night and I woke up with a swollen and hot arm. I ended up taking Benadryl because the swelling was getting worse and hot red streaks spun out like a spider web up and down my arm. The antihistamine took care of the swelling and the streaks and warmth, but it left a mark on my arm and in my mind.

I got up and got the broom, swept the spider off the ceiling and set him on the floor. He headed for another wall and started to climb toward the ceiling again. I decided he wasn't going to leave voluntarily so I cut his stay short -- permanently.

I like spiders. They keep the insect population in check. I don't like spiders in my bedroom. I won't tolerate them there. They can spin their webs anywhere else, roam freely about the rooms but they must stay out of my room or be evicted. I'm a tolerant person and I can take a lot. I can wait as long as it takes as long as there is some forward movement. If nothing happens, like the spider remaining motionless on the ceiling, then I will take action, giving a couple of chances to get moving again. If nothing happens or, worse yet, the same behavior is repeated, I'll end the stand-off. Life is about movement and growth, it's about change. I can handle change. I can even handle endings. I can't handle stagnation and I don't suffer fools -- or recalcitrant spiders. When nothing happens, I take matters into my own hands and make things happen and becomes a use it or lose it situation.

Sometimes people -- and spiders -- get hurt. That's the thing about life, it's often messy and painful, but eventually the sun comes up and life moves on. Only fools waste their lives expecting guarantees and waiting for the right time. Most of the time, the right time is the time when the first step is taken and is followed by another step and another and another and you end up wondering what took you so long and what there was to fear. The answer is usually nothing.

Tech wars and terminators

It's actually nippy here today. Before anyone asks, yes, really nippy. I was forced to put on clothing before venturing into the cool confines of my living room. I turned off the fan and donned real clothing, instead of my usual morning uniform of over sized t-shirt or white cotton nightgown now wearing great splotches of black ink. I had an accident with the ink bottle when I filled my fountain pen last night while sitting on the bed. The great spill, as it will now be called, cost me half a bottle of Levenger's finest black ink and another shower, not to mention the damage to the sheet and my nightgown. I only have two nightgowns and that is why I am dressed before dawn instead of lounging around under the faux mink throw with my feet up. The other one is in the laundry that I didn't do over the weekend, along with my over sized t-shirts.

It's also frustrating here this morning. I have no Internet.

I called the phone company because the DSL was wonky yesterday and after a long menu of pushing buttons to respond to a menu-driven idiot system asking me to check the things I'd checked before I called, I finally spoke to a human being. After a few minutes and a couple of tests on the other end (I think they just put you on hold and go for coffee or a restroom break), the result was that I need a technician to come out today to check the wiring. I had this problem before and the guy told me he replaced the crumbling and aged wiring with all brand new, high tech wiring, but maybe he didn't. I suffered through four hours of no Internet access before calling my ISP and asking for a local dial-up number, configured the program, plugged in the phone wire and listened to the tinny sound of the modem dialing, rushing static and then voila! connection at 54 kbps. That's a far cry from the usual light speed. Nothing like crawling along at sub-light speeds. But I was connected and checked my email.

The real reason for going the dial-up route instead of waiting for a technician to show up between the hours of 8 and 12 today was because I needed to get my weekly reviews written and sent so I would get paid this week. With no guarantee my access would be fixed by 10 a.m., I needed to take care of things ahead of schedule, and I'm glad I did. Books read. Check. Reviews written. Check. Email written and reviews attached (I forget the attachment once in a while). Check. Email sent. Check. Done and done. Deadline met.

While I was online checking on some other necessary information, like funds available for paying bills and rent and buying food, I did a little research and reading and engaged in a little Live Journal badinage between one of my favorite LJ friends. He usually has something interesting to say and it often involves food and laughter. Last night was no exception. We talked of callused gun boats, the efficacy of large pink grapefruit to soften and remove said calluses and the farming of maggots for digesting dead flesh. You had to be there. Then I disconnected the dial-up and went to bed early with a book.

This morning, dressed and ready for a quick trip to the grocery store for breakfast foods, I decided to turn on the computer and check email, just to get it out of the way. As the modem began to do its little tonal dance, the line stutter-beeped. I had a voice mail message. Someone called when I was online last night. I unhooked the line, plugged it into the phone and dialed my voice mail. Two messages. The first was from the phone company. They canceled the technician this morning because the problem is an outage in the area. Well, duh! A computer generated phone call will let me know when the outage has been resolved. Oh, goody! It was their problem all along. I figured that out before I answered the 50 stupid questions about whether the modem was plugged in and the cables connected.

One thing I have noticed about technical support is they don't know much about technology and with their kind of support in my bra my boobs would be on the floor. The people usually speak English and reside within the confines of the continental United States, but their expertise is limited to their memorized spiel. Get them off track by asking a pertinent question and explaining that you did the things they're asking you to do before you called and they are completely lost and must go back to the beginning. I often wonder if they're not computer generated menus that just sound like real human beings because they sure don't act like rational, intelligent, tech-savvy people. If that's the current generation of artificial intelligence, I don't think Skynet is going to happen in our lifetime and no terminators will be striding across the landscape over our decomposing flesh and stripped skeletons any time soon.

Long story short: I still have no Internet without dial-up which ties up my phone so I won't know when the outage is fixed. At least I have access and I'm dressed and ready to go outside, get in my car and start driving until I find some quiet, secluded mountain valley to stop, get out and scream until my throat is bloody and my voice fails me. Life is good.

That is all. Disperse.

