Tarot: Victim or Victor

I once told a friend who was intently pursuing a man who turned her life inside-out and upside-down and then walked away only to come back again and again that the reason he didn't stick around was because she had nothing to offer -- not to him or to herself. She couldn't make up her mind about what she wanted to do and bounced from job to job and school to school, constantly changing her major and her goals. She was scattered, uncertain and spent her life moving from one friend's house to another, watching their children in exchange for room and board and a little money. Everyone took advantage of her, but she didn't see a way out. She had to have a place to stay and couldn't hold a job long enough to earn the money to get a place of her own. She had grants for school and kept flunking out or failing to show up, always ready with excuses. "I didn't have a way to get there. I didn't have any clean clothes. I got up too late."

She had more excuses than anyone I've ever seen before, and yet she kept getting one break after another. Jobs fell into her lap and she seldom held them for more than three weeks, and it was always someone else's fault. She had nothing of her own and didn't mind living off other people -- or other men. Some guy was always ready to bail her out and she played the damsel in distress very well.

By contrast, Jason, the guy she was obsessed about, had a good job and had a place to live. Granted, it was his mother's house, but he paid the bills and kept it clean. His family had several homes and he came from a wealthy family, so where he lived was really no surprise. He was used to better. So, here comes this girl from the ghetto with no ambition and nothing she could call her own and she wanted him. He enjoyed her company and the sex, but wasn't ready to make their relationship permanent. He didn't mind helping out from time to time, rescuing her from her latest situation, but he didn't want the job full time.

I told her she needed to get herself and her life together before he would consider her as anything more than a booty call or occasional girlfriend. She needed to do it for herself more than anything else, get her life settled. She was almost 30 at that point, and being almost thirty with nothing to show for your life is a very sad situation. She wasn't the kind of girl that rich men went out of their way to wine and dine and shower with riches, but rather the girl who would do their nails. No class, no education and nothing to show for her life except a string of failures. She didn't listen. The only thing she wanted to know was how to trap him.

And trap him she did. She got pregnant. After seven abortion, because the fathers weren't him, she got pregnant. It happened under the effects of drugs and alcohol when he forgot to use a condom or pull out in time. She had him dead to rights and she let him know when she was far enough along that an abortion wouldn't be feasible that he was going to be a father. He ran away from her and refused to have anything to do with her. She pursued him and, when he wouldn't give her what she wanted, she went to his family.

She now has a son, his son, and he pays child support regularly. She still has no job and no prospects and no place to call her own. She's living with her mother for now, but time is running out, so she has made a plan to get help from Welfare and other charitable organizations to take care of her and her child. She's 31 years old and still hasn't learned.

So what does this tale have to do with today's cards? It depends on whether you see my friend as a victim or a victor.

The Nine of Wands shows a soldier weary from battering against an insurmountable blockade. He has put everything into the battle and leans on his remaining support, remaining upright by will alone. When he went into the battle, he was certain he'd succeed. Everything was on his side: experience, intelligence, skill and desire. He is puzzled. Why didn't he succeed? What went wrong.

Beside him in the ivy is a scarab, symbolizing the quiet voice of the soul, the voice that says, "You need time to figure this out. Retreat and regroup."

He needs to contrast his belief in success against his worldly experience and reconcile the data, balance his experiential and emotional checkbook, so to speak. Failure has caught him napping and nothing turned out as he had planned; he is not certain why. He needs to go over the data, reflect and find the flaw in his approach, learn from his mistakes and find a way to turn defeat into victory, and then try again.

The message of the Nine of Wands is not to despair when a difficult situation seems insoluble and confusion. Nothing is impossible. Sometimes it is a matter of taking a few steps back and re-evaluating the situation, learning from the mistakes while healing and figuring out a different pathway through the barrier. Above all, don't use this setback as a reason to escape from life. Life is about struggle. Sometimes you win and sometimes you lose, but the losses can become victories if you take the time to learn from them. We often learn more from our mistakes than from our victories. Victories are easy and failure a chance to grow and expand knowledge. Don't waste it.

Pentacles are earthly symbols, the sign of the material. In the Nine of Pentacles, a wealthy and accomplished woman stands in a flourishing garden gazing intently at the hooded falcon on her wrist. She takes pride in her surroundings and her pride is evident in the garden, a feat she has achieved alone. She is a strong woman who has chosen a solitary path and she's comfortable in it, comfortable with herself and in her own skin. She has a right to be proud and in spite of her choices she is not lonely. She needs no one.

The nines of the minor arcana are symbolic of nearing the end of a journey. There is still a little more to come and for the accomplished woman in the Nine of Pentacles what is to come is a companion, someone to share and enjoy her garden and all she has accomplished. After all, success is a dish that tastes better when shared.

It's it often the case that those who want for nothing are the ones who get the best breaks and people are always willing to do things for them? Think of movie stars and celebrities. They have more money than they can spend in 100 lifetimes, and people fall all over themselves to give them whatever they admire. For instance, Queen Elizabeth of England often goes down to the high street to shop. Whatever she admires is given to her free of charge.

I remember a story about Hedda "the Hat" Hopper, the gossip columnist. During the depression when most people had nothing, Hedda mentioned in her column that she couldn't find a decent hat to wear. Tens of thousands of readers made hats and sent them to her, many of whom had little enough for themselves.

That's the way it goes. Make your life a success so that you have everything you need or want and, when you least expect it, more will be added. In the case of the Nine of Pentacles, that more would be someone to share your life.

The Wheel of Fortune, or Fate as some call it, turns beyond our control. It is mechanized and in perpetual motion, turning round and round, like the clockwork mechanism of the sun and planets and universe. It defines and is moved by the rhythms of nature and life, attuned to the energy and music of the spheres. The sun in the background symbolizes the mind: centered and secure, never worrying about the wheel. The mind is not at the Wheel of Fortune's mercy; it is apart, free. Everything that happens -- good or bad or indifferent -- depends on your point of view. The situation could be a blessing, a curse, a tragedy or an opportunity, or so much more or less, depending on what you see.

When the first colonists came to the New World, they viewed the natives as savages without culture or wealth, owning nothing and having no morals or society. The native viewed the colonists as children, idiots who did not see or understand the wealth around them or how they could feed and clothe and house themselves. They were over dressed, over sexed, and over here, to borrow a saying from England during World War II. The colonists saw the land as something to possess, put their fences around and set to orderly rights. The natives saw the colonists as intruders intent on forcing everyone and everything to conform to their way of life without respect for the millennia of culture and contented life that existed before them. Each saw the other as an obstacle to remove and bloodshed followed. It was all a matter of point of view who was right and who was wrong.