Traveling and domestic adventures

This weekend I was engrossed in one of the review books I received last week and now I want to read more of this particular author's work to see if it was a fluke or she really is that good. There's just something about a good story that spreads laughter and tears in equal measure in well paced and well written prose that gives me a really good reason to shirk my other weekend duties, like doing dishes and laundry and cleaning house, without a second thought. It's what I love most about books, stepping into a world that comes alive around me, especially when I'm in a bit of pain.

I have this tricky rib on the left side of my back that has a tendency to flip out of position and cause my shoulder blade to go wonky, which in turns affects all the muscles on the left side from my shoulder down to the elbow and from my spine to my armpit. Raising my left arm in some positions is painful and all the muscles cramp and spasm. It goes away in time and it finally popped late last night. But while things are out of whack, I like to find a good book to dive into and forget I'm in pain even when I breathe. I forgot about the pain enough that I could make falafel and knead dough to make pita bread yesterday so I could try falafel in pita pockets with homemade tzatziki sauce, which turned out to be not so difficult to make. Next time I think I'll try more cucumber and not so much raw garlic. Maybe I'll roast the garlic first and see what that does to the sauce. It was still good, but a little heavy on the raw garlic.

Kneading dough is what helped pop my shoulder blade and rib back into place so it's good for more than baking bread, which, btw, turned out very nicely.

Since I was traveling in London and Edinburgh over the weekend, I shall have to catch up on my chores this week. At least I don't have anything else scheduled, other than work and writing a couple of reviews, so I have plenty of time, unless of course I get caught up in the other books in the review box or writing a couple of stories that have germinated sufficiently to be committed to paper and grow into something publishable. I feel a little at loose ends right now as though becalmed in the Horse Latitudes waiting for the release of my novel. I still don't have a cover or release date -- that I know of -- and haven't received the final galleys, so I'm getting a bit antsy.

In the meantime, I have to take out the trash, shower, dress and get to work so I can afford this lavish lifestyle with its endless round of chores and muddling through the days and nights. At least it beats boredom.

That is all. Disperse.

The hidden secret of NIMH

The human brain is a marvelous organ capable of managing the universe of the body, but its capacity for memory and awareness is one of the more magical seeming functions. The world is filled with diversity and all it takes is the casual mention of an idea or an item and suddenly the world is filled with what was invisible before. For example: Let's say that someone shows a picture of a new car they want or just bought, a car you had previously never seen, suddenly everywhere you go the same car is driving ahead, beside or passing in front of you. Some are dusty and others look like they just drove off the showroom floor. They're everywhere. They didn't just appear; they have been there all the time. The only thing that changed was awareness.

The same is true of everything: stories, books and movie, for instance.

Cruising through the menu at Hulu yesterday, I came across an old favorite animated feature, The Secret of NIMH based on the book by Robert C. O'Brien Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH. I confess I enjoy animated films with a touch of magic and The Secret of NIMH is one of my favorites. The artistry and beauty of the film and the message of facing one's fears and helping one another is the main focus, right behind the cruelty to lab animals and the experiments of the National Institute of Mental Health that result in the mental and physical evolution of a group of rats and mice. There is another message that is integral to the book and the movie, that evolved rats should no longer live as animals stealing what they need from humans, an echo of which I've become more and more aware since reading Ayn Rand.

There are two factions within the rat community led by the aging Nicodemus. One faction wants to continue living beneath the rose bush in the Fitzgibbons' front yard and stealing what they need from the farmer, such as the electricity that powers and lights their underground world. The other faction wants to leave the rose bush and travel to Thorn Valley to found a farming colony and create their own world independent of humans. They wish to live as an evolving species and not as thieves.

I don't know if either Robert C. O'Brien or Don Bluth, the head animator of the film, realized what they were saying or how that central theme would echo through the intervening years, but the story still holds up. The concept is radical: producing what is needed versus stealing it from those already producing the necessities and luxuries needed. Sound familiar?

The one thought that continues to echo through my mind is that if sentient and evolving rats and mice could figure it out, why can't we?

There are disagreements among the rats of NIMH and none more vocal than Jenner. In the movie, Jenner engineers Nicodemus's death certain that if Nicodemus is gone the rest of the rats will follow him and continue to live by stealing electricity, food and supplies from farmer Fitzgibbons. In the book, Jenner leads seven of the rats on a hardware store raid and are presumed dead, prompting men from NIMH to bulldoze the rose bush to exterminate all the rats.

It isn't the clash between humans and rats that is so interesting, but the underlying theme that sentient and evolved animals like rats understand the need for self determination. The rats understand that they will be discovered if they remain dependent on the farmer and that the only ethical way to live is by producing their own food and necessities. It's a really simple equation, one my grandmother taught me. Determination + Work = Independence and Prosperity. I wonder even now, how the people in this country forgot that simple equation or if they never learned it.

In order to get jelly, we first had to grow and then harvest the grapes from the arbor in the back yard. Produce on the table came from the kitchen garden out back, which had to be tended, nurtured, weeded, watered, harvested and then preserved so we could have fresh corn, tomatoes and vegetables during the winter. It didn't meet all of our needs so my parents worked every day, and even worked a second job when what they earned wasn't enough. We all worked hard and for our efforts we earned a comfortable life. Everyone pitched in. Even as children, we learned how to tend the garden, harvest the produce and fruits that grew in our yard and preserve what we produced.

With the current economic picture, people are more interested in lining up for food stamps, Welfare and government grants instead of lining up for jobs. It shouldn't matter what the job is as long as it ends with a paycheck.

When I lived in Columbus, I saw people on the streets at on off- and on-ramps to the freeways with signs: Will work for food. When I stopped I offered them business cards for the local labor exchange and explained they would get paid at the end of the work day. As I drove away, I watched them either rip up the card or just toss it onto the ground. They didn't really want to work. They wanted a handout. A handout is so much easier and all it requires is standing around waiting.

I've known immigrants who crammed into small apartments and rooms and worked two and three jobs every day of the week to earn enough money to feed themselves and their families, saving a little of what they earned for the day when they could afford a place of their own. They didn't expect handouts; they were willing to work, and it didn't matter what the job was so long as there was a paycheck at the end of the week. There were always a few who would rather steal than earn a living, but they were in the minority. The job didn't matter and they often ended up with grunt work -- washing dishes, cleaning motels and hotels, making and serving food in fast food restaurants, digging ditches, mopping floors, picking produce, etc. The only thing that mattered was being independent and having a chance for a better life, one they didn't have in their home country. In the remaining spare time, they went to night school to learn the language and get an education so they could move on to a better job to earn more money.

With unemployment soaring to and past 10%, and that's only the unemployed who get benefits and haven't fallen through the bureaucratic cracks, more and more people are losing their jobs. Businesses are downsizing and moving their operations offshore to stay alive and compete. Crippling taxes and increased government oversights and regulations force more and more businesses to close. More people out of work means fewer people able to afford luxuries and cutting back on food, clothing and rent and that means more businesses folding or laying off more employees, and it just keeps getting worse. The current administration's response to the economic crisis is to print more money and hand out more food stamps and Welfare checks without facing the fact that they're stealing from the people who are still producing at an ever growing rate until the end result will be the strangulation of the remaining viable businesses as they struggle to meet payrolls and buy the raw and manufactured materials to continue producing. They too will be forced to downsize just to stay alive and that means more people out of work and on the public dole.

It's a vicious and vertiginous downward spiral with no Thorn Valley on the horizon, the effect of too many mouths sucking on the government teat. The government cow is rapidly running dry and the pasture is grazed nearly to the roots. It takes seed to grow more grass and time for the grass to grow, but none of that means anything when the cow is slaughtered to feed all those voracious mouths. In the end, the pasture grass will grow back, but there will be no cow to graze and produce milk. At least, there will be no more cattle to add greenhouse gases to the mix.

I doubt that Robert C. O'Brien or Don Bluth intended their story to be taken in this direction, but the theme is clear for anyone with even a passing acquaintance with the entitlement versus independent production debate. It's not the magic or the Frisbys need to move house that is at the center of The Secret of NIMH, but a group of rats aware that they need to be independent and produce what they need to live. It's amazing how much truth can be found in a children's book and a beautifully animated movie.

Goofing on grammar

Many moons ago I wrote a column called "Grammar Goofs". It was an attempt to teach grammar through humor and it was fairly successful -- at first. Then one self-proclaimed editor had an issue with a column and the way I presented the material and complained to the editor of the newsletter/ezine, saying she was ending her subscription. In the 6+ months I wrote the column there were fewer than six complaints, most of them from the self-professed editor, but when that one person ended her subscription my column ended because the newsletter editor didn't want to upset people or have them give up their subscription to a free newsletter. Oh, well, move on and upwards. Fast forward.

Yesterday's little grammar post was because it bothers me to see such blatant disregard for the simple mechanics of grammar, most of which I learned before the age of 10. I enjoyed it so much when the teacher moved on to English and grammar. The harmony of homonyms and the magic of I before E except after C, except in some cases, was fun and it wasn't difficult at all to figure out how to use the lessons in the real world. I had no trouble determining whether I should use TO or TOO or TWO despite them sounding alike (homonyms = words that sound alike but are spelled differently) or how to spell FRIENDS or RECEIVE, and I was a child. I cannot understand why many in the supposedly literate world has such problems. Can't completely blame texting and acronym use for all our problems. Then I saw a video of Jaywalking excerpts from the Tonight Show with Jay Leno and I understood. People are not supposedly literate, they are barely literate and stupid.

People who cannot tell you where the Panama Canal is located or who wrote the autobiography of Malcolm X aren't just camera shy, not in a world where everyone uses their cell phones to take videos and snap photos of everything they see and hear, including their best friend's hurling after a night of mobile mooning from an Infiniti or Cabriolet. Most of these people are in college and the idea that college students don't know the definition of autobiography is beyond sad. I don't believe there is a word for something this far beyond sad.

I don't blame teachers forced to follow curricula that have nothing to do with teaching the basics and teach level testing because they also have to police classrooms and spend time strip searching and metal detecting their students, which does not leave a lot of time for teaching students how to think or learn the basics. I blame the government for kowtowing to political interests fully invested in treating the the symptoms and not the disease. It's patch therapy for a gaping, gushing, arterial wound.

Instead of focusing on how fat people are getting because of the introduction of fat-free foods and putting the empty calories of salt/sodium and sugar in everything, how about focusing on real education and teaching people how to learn? It's no wonder so many businesses are sending their companies overseas, not only for the tax benefits but because American workers are too dumb to handle even the simple jobs without demanding high wages while they sandbag their way through their jobs to get more overtime and benefits. They're not working hard at all, but they're also not working smart, unless you call fleecing their employers and the American consumer smart.

But everybody does it. Yes, and everybody who does it needs to get in line and take a very long walk off a very short pier over the Marianas Trench. Don't worry. Most people won't get that one either.

So, in hopes that someone will read my posts and get something out of them, I will write one grammar post each week on Thursdays. I'd write one every day, but it will take a while for the information to sink in and I don't want to overload those delicate and unused synapses by explaining more than one grammatical rule a week. For those of you who understand grammar and would like to participate by sending your pet peeves and irksome, brawling grammar goofs, please feel free to comment with your wish list. All comments that I hoist myself on my own petard and spin will be laughed at and held up to ridicule because I have no doubt the comments will be phrased in horrendously horrible homonym failures.