Out of great wrongs came The United States of America, a country hacked out of the a Garden of Eden, raped and pillaged and born in fire, bloodshed and death along a trail that extended from the Atlantic to the Pacific. Much great has come from America, but there has also been much harm. Which outweighs the other no one can truly tell because everyone sees things from a different point of view. What is good to one person is evil to another. And so it goes. The Wheel of Fortune turns, grinding down all in its path who fail to see that, although time and fate march on without us, as long as we understand and accept what can and cannot be controlled, life need never be a tragedy or a disaster.

See the cycles of the Wheel for what they are. Don't use fate as an excuse to avoid responsibility or a reason to blame someone else for bad luck or misfortune. Learn to control what you can and let the rest go. Accept blame only for what you did wrong. Take responsibility only for what you can control -- and didn't or wouldn't. There are enough people to take the blame for the rest. Above all, learn to find the good in a bad situation because every situation is a learning situation.

* * *

A woman owns a large piece of land on which she has built a home, tends a garden that provides herbs and food and beauty and she runs a successful business. She has it all and she is happy and content.

In her youth she spent a lot of time trying to find the right man with whom to share her life, but she had nothing to show for all those years except scars, experience and a drive to make something of her life on her own, depending on no one. She had been taught by her mother that a woman needs a man to complete her, to protect and give her everything she needs and, when she was young, she bought her mother's philosophy. When she couldn't find a man to complete her -- none of them were right and she ended up either supporting them or standing in the background -- she decided to make her own way. The result of all her hard work and effort is success, happiness and a feeling of contentment. She doesn't miss having a man around. She doesn't really need one, not with BOB, her battery operated boyfriend.

Midwinter night, December 21st, she sits in front of her fire after a pleasant meal sipping a glass of Merlot. As the full moon rises, she hears a knock on the door, a pounding really that fades into a faint scratching. She goes to the door and finds a naked man collapsed on her porch, shivering and blue with cold. She brings him inside, wraps him in warm blankets by the fire and fixes a cup of hot chocolate with a shot of rum. As he warms and begins to get back some color, she asks him who he is. He shakes his head, confused. "I don't know." He doesn't know where he was before he saw the lights in her windows or why or where he lost his clothes. The only thing he remembers is waking up, seeing her light and knowing there is where he'd find safety and warmth.

In my mind's eye, I see a different story than the one that will occur to you. Do you see a mystery or a fantasy? Is he a con man or something else? Who is he and what will happen in the days to come? Using the message and images of today's cards, how will you write this story's end?

As always, until next week, or when work slackens enough for me to be able to take the time and delve into the stories hidden in the tarot cards, keep writing.

The Gift

Sally Selkirk was born in the hills of West Virginia during a storm at a time when doctors still came to your house to deliver babies.

The doctor arrived in his Model T Ford and calmed the over wrought father immediately. He set him about taking care of the older children and went in to his wife who had been laboring for what seemed like days to her husband, but was a few hours by the clock. Soon after the doctor arrived he delivered a golden child whose lusty screams echoed in the still mountain air. Her hair was like golden strawberries and she soon quieted as she was put to the breast. After her screaming entry she was the quietest of children.

Sally was a tiny baby with eyes that followed everyone in a peculiarly fixed way as if, despite newborn babies' eyes being unfocused and cloudy, she could see clearly and understand what she saw.

The doctor called to Sally's father and he stumbled into the room, weary and worn as though he and not his wife had labored to bring forth the sunny and smiling child. As he marveled at his daughter's bright blue eyes and dimpled cheeks as she nursed, the doctor quietly left. He got into his car and drove down the muddy and pitted road and into a tree. The doctor never made it home. As Sally took her first breaths the doctor took his last.

Sally grew up during the Depression, that time of want and fear when jobs were scarce and families moved west, always west, to find work and enough money to lie. But Sally's father was an itinerant minister who had a green thumb. As her family moved around from church to church, the one constant in their lives was a kitchen garden. Sally's family didn't have much money but they always had food so she grew up knowing the smell and feel of the earth in all seasons. She was a happy child of sunshine and light. Clouds, earth, flowers, scents, and mountain life drew her attention, as did the strangers who invariably came to their kitchen door looking for food or odd jobs. Strangers meant new faces at the kitchen table with tales of other roads, other meals, and other people.

Everyone who came to their door fascinated Sally, but her mother, a timid soul, was not. Reverend Selkirk was usually visiting the sick or tending to the first and last rites of the lives under his care and seldom home when travelers displaced by failing crops, lack of work, or circumstance came to their door. Sally greeted them with an insatiable curiosity and her mother, Emma, greeted them with wary fear masked by politeness.

One such morning, Sally sat at the kitchen window seat gazing up at the clouds, which, to her, were a great golden frame ready to be filled by something special. She waited for the frame to be filled when a ragged man walked up the track leading to their kitchen door. He scuffed up dust. Grasshoppers bounded out of his way. The magpies scolded him from the willow tree. As he crested the rise, Sally saw him clearer.

His battered fedora, stained with sweat and summer dust, crouched on his head. His clothes were dusty and frayed around the edges, but they were clean. Fading creases marked the line of his pants and the sleeves of his shirt. Something about the man didn't seem right. His face was drawn down with heat and strain, but Sally saw something more, something undefined about him. He looked like a summer mirage shimmering to life as if he had been created the moment she saw him on the road.

"Mama, man on the road."

Emma wiped flour on her apron and pushed a sweaty ringlet off her cheek. "Where's the Reverend?"

"Down to the Millers. Bud's funeral."

Emma stood beside Sally and looked cautiously out the window. Sally reached for one floured hand. "Don't worry, Mama," she said as the man walked up to the porch and kicked the dust from his shoes. He pulled his hat off and nodded.

A quick smile quirked the corners of his mouth. "Afternoon, Ma'am." He bobbed his head. "Wouldn't have a cool drink of water and a bit of work?"
Sally squeezed her mother's hand and nodded up at her.

Emma shook her off. "Need some wood for the stove and more water drawn." She nodded toward the pump near the back step.

"I'll show you the wood pile." Sally jumped down from the window seat.

Emma grabbed for Sally's arm, but Sally was out the screen door before she could move. The screen door banged in the still, hot air. Sally skipped off the step and around the pump, glancing over her shoulder to see if the man was following. He sketched a bow and nodded before he put on his hat and followed Sally.

Grasshoppers whirred in the grass and birds called softly from the willow at the edge of the kitchen garden. Emma softly closed the door and went back to kneading bread, ears alert for one discordant sound. She paused every few seconds and listened, punched the dough and soon fell into the rhythm of pushing and pulling the dough on the floury wooden table.