That is all. Disperse.

Kicked out of Eden

A couple of days ago I received my new tarot deck to use with Tarot for Writers. Since I went to bed early, I woke up early and couldn't get back to sleep. I pulled out the new deck of cards, shuffled and pulled three cards with a friend's problems in mind.


The Hanged Man


Ace of Wands


Death

At first glance, the news isn't good, but that would be the wrong assumption. The basic meaning is that a sacrifice is required before a new and better future can take place and it will change everything. You will be transformed, but in order for that to happen you have to be ready to accept the change, and the change will be a bigger and better job or opportunity.

No, no one is going to die. Death is about transformation, change, clearing the decks. The Hanged Man is sacrifice and seeing things from a different perspective. The Ace of Wands is illumination, a gift, a powerful and different path lit by the fires of change and inspiration, but you have to be ready to accept the change and not be mired in the past or in a comfortable and safe rut.

The first thing that came to mind was Adam and Eve being forced out of the Garden of Eden. Some sects believe their expulsion from Eden was as a result of sin, the first sin, and that being cast out was a punishment. Many other sects believe that it was a good thing, the best thing to happen to Adam and Eve.

Adam and Eve were children living in a comfortable and beautiful garden with no real responsibilities and no cares. Everything they needed was given to them and in exchange all they had to do was follow the rules. But, like children, telling them not to do something put ideas in their heads, especially Eve's. In a way, Eve and Pandora are the same. They are curious and adventurous and willing to take chances. Eve took a chance and shared her discovery with Adam, but that is the way it was meant to be. Had Eve not taken the apple, she and Adam would have remained children, all potential with no results. Stagnant. Unchanged. Stuck in a rut in a very comfortable zone.

Change demands sacrifice and sacrifice is often a painful wrench. After all, who wants to give up a comfortable rut for the unknown?

Adam and Eve's sacrifice was their childhood, their innocent trust. They took matters into their own hands and had to rely on gaining skill and experience to meet the demands of a changing existence. It's the difference between a pool and a stream or river. If the pool gets no fresh water, it becomes stagnant and dries up. It dies. A stream or river is constantly moving, changing the boundaries and wearing away the obstacles, sometimes quickly and sometimes slowly, but always inexorably.

What seems like a disaster or a blow to the ego or the heart is often the Universe's way of forcing us out of the comfort zone, expelling us from the Garden of Eden where nothing and no one changes and life becomes stagnant and safe. Lose a job or become injured or ill and we see it as negative when in reality it is an opportunity for change, clearing the mind and the decks down to the bedrock to build something stronger and better. Change is a light burning in the midst of a dense forest that no one sees until the path is cleared and the dead wood moved out of the way. Then the light is visible and lights the path ahead for miles. The dark and forbidding forest is transformed into a clear road forward where more can be seen.

Four years ago I was forced out of my Eden and periodically the Universe kicks me in the hind quarters and forces me out of my comfort zone. The big transformation for me was a new job and moving to a new city. I still have the job but I was forced to move to a new place and it has turned out for the best. As I look back through the years, I see other abrupt upheavals when the Universe gave me a shove and forced me to move on and to change. It was hard at first and I grumbled at the inconvenience and sacrifice, but ultimately, every single time, the change was for the best. I gained new skills, stretched new muscles and arrived in a new and better place. Some of the changes weren't so pleasant, but they always gave me something I could use, some knowledge or skill that I would not have otherwise had if I hadn't been pushed to change, to sacrifice the status quo for a chance to better myself and my life. I didn't always see it that way and sometimes it hurt to be forced to move on, but there is truth to the saying: No pain, no gain. Sometimes you have to tear something down before you can build something new and better, and stronger.

Losing my job five years ago was devastating and the year it took me to climb out of the rut of self pity I dug was difficult. I sacrificed so much and was asked to sacrifice a little more. I thought I had pared my life down to the essentials, but the Universe demanded more. I'm sure there will be further demands if I fail to see the path ahead, but one thing I have learned is that I will survive because I have survived worse.

No matter what we do in life, if there is untapped potential, more will be demanded. It's comfortable and safe in the ruts we dig for ourselves in our relationships, jobs and choices. It's so easy to keep doing things the way we have always done them, but that way lies stagnation. We don't always have to keep changing things just to change them, but it helps to take the hurdles and detours as life's way of pushing us to see things from a new perspective. Whatever the sacrifice, it will be difficult and it might hurt, but the price of transformation is usually costly. The prize is always worth the price.

Had Adam and Eve not been kicked out of Eden, there would be no human race, no dizzying heights of accomplishment and no abysmal depths of destruction and pain. There would be only two immortal children in a stagnant world full of unrealized potential unaware that they are meant for more. There would be no interesting times in which to live only the same chores day after endless day in an unchanging landscape in eternal spring with no surprises and nothing to take the breath away. In short, existence without ever living. The best thing that happened to Adam and Eve was the apple. It wasn't sin. It was sacrifice, a wondrous gift and transformation. It was growing up.

No-contact sports

There is a letter waiting for a stamp on top of the microwave. It's the letter I wrote to my brother's ex-wife in response to her attack because he cannot control me. Bobbie was adamant about none of his family contacting her. That was in response to my letter to her and Alisha, their daughter, about not sending a wedding gift to people who never welcomed me in their home or included me in other birthdays, holidays or special events. She got so verbally abusive my usually silent brother blew up. Bobbie shut up. He should have blown up before this when she isolated him from his family and made certain none of them were welcome in her home.