Emma scored the loaves before putting them on the bread board and shoveling them into the oven as Sally raced through the screen door. It banged against the house. Emma looked up. "How many times I got to tell you..." She stopped in mid sentence as the man shuffled through the door with enough wood for a week in his arms. "Over there." Emma gestured to the wood box beside the stove and backed slowly away, her eyes alert for any sudden moves.

He seemed to sense her barely contained fear and kept to the far edge of the table. He sidled past the sink and knelt to place the wood and kindling in the box. Finished, he rose and backed away. "I'll get the water, ma'am."

Emma nodded toward the bucket by the sink. He backed toward it and picked it up then backed toward the door. Sally held the door open and followed him as he turned on the porch and stepped off toward the well. Sally's chatter burst through the open door like a shaft of sun through storm clouds. Emma's fears eased. She pushed the oven door shut and turned back to the table. She scraped the remaining flour into a mound, added more, and broke three brown eggs into the well in the middle. She scattered salt and pepper over the golden yolks and mounded the flour over them. Emma kneaded the egg-flour mixture and patted it flat. She floured the rolling pin and flattened the patty of eggy dough as Sally rushed through the door.

Emma barely looked up as the man carried the wet bucket to the sink and carefully put it down. He hadn't spilled a drop even though Sally bounced around him like a jumping jack. Sally dropped to the floor in a heap and the man quickly knelt beside her. His fingers touched her neck under her chin.

"She's all right. Just fainted."

"She has done this before. Too much heat and excitement," Emma said.

The man closed his eyes. He cupped Sally's forehead and the nape of her neck. The grasshoppers stopped whirring in the yard and the magpies didn't argue. Emma knelt beside the man. She reached for Sally's head and felt heat rising from his hands. She gingerly touched his fingers and pulled back with a hiss. His hands were hotter than the stove.

Sally blinked and sat up.

"I'll get some water," he said as Emma reached for her child. She cradled Sally in her arms and looked up at the man's back. He turned and smiled gravely as he offered the dripping cup to Emma. "She's fine."

Emma nodded and took the cup. Sally sipped noisily and pushed the rest away. "I'm all right, mama."

"You gotta keep quiet. Doc Soames said so."

Sally nodded and smiled. "I know. No skipping, no jumping, no running in this heat." She shook her head. "No fun," she said and smiled again.

Emma helped Sally up and the man offer his hand to help Emma. She took it. "Your hands were hot as Hades."

"Gets that way sometimes."

Emma glanced at Sally's forehead and the back of her neck as she hopped up on the kitchen chair and picked up a knife. She didn't seem any different. There were no burns on her forehead or her neck, but Emma was sure there would be. "Don't cut them noodles yet. Roll the dough out more."

Sally dropped the knife and picked up the rolling pin. It was nearly bigger than she was. Flour sifted over her clothes and puffed up in her face as she bent over the dough.

"I'd like to pay you for your kindness."

" You'll eat with us," Emma said.

" I have a gift for you. I can only give it to a woman."

Emma started back, her hand reaching for the cleaver on the chopping block.

"It was give to me by a woman and I have to pass it on the same way. Man to woman to man. That's how the secret goes."

"I don't want it, mister. You keep it for someone else. Your family. Your kids."

"No kids and no family. You don't have to keep it long, but when you give it away it must be to a man. No one else must be around. Tell him he has to give it to a woman and she must give it to a man. It's very important."

"No need to give it to me. I can't use it."

"Yes, you can ma'am. And you'll need it soon." He reached for Emma's hand. She let him take it. His fingers were cool as they wrapped around hers.

"Give it to me." Sally reached out her hands.

"Can't do that, Sally. You're too young."

Emma stared into the man's green eyes. Funny how she hadn't noticed how clear and bright they were. Like a forest pool sparkling beneath the sun. She dove into the cool green waters of his eyes as he moved closer and whispered in her ear. Emma shivered as his cool words washed over her. She nodded quietly as he spoke.

She was still caught in a trance when she realized he had moved away toward the steps. "I'll sit out here in the shade 'less you need something else, ma'am."

Emma shook herself and reached for the knife.

"I'll do it, mama," Sally said.

"Don't cut them too big. They have to last for dinner and supper tonight. If you cut them small enough we can have them for dinner tomorrow, too."
Emma dipped water into a big pot and strewed salt from the cellar into it. She pulled the cover off the burner and checked the fire. Still going. She'd have to put in more wood when the bread was done, but it would do for now, she thought.

Playing in the corners of her mind was the knowledge the man had whispered. She could stop bleeding, no matter how much, with his secret. She didn't want the burden, but the Reverend would. It was proper that she give the secret to him. Didn't matter that she wouldn't know it once she passed it on. She didn't need it. It was too much responsibility for Sally, but it was too much for her, too. The Reverend would know what to do.

Emma replaced the burner on the stove and set the water to boil. She turned back to the table and shook out the thin curling folds of noodle dough into strips. Sally carefully cut the rest of the dough as Emma loosely worked flour onto the strips. Yes, she thought, the Reverend would know just what to do.

Sally slowly and carefully cut the rest of the folded dough into strips. She glanced out the door when she heard her father's voice. He was greeting the man. She knew her mother would give the secret to her father, but he would tell Sally when she was old enough. It was knowledge she kept safe from her mother.

Sally’s father never denied her anything; he’d tell her because the gift was meant for her all along, except she was too young now. That was what the man told Sally when she fainted, that it would ultimately be her gift.

###

Tropical exile

I don't like being rushed and I don't like being late, which puts me in the category of being up late nights or very early mornings or rushing when I need to slow down and take my time. That's the way it is these days. Just when I think I have things under control and have a little time for reading, I end up falling asleep -- even with really good books. Not good when I am reading a book that begs to be savored slowly and rolled around the senses and mind to get every bit of literary juice. Oh, well, now that the rush is over and I have a few minutes . . .

For some reason, John has been on my mind the past few days. John was a strange man with horn-rimmed glasses, a crew cut, loose bowling shirts (without the team name) and a penchant for decimating chicken bones for cartilage and marrow. He lived in Colon in a palatial apartment filled with neat stacks of newspapers and magazines that lined narrow aisles down which he scuttled. Although his hair and eyes were dark, his skin was almost colorless, pasty white like a cockroach deprived of sun and light. He reminded me of a cockroach, all dry rustling and skittering feet between his stacks of newspapers and magazines. He was also quite smart, although there was some talk that he had been exiled to Panama because his mother, a high-powered executive at Revlon Cosmetics, was embarrassed by him.