Beanie thinks I should let it go and not send the letter because it will only cause more problems for Jimmy. If I still lived in Columbus, it wouldn't be an issue; I'd go to her house and tell her what I think of her not being mature enough or woman enough to face me instead of attacking my brother. He's an idiot, but he's my younger idiot brother. And she wonders why people don't like her.

Bobbie's excuse for not including me before in family celebrations was because she didn't know where I was. I lived in Columbus for about ten years and she didn't know where I was despite being invited to my home for family celebrations. She didn't know how to contact me and yet she knew enough to ask Jimmy to email me and ask for my address. Beanie and my parents have always known how to reach me wherever I was, but it never occurred to Bobbie to ask them or have Jimmy ask. Picking up the phone to call me when I lived in town was too difficult to manage all on her own, but getting my address to invite me to send a gift for Alisha's wedding is more important than any previous family celebration. Higher stakes must mean taking the time to finally include me. Uh, no.

I don't know if Beanie is right and I shouldn't send the letter or if I should follow my own conscience and let Bobbie know what I think of her hypocrisy. I admit I have a big problem with hypocrites and women who abuse their husbands verbally and emotionally, especially because men like Jimmy don't want to admit their spouses are abusive. After all, a man can take being called names and having their manhood called into question. They can take being cut off from their families and friends so they have no outside support. They can take being emotionally and verbally brutalized because they're men. It would be easier to stand face to face with Bobbie and tell her what my family has been unwilling to say all these years when they smiled and welcomed her into their homes only to be treated like dirt beneath her white trash feet. They excused her rude, arrogant and abrasive behavior because they didn't want to make trouble for Jimmy. They didn't get it then and they don't get it now. Jimmy's troubles began when he decided to go through with the marriage despite knowing it was a big mistake.

Like Jimmy told Bobbie, no one controls me. Not my parents. Not my family. Certainly not Jimmy. Now I have to decide whether or not to send the letter. Bobbie said she doesn't want Jimmy's family contacting her. Maybe it would be best to honor her wishes and make sure none of Jimmy's family contacts her again -- or comes to Alisha's wedding or sends a gift. After all, those actions would be contact.

The physics of revolution

There is this horrid problem involving theft and what I assume are tachyons and quantum physics. It couldn't be anything else. It happens when I get an idea, snippets of dialogue and description, stories and characters and all the things that go into writing successful articles and books and posts. The words effortlessly come together, spinning out like the most wonderful of Charlotte's webs and I am caught in the zone, traveling at the speed of thought. I decide the inspiration will still be there when I get back from the store or running errands or doing whatever needs to be done and don't stop and record it or write it all down and go about the tasks at hand. When I return and have the time to sit down and write, they're gone. The most brilliant prose disappeared as though no more than smoke on the wind. No trace of existence remains in the synaptic cul-de-sacs of my brain. My words have been stolen -- again. I'll find them weeks, months and even years later looking up at me from someone else's books and articles and stories as though they belong there. It's quantum theft on a massive scale and I am diminished, violated, raped with no recourse to justice. That's what's happened this morning.

I had a wonderful idea for a post yesterday but I had some chores to do, food to buy and a horrid book to finish reading so I can review it today. The foulness that was the book lingers in my mind like a nasty aftertaste of some poisonous or rotted food that no amount of tooth brushing and gargling has removed. I doubt even writing the review will purge the horrible story from my mind and it will linger, tainting my reading enjoyment with crass, half-assed plotting and prose that barely deserves the designation.

Is half an ass a mule?

The post is gone and I am left sitting here, my fingers tapping out consonants and vowels, arranging them in some coherent order, bereft of my original impulse. In it's place, I offer this:

In the Muslim world it is acceptable to murder women and one movie says it all so eloquently: The Stoning of Soraya M.. This is the truth behind the news, the rights of women that Obamessiah upheld and pointed to in his Cairo speech. This is the tip of the iceberg in Iran and other Muslim countries where sharia law is practiced and where demonstrators for democracy are beaten with clubs while the President offers his mealy-mouthed protestations that he supports peaceful demonstrations. He just does not get it. In a theocracy where human rights are denied and the people oppressed and fearful of speaking out, there is no such thing as a peaceful revolution. Women are demonstrating in the thousands throughout Iran in defiance of the Ayatollah Khamenei's demands that they stop because demonstrations will not change the vote nor will he be pressured as he has pressured the Iranian people since the Shah's overthrow in the 1970s. The people are tired of mock elections and lies and are willing to stand up for their rights to a free and democratic government. It's too bad the President of the United States cannot be pried from his teleprompter to respond as vehemently as he did when he denounced the bloodshed in Romania. After all, pushing more pork and his universal health care agenda is more important than the outcries of an oppressed people in the enlightened Muslim country of Iran.

Peter Pan and real men

While watching a British male version of Sex and the City (that's the advertisement not the actual fact) called Manchild I was struck by the difference in attitudes and social situations of these four men. Only one of them has not had children or been married, Patrick, and the other three are as juvenile as they come, which puts me in mind of my own father on this Father's Day and I am sad, not just because this is the third Father's Day without my father but because these men are indicative of what fatherhood has come to mean. These are definitely men who are children with large disposable incomes.

My dad had his faults. He was vain and afraid of getting old. He primped and preened, but he was a father, a real dad. He was a good role model and still the mark against which I measure all men. He was responsible, caring, thoughtful, generous with himself and his time, tough when he had to be, loving and kind. He was a real man, not a child with a car, house and bank account. He was a little obsessed with age but he was never old and he didn't look old even though he was 79 when he died, not because he was childish or a child but because he was thoroughly engaged in living and enjoyed every moment of his life.