As a child he fascinated me even as he repulsed my mother and he fascinates me still. I've imagined all kinds of stories with him as villain and hero, an unlikely hero to be sure, with his dry cockroach rustlings and quiet encyclopedic intelligence, and I've imagined all kinds of reasons for his exile, things that never occurred to me as a child in 1963. He was unusual and very different from the rest of the crowd of adults that converged on our fourplex on stilts at the edge of the jungle.

Although he's been on my mind, and I'm not certain why, I couldn't remember his last name. His face and mannerism and presence are indelibly etched deeply in my memories, but not his last name, so I called Mom to ask her. She said she didn't remember and then, miraculously, "John Kane. Kane was his last name. I don't know how I remembered his name." She remembered because he gave her the creeps and even now she shudders when she says his name and evokes his memory like a hideous demon from the depths of some infernal hell. The moment I said, "chicken bones," she knew who I meant.

John Kane. Or maybe it's John Cain. I wonder if there was an Abel he slew back in the States and that's why he was exiled from high society and his mother's fashionable digs. She certainly wouldn't have tolerated his newspapers or magazines or his dry rustling skitter across the expensive carpets and important Italian tiles of her New York apartment or her estate in the country surrounded by wrought iron gates and guarded by men in blue collared uniforms hiding like Jacks in the box in their guard shacks outside the spiked gates. In the South, an embarrassing or eccentric relative is a sign of old money and interest, but in the North, such a relative was exiled to some poor South or Central American country where they could live in some luxury at very little expense to the family, an aberration consigned to tropical oblivion.

I've often wondered if John Kane still lives in the palatial apartment down the street from the Molotov cocktail singed Masonic Temple where my father went once a week to practice arcane rituals. That's where he met John Kane, the only man among their friends who wasn't in the Army and didn't live on base. And I wonder where John's mark of Kane would be found.

It wasn't on the high pale escarpment of his forehead or on the dark brushy plateau of his crew cut. The precipice of his nose was jutted out between the black horn-rimmed frame of his glasses in sharp relief to his smooth white cheeks where not even the shadow of a beard lurked beneath the skin of his cheeks or chin and his eyes, although stark black balls that hid the wide abyss of the pupils, were arresting, but not marked in any unusual way. Beneath the loose cotton shirts of sober color, hints of once hard muscle brushed briefly against the smooth, ironed cloth in sharp contrast to the mystery his sharply creased charcoal trousers concealed. Pasty white arms devoid of hair and thin in comparison to the solid bulk of his chest and shoulders ended in decisive and strong hands used with delicacy and grace, perhaps the hands of a one-time dancer, the nails buffed to a high gloss and his cuticles immaculate. His clothes were of good quality, but I never understood his fondness for canvas mesh shoes with gum soles, unless they gave him purchase on the marble tiles that comprised the floor of his apartment as he scurried from one towering pile of information to the next.

I imagine that when computers became household items his newspaper and magazine edifices were exchanged for desks and serried rows of computers, cursors blinking heartbeats of information waiting to be consumed the way John Kane consumed chicken bones, until even the inside of the bones were sucked clean of marrow.

It's funny, but I can't remember how John Kane smelled or if he had a smell. His apartment smelled of dust and paper and tropical breezes that fingered through the shuttered windows. Even now, he fascinates me and probably always will, the strangely intelligent and quiet albino cockroach rustling dryly among his stacks of words and pictures and ideas far from the glittering social whirl of New York and Chicago and the wealth compound of his mother's cosmetics empire, a tropical exile.

Graceful exit

The weekend was a mixed bag and work, wonder and frustration, mostly frustration.

I finally finished Dan Chaon's book, Await Your Reply and it was all right, a little confusing and the end was better than the interminable middle after a really great start, but that's what happens when you're juggling so many main characters and going back and forth in time. The writing isn't the problem (that's wonderful) and it isn't the characters (very real), but the plotting is a bit problematic. When did it become de rigueur to skip around the time line like a drunken leprechaun? Just because Quentin Tarantino does it doesn't mean writers have to following like lemmings. Whatever happened to working the back story into the flow of the novel instead of head and time hopping? Oh, well, there are worse things in novels and I'll think of them later.

In between working and trying to get some writing done, my cousin Timmy called and we talked -- for over two hours. It didn't seem that long because we spent most of the time laughing (Cruella deVille, Sr. and Jr.). He said he had always wanted to write, but what comes out on the page isn't readable. At least he likes to read. He told me about Brand, his brother-in-law who's such a big fan of my writing, and mentioned Ruthie, his wife who died recently. "I told Mom that you'd probably want to ask me questions about the last weeks of Ruthie's life and write about them."

"I wouldn't do that because it's private."

"Wouldn't it help someone else going through what I went through?"

"Yes, but I think it's too private right now."

"But it would help someone else."

Even through the tight control of his voice, I heard the tears he held back and the plea that I ask him about Ruthie's last days and write about them. He was a disappointed I didn't ask, didn't pry. Maybe later when the grief isn't so raw and bleeding. I did explain how anthologies work and that I can't just write a story for an anthology if they don't have a call out for a book with that particular theme, although with Chicken Soup I can propose a book. I may and then write about Timmy and Ruthie's story.

Timmy is an amazing man. He took compassionate leave from the Post Office (he's a mail carrier, although mail driver is closer to the truth) to tend Ruthie in her last days. Hospice had a nurse there, but it was Timmy who took her to the palliative radiation treatments for the cancerous lesions in her spine, bathed her, fed her spent every waking hour with her in her last days of life. Ruthie and Timmy had been little more than roommates for five years, married in name only.

She had left him February 2008, went bankrupt gambling online and moved back in with Timmy in December 2008. She was diagnosed with breast cancer in February 2009 and Timmy was with her all through the chemo. As she continued to battle the cancer, Timmy stood by her, putting his life on hold. When she was diagnosed with metastatic bone cancer that had settled in her spine, she lost the use of one of her legs and eventually ended up in a wheelchair, and Timmy was with her through it all, even though she didn't tell him what the doctors told her at the beginning of August when she went home from the hospital: she was terminal. Timmy thought she was going to be all right. Ruthie wouldn't have the use of her left leg and would have to wear a brace, but she would eventually be able to walk again. She didn't tell him the truth, but that was par for the course in their marriage during the last five years.

Hospice breezed in and set up the bed and commode and all the equipment Ruthie would need and Timmy kept saying that it was temporary. Hospice is temporary all right, but not the way he thought. They brought The Box and told Timmy not to open until they told him to do so. Aunt Anne called Mom and asked her what it was and Mom called me. I knew what it was -- it was the end of life box. I called and told Aunt Anne and she insisted that Ruthie was going to be fine and was making plans to get back to work, the hope in her voice fraying around the edges because Timmy didn't know. "Why would they keep scheduling radiation treatments if it won't cure her?"

"To ease the pain. It's strictly a comfort measure, not curative."

"I thought it was strange," Aunt Anne said, "because when they started there was one lesion on her spine and by the end of the week there were four."

I think Timmy knew, but he didn't want to admit it, so he clung to the fiction that Ruthie fed him as she had fed him so many other fictions in their marriage, like the one that going through menopause decreased a woman's desire for sex. (That's a big lie; menopause increases the sex drive.) Ruthie's sex drive was fed to gambling online where she spent entire paychecks and missed payments on her car that Timmy paid.

Timmy has a problem; he's a born knight in shining armor who lives to rescue damsels in distress, even when they don't deserve to be rescued. It's a failing in the men in my family. My father had it. My brother has it. Timmy and his brother Jeff have it. Perhaps the only man in our family who didn't suffer from the disease was Grandpa Cornwell, my father's dad. He was a selfish old reprobate who didn't believe in rescuing anyone if it took time away from his own pleasures and pursuits.

At any rate, the time came for The Box to be opened and used. Timmy's compassionate leave was running out and so was Ruthie's life. She died on the last day of his leave, making a more graceful exit out of Timmy's life than she made entering it.

There's more to the story and I'm sure Timmy will eventually talk me into asking about it, but one thing sticks with me. When he talked about living with Ruthie as nothing more than roommates and not having sex, he told me that caring for her in those last days made sex seem unimportant. As he watched her life trickle away and her body burn itself out, he held her in his arms to bathe and change and clothe and feed her, closer to her in her waning hours than they had ever been in their life together. "None of that mattered," he said. "She was my Ruthie."

Yes, I think his story would help someone. Death puts life into perspective and it softens the edges of the pain and anguish people inflict on each other. It's too bad people don't learn how to treat each other gently in life or exit gracefully before Death takes them, so they can give the gifts of respect and life and compassion before it's too late to enjoy them. So much suffering and anger could be avoided.

Dumbed down or just dumb?

I've read it and heard it and even been asked about it. Do television and movies make people stupid? Are we dumbing down? I don't have a simple answer.

There is a dumbing down in many quarters, but I don't think it's due to the prevalence of television and movies. It's due rather to people being lazy and stupid and perpetuating those habits in their children. Television and movies have a great deal to offer and can be a lamp on the path to illuminate history, politics, religion, literature and so much more. The trick is to indulge curiosity.

Many years ago, I picked up a book by Jane Austen and had a very difficult time getting into the flow of the language. It didn't matter that it was considered Literature because it was foreign and affected as far as I was concerned. Then I saw Colin Firth and Jennifer Ehle in Pride & Prejudice and I had to give Austen another try. I'm not sorry I did.

The language is a bit daunting because it is so foreign to modern Americans, but once into the ebb and flow of the language, the social mores and the story, it all comes together and awakens something inside that finds a balance between the modern world and the world of the 18th and 19th centuries. Once I read Pride and Prejudice, I had to read all of Jane Austen's novels and I go back time after time to read them once more. They are marvelous, not only because of the romantic tone and story of Mr. Darcy and Miss Elizabeth Bennett, but because it is a glimpse of another age that hasn't been pieced together by archaeologists unwilling to take off the blinders and see the world as it was instead of as it is, based on modern prejudices. Jane Austen lived in the times she wrote about and she knew them intimately. More than anything else, Austen was an acute observer of people and society and she is proof that people and society haven't changed so much; at the heart, we are all the same even when separated by hundreds or even thousands of years.

I do think that in general people tend to look no farther than their own back yards or the yard down the street or across the state line, echoing Dorothy Gale's belief that happiness can best be found in one's own back yard. But we are citizens of the world and should look much further afield than our own cities, states and countries. That is where movies and televisions best provide a window on the world and offer a glimpse of history and the people and societies in far flung countries that the majority of Americans will never see. Used as a teaching tool, a sort of intellectual and historical hors d'ouevres, television and movies have much to teach us.

When I watch a movie, usually on my laptop, I keep a few tabs open for searches so I can take a quick break and read about the history and characters characterized. For instance, I am currently watching a foreign mini-series about Crown Prince Rudolf of Austriawho was the son of Emperor Franz Joseph I of Austria and Empress Elisabeth of Austria. It's about his life and death, a death that resulted in a great scandal because he purportedly killed his lover Baroness Mary Vetsera just before he committed suicide. I've only seen the first episode, but after a search and some reading I found out that the forensics of Rudolf and Mary's bodies doesn't bear out the double suicide story.

Mary was bludgeoned to death and Rudolf, quite a remarkable man, managed to shoot himself six times before he died. Amazing. The whispered stories surrounding their deaths was that Mary and Rudolf were murdered and that the Emperor knew about it and had it covered up because Rudolf was trying to overthrow him and bring the Austro-Hungarian empire into the 20th century, rescuing it from the backward thinking emperor and his Prime Minister Taaffe, who was by all accounts a very greedy and politically savvy man who ruled the empire through Franz Josef. Intrigue, political coups, love, lust, murder and conspiracies, what more could anyone want? And it happened around the turn of the 20th century, more than 100 years ago. That is what movies and television have to offer, a window on the past and into the lives of the people of other countries.

I am very fond of Indian musicals and historical movies and am fascinated by Iranian movies. In fact, I enjoy watching movies from many different countries and search them out, not only for their historical stories but to see what interests and moves people in other cultures and countries. Has it made me dumber, less intellectual? I don't think so. The problem with the belief that television and movies are dumbing down people is that intellectuals believe the only way to learn history and other topics is to read about them. It's snobbery.

Books have a lot to offer and I'll be the first one to praise the printed word, but in a world where entertainment is preferred over dry facts and figures, something else is needed, a marriage of sorts, using entertainment to spark and interested in learning more from books. It's what I've been doing for years and I consider myself a modestly educated person.

Schools have used the same tool through slide shows and short films, but they really have not taken full advantage of entertainment as a teaching tool, or of the Internet to make the information more accessible.

I've learned more about Europe, Asia, the Middle East and the Americas through movies and the Internet than I ever did in school, and what I've found is utterly fascinating. I only wish I had enough money so I didn't have to work for a living and could devote all my time to movies, television, the Internet and books because there is so much to learn and so little time to absorb it all.