Although Dad wasn't wealthy -- how could he be married to Mom, a woman determined to have everything she ever wanted -- or have an obscenely large disposable income, he wasn't obsessed with things. He was obsessed with family and living. He still managed to go on long vacations and have most of what he needed and a few things he wanted, like his chickens and trees and flowers and plants. He was involved with all of his children, not as an ATM or someone who threw money at them and then went on about his own life, completely invested in our lives, our thoughts, dreams, aspirations, trials, tribulations and joys. He cared.

He cared about his family and his friends. He cared about the people around him. He never needed or wanted to impress anyone and yet impressed them anyway with his friendliness and generous soul. He may have wished to remain young, but he didn't spend his life obsessing about toners or moisturizers or manicures or any of the million things that men today seem to be caught up in. He could admire a beautiful young woman without needing to find a way between her legs to prove his virility or his youth. He was more interested in how people see and live in the world than sexual Olympics, which is not to say he was oblivious to sex. He preferred to keep that part of his life private and not parade it for the whole world to see. He was quite modest in that way. Women found him very attractive and Dad accepted their interest but didn't seek to indulge some Peter Pan fantasy that he still "had it". He had it, no mistake about that. He didn't need to flaunt it or take it out for every Tonya, Diana or Harriet. Dad was a grownup, something most men nowadays are not.

I've found very few men who could live up to my idea of a responsible husband and father. My brother is one of them and I can honestly say I know two or three men of my acquaintance that came out of the same class, one of them a very close friend who lives nearby. I wish there were more like my father. No doubt the world would be a better and a safer place.

On this Father's Day I remember my father and I wish the men like him a very happy and well deserved rest. Thank you, Jimmy, Jerry, Chili Bob and John for giving me real men to appreciate and believe in, men like my father. This day is for you.

Take my breath away

This morning someone asked me what I like to show family and friends who visit me here in Colorado. It's an easy answer.

There are so many things to see here in Colorado: deserts, mountains, wildlife, nightlife and history. My favorite place to take people is the spectacular beauty and grandeur of the view from Wilkerson Pass west of Colorado Springs up I-24. It always takes my breath away.



That is all. Disperse.

All fired up

Fire warms and cooks and provides romance on a cold, snowy night. Fire lights the way and cheers when glowing through a window on dark nights in a solitary landscape. Fire destroys and in that destruction provides nourishment for growth.

In the July/August issue of Grit an article about prairie fires caught my attention. A couple decided to buy land in the Midwest and reclaim the land. Part of the reclamation is controlled burning every 2-3 years, something indigenous people did regularly to nourish the land and increase its productivity and diversity. Animals flee as the fire races across the prairie devouring everything in its path. The ground is blackened and plant incursions by competing species are ash that enrich the soil. When the flames die, native plants grow quickly supercharged by the life-giving sun, its heat concentrated by the blackened earth, reaching quickly toward the sky and once again covering the prairie. Animals and insects rapidly return and ecological stability is maintained and preserved.

The same thing happens with forest fires. Forest floor litter is consumed and the ash enriches the soil. Seeds safe in the earth from the fire grow unimpeded, no longer choked by the thick undergrowth. Small trees consumed by the flames allow sunlight to stream down through the remaining trees. Pine cones open in the intense heat and release their seeds and indigenous trees with thick cobble-stoned bark protect the inner layers that contain the circulation that provides nutrients and water that keep the tree alive and thriving. Fire is nature's spring cleaner, weeding out the weak and nourishing the strong and it works for writing, life and relationships as well.

Chasing Armageddon

Because of the movie, which I have not yet seen, I decided to read The Watchmen, the 1980s graphic novel and so far it's interesting and provocative. No, not in a sexual sense, but in a provoking thought sense. The whole concept of a human being bombarded by nuclear material reassembling himself over several days into a blue skinned, blank-eyed hunk is quite startling and innovative, but the idea of costumed adventurers battling for good and evil is even more so and it makes me think about the state of the world now.

Ozymandias's plan to bring the world to the bring of nuclear war to create peace is not a new concept and could have been taken from Star Trek, the original series, when Gary 7 detonated a nuclear warhead about 10 miles above the Earth's surface. The same idea was put forward in the war with the Shadows on Babylon 5 where two separate factions from ancient races battled it out with the universe's races and the Shadows believed that all out war brought out the best in humanoids so they were forced to evolve quicker. But where does all this evolution and using the threat of nuclear annihilation take us?

For some reason, it took me into a dream of driving down a hall where children were frantically and gleefully ripping books off shelves, throwing them onto the floor and stomping on them. My partner and I stopped the vehicle even though we were in a rush to question the children. I wrote down their names and tried to get information on their families while deciding whether I should contact their parents by phone, letter or in person. I was appalled that the children would treat books in such a fashion and despaired of the human race if that kind of behavior continued. That scenario is probably a direct result of having talked about a similar subject with Lynn yesterday.

I have trouble understanding why when I was in grade school a teacher could handle 30+ students without paras and aides and all the extra staff needed today. Granted, Lynn works with mentally retarded and developmentally disabled children (MRDD), but even in regular schools the teachers need help. Why? Because children are out of control and their parents are becoming less and less involved in teaching them social skills and discipline.