A National Geographic program a few months ago about the origins of the Amazons led me to the red-haired mummies of Mongolia, which in turn led me to ancient Greek and Roman histories about the Amazons and thence to Egypt (my of my favorite subjects) and tomb robbers, ancient and modern, and then back to Europe and the steppes of Russia, Afghanistan and Slavic countries to the Ice Maiden and the living heirs of the Amazons, a blonde-haired, blue-eyed nomad girl born to a family of dark haired, dark eyed nomads still following their herds from pasture to pasture and living in yurts. It's all connected and I found the first steps on the trail through television.

There's so much more to learn and no doubt Crown Prince Rudolf will lead the way on a journey through Europe and into the past that loops back into the present to mirror politics and society right here in America, and the route lies through the very things that intellectuals declaim for dumbing down the people. Intelligence has many levels, but stupidity only one and it's born in snobbery and a lack of curiosity not in television or movies. There's a rich and diverse education to be had and all that's needed is a sense of wonder and a desire to know more. Money does not have to be an issue, not when libraries offer movies and television shows and Internet access for free. There's no reason to be ignorant -- unless you want to be.

Formal education is not the only route to knowledge, just one path. There are less expensive roads. It's like setting out for any destination. Some people can afford to fly. Others take the train or a bus or go by car. There are also buggies, bikes and walking. No matter how long it takes to get there, everyone gets there eventually. It doesn't matter how you get there, just that you make the journey.

That is all. Disperse.

Running in quicksand

The week has been gray with massive continents of clouds that refuse to give up the goods and it's hard to tell what time of the day it is without a clock. The only clocks I use are on my computers and I'm not at the computer all the time.

In the darkness I reach for the light just as thumping footsteps stumble around in the attic over my head where the only thing up there is the furnace, the same furnace that last year the landlord had two guys check because it wasn't working and I found it difficult to work wrapped mummy-like in blankets with heavy gloves on my hands. The double split in the marble vanity of the bathroom sink reminds me daily of their visit, as does the still working furnace set at a balmy 68 degrees. The inept burglar that has somehow gotten into the house via the sagging roof and into the furnace filled attic, which is little more than a crawl space, is more likely to be the furnace clearing its morning throat with a rattling, cigarette cough rather than some miscreant bent on stealing my collection of books and boxes.

The yolk of the street light down the alley glares through the waving branches into my eyes and the blackness that precedes the dawn is complete everywhere but here where the spiraled twists of the bedside lamp bulb cast a pallid, but adequate glow across the littered landscape of my bed. Jumbled pillows and books sprawl read and half read across the bare mattress where the sheets have pulled loose in my struggle with nightmare goblins wrestling me to rest in winding sheets before the last battle with the working week. It's Friday, so why does it feel like Tuesday with the long expanse of the week still ahead? It's like running in quicksand.

It's in the details

A dreamless sleep for a change, or at least one in which the dreams were pleasant and easily forgotten upon waking. I should go to bed early every night.

Dreams have been on my mind, not only because of yesterday's tarot post but because of the characters in my current work in progress. It's nowhere near being ready to share, but dreams and little affectations play a large part of what is happening. Not only dreams, but nightmares shape a person's character and inner life, and how they respond to both, and it reminds of me of a book Andre Norton wrote about a professional dreamer.

In a society where dreams could be bought and sold, one dreamer stands out because her dreams are inventive, adventurous and unique, and she controls the dreams. Tamisan is not the usual hive dreamer who gets lost in the dreaming, but an intelligent girl who works only for the best and richest clients, one of whom has been injured and can no longer walk. He is a vigorous man of wealth and taste, but he's is chained to a chair for the rest of his life, an invalid, prisoner of his body, with an active mind and a need to continue to do something physical. His brother, a greed and subtle man, hires Tamisan from the hive to be personal dreamer to his brother and sends his brother on three adventures from which he will never return, leaving the empire to him to use as he likes. It's a small cost to maintain two dreamers, a negligible cost for an empire as vast and wealthy as the one he is about to inherit and control, and the brother pays the cost gladly.

The book is Perilous Dreams based on the short story, The Toys of Tamisan first seen in High Sorcery.

It's strange how subtle clues and tics tell so much about a person, and it's those very qualities that writers use to make characters come alive. A strong and intelligent man who happens to be short or has a scar on his face or one glass eye whose favorite books, plays and movies are based on Beauty and the Beast say so much about who he is and what he dreams and thinks. It's obvious he thinks his small defect makes him a monster, a beast unlovable by any woman. He probably compensates for his perceived defect with jokes and dangles bait for women he finds attractive, waiting for them to take the lead so he doesn't have to feel rejected, especially since he believes every woman would reject him. He probably buys flowers or little gifts for women or makes them something they will treasure to draw attention toward his skills and away from his physical imperfections.

A woman who barely tolerates animals when her husband was alive suddenly falls in love with a little dog, a Yorkshire terrier or poodle or chihuahua, feeding it from her own plate and allowing it to sleep with her. It's her baby. Such a woman, so fastidious and germ conscious she'd never drink out of the same cup or eat from the same utensil as one of her children, cuddles the dog and kisses it. She was never so affectionate with her own children, so why has she changed so drastically?

The way someone constantly checks their makeup, runs fingers through their hair catch loose strands or constantly tugs at the hem of a fairly long skirt are all clues to someone's character and to their inner life.

When a person has nightmares, how do they react? Do they climb in bed or snuggle closer to their partner or do they whisper prayers in the darkness and struggle silently with dream-bred demons? How do they eat: one food at a time, mashed up together, only the white or brown or green things? What kind of partner do they seek? How close were they to their father, mother, brother, sister, next door neighbor? Who do they hang out with? Who do they avoid? Do they talk too fast when they're nervous or clamp up when they're angry?

Everything about a person is in the way they move, speak, listen and act and each action says more than words.

Someone assures you they love you, want to be with you, can't get enough of holding you, touching you, kissing you, loving you and yet they ignore you, never call, seldom write and visit rarely. How do they really feel?

There are conflicting emotions and they struggle with their feelings, avoiding the people and things that make them happiest because they cannot bear to go back to the mundane, painful or depressing life they have chosen to live, but how would you know? By their actions when they're with you. The look of sadness and pain in their eyes when they leave. The lingering touch as if when they let go they'll never be able to hold you again. The long last looks, their eyes on you when they get in their car and leave, glancing into the rear view mirror until they turn a corner and are gone. All these things are clues to what isn't being said and more indicative of their feelings and thoughts than all the words and assurances they use.

When you're out together, does your partner talk to you while his eyes slide over every other female in the restaurant? Does he drop your hand when other women walk by, saying it's too hot or he needs something from his pocket? Does he put distance between you when other people are near or does he look into your eyes and ignore the waiter until the waiter coughs or slaps the bill down on the table? Little moments, little clues, and they add up to so much if you know how and when and where to look.

Whether you're a writer or the average person, it pays to keep your eyes and ears open, to not just observe other people, but really look at them. So much history is written on faces and so many lies and fantasies uncovered right in front of you, if you really look at the people that pass into and out of your life every day. This is a world rich in sensory detail with fascinating and interesting people who can teach us as much about them as about ourselves. Pay attention and they will surprise you -- even in your own family.

I had no idea a cranky and evil chihuahua would soften my cranky and evil mother, but Dink did. Dink gave Mom someone to love who depended on her, something she desperately needed when Dad died. I didn't know how much that little dog meant to her until a couple of days ago when she told me how Dink saved her from depression and madness. It still makes me nauseous when she talks about "her baby," but I don't have to listen long, not as long as I have my bathroom escape. Mom has found a reason to live, so she will probably be around for a very long time, most likely until all that is left on this planet are cockroaches, moths and Mom.

Tarot: Dream a dream and work

After reading zombie stories, it was inevitable they would creep, or rather shamble, into my dreams, waking me up with a pounding pulse and a need to get away. The disorientation lasted a few seconds before sleep claimed me again, adding weights to my eyelids, body and limbs so that I was dragged back into the dream, but I was prepared for them. I changed the dream, shifting people and monsters, going down different roads and heading for more familiar territory until the dream was behind me. It's called lucid dreaming.

Dreaming can be a release, for writers a way to work out plot points and get closer to their characters (whether they want to or not) and a way for the unconscious mind to surface and pick up threads from every part of the conscious mind and memories to weave a fantastic tapestry of people, places and events that can heal, relax and scare the bejeezus out of the dreamer.

And dreams are a way to reach for more in the waking life. Dreams are also a place to start, but not a place to linger or end.



Asleep under a tree, the young man is dreaming, completely unaware of the full cups beside him or the full cup right in front of him. He's more intent on his dream than on what he already has or is given. The squirrel in the tree and the mouse in the grass are more curious about what's in the cups than the dreamer. The mouse and squirrel follow their instincts, but the dreamer is locked in his dream, dreaming his life away.

The young man is a romantic who is looking for something better to come down the road toward him or to find something better over the next hill, around the next corner, instead of seeing what is right in front of him. The Four of Cups symbolizes a quest for order and stability in a perfect world; it does not exist. The Four of Cups shows a disdain for reality, someone who is unwilling to see the gifts he has in plenty and more gifts offered, but keeps looking for something more, the ideal, ignoring the happiness he has and could have because he cannot see the difference the connection between his gifts and realities. There are no guarantees and expecting or demanding a guarantee will guarantee that what is right in front of you will disappear either because they were ignored or because someone with sense will pick them up and take them away.



Blind Justice has no power to harm, but holds the balance of karma in her own hands. Justice stands on the fulcrum between past and present, a guide, not an active force.

Past actions determine the present, but present actions can change the future. You cannot change the past, but you can change course and walk into a brighter future by what is decided at this moment, and this moment, and the next moment. The future is changeable. The past is fixed.

Look to the past to understand what created the present situations and take responsibility for your actions. Use that knowledge to make better choices for a better future. Learn from the errors and make choices based on the lessons of the past to realize and make a happier future a reality.



The Ace of Pentacles is the gift of resources: money, raw materials or time. Use skill and determination to make use of the available resources given and be grateful. Do not give in to the temptation to under value or squander the resources. Some resources are best used when they're offered. Don't hoard them or save them for a rainy day or when you have more time. There is no time like now.

Resources and gifts may seem mundane or not a true gift of the universe, but there are no coincidences and no accidents. As Einstein said, "God does not place dice with the Universe." The Ace of Pentacles offers a straight forward message: the riches of life are yours if you have the good sense to take them and use them. Don't waste time or money or the raw materials of talent or the earth because you only waste your own happiness. Remember the lesson of the weasel, take what's offered and don't look back.

* * *

My mother has always called me a dreamer and my quick response was that without dreamers she would still be huddled in a freezing cave gnawing raw meat from a sated lion's kill terrified of the snarls and growls just outside the cave entrance. Okay, it's a little more descriptive than I used to say, but not by much.

Yes, I'm a dreamer, but, even when it takes me a little while, I do make my dreams come true. I've walked the wrong paths, looking for something better, when I had everything I needed within my grasp. Luckily, I figured it out before I died.

* * *

Daria is a fortunate woman. She met an English duke who fell in love with her and offered her the world, and his heart. She cared for him deeply, but wasn't sure if he was the one. Still, she said yes to his proposal and followed him to his estate in England in the heart of the country where legends of Merlin are still told.

A great oak tree of massive size, centuries old, dominates the landscape. It is said that Merlin still sleeps within and waits for a woman willing to sacrifice everything to free him.

Daria and her duke have an argument and, as she has so many times in the past when happiness was within her grasp, she considers breaking off the engagement. Still angry and in tears, she takes a walk and ends up under Merlin's oak where she decides to sit and figure things out. Falling asleep, dreams of Merlin creep into her imagination and whisper that she is the woman who can set him free.

Awakened by workmen laughing and joking about cutting into Merlin's heart and seeing if the old oak bleeds, Daria begs them to wait until word can be sent to the duke. Daria refuses to leave the tree and convinces the foreman to send one of his men to find the duke. As she waits, it occurs to her that breaking off the engagement would seal the tree's doom and ruin any chance to free Merlin, so when the duke arrives she agrees to patch things up if he will give her the old oak as a wedding gift.

In order to save the oak, she must sacrifice her dreams and marry the duke, giving up any chance to free Merlin right away.

How do you think the story will end?

While you ponder the story and your own dreams, consider returning next week to see what stories the tarot cards will reveal. Until then, don't just dream it, be it.

Two men, same harvest

I used to live across the alley from Eddie, an overall clad, bearded curmudgeon who had a love for and talent with pit bulls. He owned a house built just after the turn of the century with out buildings he turned into garages for his collection of trucks. His yard was immaculate and the chain link fence as silvery and taut as when it was put up forty years before. The short porch that led up to the black-out curtained door sparkled with sunlight from the strings of AOL disks hanging from the eaves. "Keeps the birds from nesting in the eaves," he told me one day as we walked down the alley, he leading his pit bull. When he was outside, the pit bull never left his side, quiet and watchful as she sat on her haunches next to him when we talked over the fence.

"I worked hard my whole life. Had a drinking problem, but I didn't let it get the best of me. Quit when it got in the way of my work."