The first response on my lips when someone tells me about a child or teen who has talked back to a teacher or abused an adult is that I wouldn't be here today. My parents believed in corporal punishment, although I got less of it than my brother. Jimmy seemed to need a minimum of twice daily spankings: one in the morning when he got up to remind him to behave and one at night before he went to bed for anything he did that was missed and not punished. (It's only partly a joke.) Soap was my mother's favorite tool of punishment for because caught with the taste of banned words and a chair facing the corner or one of us standing in the corner with our nose to the wall the second favorite form of punishment. There were spankings with belts, switches (we had to cut them ourselves) and whatever was closed to hand at the moment of discovery and the occasional backhand in the face when soap was not available, but we were by no means abused children -- well, at least the other three weren't abused. Anything at school that resulted in a visit to the principal or vice-principal's office for a spank meant a repeat performance at home, but then all of us were more afraid not to bring a note home from school than to bring one home.

Punishment really isn't about spanking but about setting limits and sticking to them. Kids need limits, and so, in my opinion, do most adults. Kids do best with limits and learn quickest when there are object lessons about cause and effect. Steal something and get punished and you're less likely to steal again -- or you'll become more efficient at getting away with it. Somehow it was easier to face the owner of the goods and apologize than to face my mother's wrath if I got caught, so stealing was out of the question. The real issue is parents being involved and aware of their children's actions. My parents were involved -- sometimes too much, but that turned out to be a good thing . . . most of the time.

The strange thing about my dream wasn't just the children, but the way the teachers and adults in the school responded. They remembered me as a student and said that I had exceeded their expectations and they knew about me. I found myself in the bathroom before I could find out what they meant and that was the signal for me to wake up and go to the bathroom for real.

What I wonder still is how close children need to get to nuclear meltdown before parents take over again, but that presupposes there will not be a nuclear war with missiles fired from North Korean or Iran and there will still be children to worry about.

Seeking god

When I was a child living on an Army base in Panama, my father decided to convert to Catholicism and the family went with him. It didn't last long, just until Dad found out he had to give up being a Mason, and that he refused to do. We got off the Catholic train and followed our parents through several different Christian reform sects until they settled on Baptist after a lifetime of being Methodists.

Off and on through my adult life I moved toward and backed away from the Baptists and from Christianity, feeling something unsettling about their history and doctrine, but never quite sure what it was. Time and again I came up against dogma and all my questions, questions I had asked since I was a small child of three or four, were met with the same answer: It is not our place to understand just to obey and take everything on faith.

I have faith in many things: the turn of the season, the sun rising in the morning, the moon hanging in the night sky showing its many faces as it glimpses the sun and that death certainly follows life. I began having doubts about any religion that negated the "gifts" that I was supposedly given by god, like my curiosity and intelligence. Ministers and laymen alike told me I was not allowed to use them to question god or to question anything that was already accepted by their religion. Then why give me curiosity and a thirst for knowledge if not to use it? I couldn't accept that an omnipotent god would be so incensed and upset by me using what s/he gave me and so I began to search and to question.

In my early twenties I studied the Mormons and every other religion I could. I briefly became Mormon, but their exclusion of other races and their problems with people who were born different chilled me to the bone. I walked away and went back to Christianity, and thus began the dance toward and away, toward and away. As Christianity became more and more exclusive I backed farther and farther away until I realized that it no longer fed my soul, met my spiritual and temporal needs or filled me with joy.

The more I learned of Christianity and its history, of the truth it has suppressed in order to gain more power over people's minds and hearts, the less I wanted to do with it. Organized religion was the path to corruption and destruction of the souls and minds of humanity, steeped in excess and rife with lies. I could no longer give my talents or my allegiance to what I was raised to believe.

I had flirted with paganism, finding in its simple tenets and open embrace of curiosity and intelligence a peace and joy I had not felt since I was a child, and finally I turned away from organized religion altogether and embraced the calling of my heart and soul. I have not only considered converting, but actually have. I still read about and question adherents of other religions because knowledge is power and because knowing what calls to another's heart helps to understand them and myself. I will always seek understanding. In many ways, that is my religion, seeking god at the heart of nature and creation. Understanding may never fully come, but I will always seek it. It is what I was born to be.

Bermuda Triangle of Democracy

After the elections in Iran and the declaration of Ahmadinejad as winner, Tehran and surrounding areas erupted with violence. Protesters chanting, "Where are our votes?" were beaten and arrested. One hundred government officials resigned in protest. Ahmadinejad's opponent, Mousavi, disappeared on his way to see the real power in Iran, Khameini. All the while Ahmadinejad smiled and posed for the cameras as he declared himself the winner, the once and still president of the Islamic Republic of Iran, while highlighting the "free and healthy elections". Doesn't sound so free or so healthy and the people obviously don't agree with him.

What happened on Friday and over the weekend in Iran is a mockery of the democratic process, but not a big surprise. The people have been lulled into believing a fantasy, that a free and healthy democratic process is possible and their votes matter. As long as Iran is governed by Khameini and his band of Basiji thugs, this is what the Iranian people can expect, more puppets like Ahmadinejad spouting religious platitudes and fiery speeches about the destiny of a nuclear Iran that will result in a prosperous and economically stable country rivaling the great superpowers. Iran is just one more Bermuda Triangle of Freedom.

In a country where they have to import refined petroleum products because their own refineries have neither the capacity nor the expertise to refine their own crude oil and their best and brightest citizens take the first opening to run for freedom in the West, it's hard to see Iran as anything near to a superpower. Iran's oil wealth has gone to finance terrorist groups like Hezbollah and Hamas in an effort to destabilize the rest of the Arab world and destroy Israel instead of into a flagging and crumbling economy. Had the leaders of Iran been serious about freedom and the democratic process, they would have elected someone whose main focus wasn't in destroying Israel, terrorism and building a nuclear arsenal to hold the rest of the world hostage. Iran would not have to loan money to couples who cannot afford the cost of an apartment in a concrete block building for their marriage ceremonies and Iranians would have a better standard of living with low cost petroleum products and electricity, if such had been the real goal.

My Gram always said the proof was in the pudding and the proof of the governing authorities in Iran is evident with the continuing riots over the weekend.

It's easy to point to people lining up at the polls and 85% of the registered voters participating as proof of the democratic process, but the proof is not in the queues or the number of people that turn out; the proof is in the results of an orderly transition of power or the smooth return to business as usual in the event of the re-election of an incumbent.

When voters are beat up or terrorized at polling places or their votes miraculously disappearing in known strongholds of the opposition, something is definitely wrong with the process. When the media caters to the approved favorite who spends most of his time playing to the crowds and mugging for the camera without one single piece of concrete evidence of his fitness for the position or his ability to make good on his campaign promises, the scent of lies is like the smell of shrimp beginning to rot in the curtain rods. It's faint but grows stronger with each passing day, an undefinable stench that begins to permeate everything. Fiery and stirring rhetoric inflames the emotions, but is a poor substitute for results in a flagging economy where truth is a vanishing commodity.

As the religion of persecution and the cult of the personality grow, it becomes a festering wound on the soul of a nation that poisons the whole system, but it is a fraud, a bit of prestidigitation to hide the real truth that freedom is diseased, slowly and subtly eroding like creeping leprosy until people wake up to find it gone. They wonder how it happened and when, but it was right there all the time, spreading its subtle influence like an expanding Bermuda Triangle engulfing sense and reason in lies and showmanship, stage dressing and sound bytes until truth lies in ruins or little more than a faintly remembered dream.

Ahmadinejad's "victory" is but the visibly flagrant symbol of an inward state of rot and while the world's attention is focused on him, the real danger in goes unnoticed and unchecked. Beware the Bermuda Triangle coming to a country near you.

Days I need wine and roses

"The days of wine and roses...laugh and run away like a child at play..." That song is stuck in my head right now as the lights flicker on and off and another thunderstorm moves through this usually arid area where rain falls everywhere but here. It's been like for over a month, and believe me I'm not complaining. I love the rain and I adore thunderstorms, just not when I need my Internet connection to stay stable and actually on. Had to give up watching another episode of Babylon 5, but I wasn't really able to get into it because of administrative duties that ended in me firing someone. I hate when that happens. Suffice it to say, he deserved it and I did what I had to do. And the day started out so nice -- for a few minutes, and then an email I should have immediately deleted instead of reading hit me wrong.

What is it about some people they feel the need to rip at someone who disagrees with them, usually with some form of snide comment that looks like a compliment but isn't? The world, and this country, offer a widely diverse range of experiences and it takes all of us to be able to experience everything. However, one person can rack up quite a list of experiences if they spend any time traveling other than the safe and guided highways and byways. I've had the good fortune to live in interesting times and even more interesting places and I've never been afraid of new experiences. I have mingled with people from all strata of society and learned things, some of which I wished at the time I hadn't. I have had lots of experience in business, television, medicine, publishing and security, to name a few industries, and my resume covers maybe one-third of my background. I am, as I have told many people, a Jackie-of-all-trades and have mastered quite a few. Doesn't mean I wouldn't like to master a few more, and believe me when I saw I shall. Life's too short to waste it waiting on the sidelines for life to happen. I'm not the shrinking violet or wallflower type.

At any rate, I sent a shot across the bow of the correspondent who sent her snide comment. I'm sure it hit its mark since no response has returned. That's the thing about secrets, and I've said this before. They never stay buried if more than one person knows. When the secret is part of public record that is available for a few cents a copied page and an afternoon digging through civil and probate court records, it is so much easier to find and paper keeps for a long time.

It reminds me of the saying on a wall in a graphic novel. "Who watches the Watchmen?" In this case, all it took was a request for information and I took the time to watch the guardian. Some people feel so safe bilking the government and attempting to hide in reams of bureaucratic paperwork, but there's always someone willing to wade through the red tape, pay the fees and get the information, especially when there is a loved one's health and well being at stake. Even the guardians need to be guarded. The only reason the information didn't come out before this was because one of the parties afraid of the repercussions and what would be lost. I do not share the fears, but I respected the request. Sounds so mysterious and cloak-and-dagger, but I've no doubt the information, if it merely grazed the mark before, will be received and noted in due course. If nothing else, it will make a great story about families, fraud, malfeasance and greed. I'm sure it will quickly find a following.

I guess some people never read the sign that says, "Don't poke the bear," and take it to heart when they should. There is only one thing more dangerous and ferocious than a pissed off bear and that's a pissed off writer. Think I'm kidding. You've obviously never read the famous feuds and poison pens employed by pissed off writers that rival the Hatfields and the McCoys. There are enemies turned into villainous characters in novels and public and written sniping, as when Gore Vidal quipped that Truman Capote's horrendous end was "...a good career move."

Writers, as in a recent post by a friend, are more than capable of rendering life into art and finding new and inventive ways to murder those who raise the writer's ire to Mount St. Helen's or Krakatoa's proportions that can darken the horizon for years. I've always wondered who Dickens loathed so much as to immortalize him in the greedy, grasping and obsequious person of Uriah Heep? Probably someone who was given guardianship over a loved one.

Yes, this day would have been better for wine and roses, but I guess I'll have to settle for a glass of wine. The roses aren't in bloom yet.