"Now you're retired and can do whatever you want," I said.

"Not really, not like my friend Bob."

"The guy you have lunch with every day?"

"Yep. That's the one."

"Was Bob some kind of banker or executive?"

Eddie laughed. "Nope. Drunk. Always was and still is."

"Then how does he have more than you do?"

"Government takes care of him. If I'd known working hard, saving my money and quitting drinking wouldn't get me as much, or more, than being a drunk and a bum, I'd have kept drinking, but I had a family to support and I was brought up to earn my way, not expect nobody to take care of me. Just don't seem right somehow."

Work is a habit with some people, and it was with Eddie who was either working in the yard or the house or on one of his trucks. He had a rusty yellow truck for hauling things and running quick errands, a beautiful, sleek and shiny black truck for visiting relatives or long drives, and a bigger, rusty blue truck for hauling big things that would mess up the pristine bed of the black truck, maintaining them all with equal care and attention. Sometimes Bob rumbled up in his broken down Oldsmobile, exhaust belching black clouds of noxious fumes from the back. Bob didn't drive his Cadillac because he didn't want to "mess it up" with road grime.

I saw the Cadillac once and it was a beautiful metal flake sky blue with a deep blue leather landau roof and silvery spoked hub cabs. Bob won it in a contest. The car had less than 1000 miles on the odometer and sat in the garage at his house among the rusted paint cans and tottering heaps of bulging garbage bags protected by a black car cover in a slot just big enough for the car. It looked like the debris, garbage and junk had been shoved aside to make room for the Cadillac and was obvious the rusted, bald tired Olds had never been parked in the garage. The Olds sat in the yard where a rutted track wove drunkenly through clumps of crab grass, stunted bushes and waist high weeds led to an Olds sized patch of yellow and brown desiccated skeletons of anonymous growth.

Eddie curled his thumbs around the straps of his bib overalls. "Always taught in Sunday school that you reap what you sow. Strange old world when you're too drunk to sow a single seed and still reap a bountiful harvest. Good book got it wrong."

Two degrees of separation

My cousin Timmy's brother-in-law, Brand, visited him a couple weeks ago to discuss the headstone for Ruthie's grave and her memorial. Timmy had Beanie's copy of Dad's memorial DVD and showed it to Brand to give him an idea of what they could do for Ruthie. Brand watched the video and listened to me read what I wrote about my father. When Brand saw my name, he said, "That's my favorite writer and that's just how I always thought she'd sound. How do you know her, Tim?"

"She's my half-sister. How do you know her?"

"We've read all her stories in Chicken Soup. The whole family loves her. She's their favorite writer, too."

Timmy was thrilled, especially when he showed Brand my novel. Brand didn't know about that, but it didn't take him long to recover. "I'm going to go straight home and order copies for everyone in the family."

When Aunt Anne told me about all this tonight, I heard her ear-splitting grin through the phone. "Timmy's really proud of you. He always has been."

I had no idea Timmy even thought about me very much and I haven't seen him in over ten years. Aunt Anne told me a couple weeks ago that she planned to give Timmy a copy of Chicken Soup for the Soul: All in the Family so he could read my story, "On Esther Time." Timmy has a problem with always being late just like Esther. And he's reading Past Imperfect right now.

That's the surprising thing about all of this. Timmy's in-laws have been fans of my writing for over a year. Aunt Anne said whenever a new Chicken Soup book comes out, Brand and his family check to see if it contains one of my stories before they buy it. I had no idea. But to find out that I have a family of fans who don't know about the novel who are related to me by marriage throws the whole "seven degrees of separation" out the window, at least in this instance.

I didn't expect people to approach my family, or me, until I had made a real name for myself, but evidently, in some quarters, I already have a name -- and fans. I have fans.

Writing on blogs and getting comments, interacting with people quickly this way imparts a strange point of view based on instant gratification. People write. People respond. It's effortless. It's conversation electronic style, and many bloggers have fans. I have one or two. Writing a book or having stories published in anthologies is different. I've had a couple of people email me about what I've written in Chicken Soup and Cup of Comfort anthologies, but it's not the same. I know; I'm repeating myself, but it's true. I didn't expect this, not this soon, and not before I'd hit the best sellers lists, but it's so nice to know that even though people haven't contacted me directly they have read my stories and been touched and affected by them. That's part of why I write -- to touch people, give them something to think about.

It's a heady experience, knowing people read and like what I write. I doubt I'll ever get used to it or stop smiling when I remember moments like these. Even if no one ever told me they liked what I write, I'd still write. I wrote when no one read what I wrote, and I still do -- in paper journals. Still, even though most writers write for themselves, they also write for others because without readers there is no reason to fight the current in the publishing stream.

And like Scott Edelman wrote in his story, Almost the Last Story by Almost the Last Man about a writer unable to stop writing as long as he is alive.

"With each part of the Web that vanishes, I imagine that a part of the real world has gone as well. When it all goes, I will be alone.

"Well, not entirely alone. ...Shakespeare is here. And Frost. And Faulkner and Austen and Carver and Proust. All telling me of the worlds in which they lived. Worlds that continued to exit only because I am still here to read about them. ...

"It's not worth remaining in a world without readers, and I doubt that you still exist.

"My world can survive my death. But it cannot survive yours.

"Art for art's sake as never what I was about. Art alone was never enough."

Amazing isn't it, Mary Ann that Scott Edelman's story is about zombies, too?

In 25 words or less

Julia pruned the mini roses and tidied her feng shui relationship corner. Lance walked out with his suitcases. He didn't look back.

That is all. Disperse.

Requiem for a menu change

Taking a leaf from Kaiberie's book, I am getting rid of more time devouring things in my life that slow my writing progress. Nothing that doesn't contribute to a bigger paycheck or move my writing along is going or gone. Everything is being stripped down to basics. I don't have room for anything else, especially not with a big expenditure coming that will move my books to the top of the lists and generate a lot more sales. That's my main focus, along with spending more hours struggling with work.

I emailed my boss yesterday and told her the programs we are forced to use are clunky and inefficient and they waste time, hamper production. I had to explain the concept of integrated programs 3x and I still don't think she got it. She was worried about incomplete dictations because someone closed a document to answer the door or take a break and it being sent back before it was finished. Uh, no, that's not a problem if the job is not finalized and merely closed.

The way the system works now -- or rather doesn't work -- the programs to get and upload jobs are separate and have to be manually activated every time work needs to be downloaded or uploaded. When there are no jobs, getting jobs entails shutting down the program, launching it again and doing the same things over and over and over, wasting loads of time and increasing frustration. In other words, not productive at all. The system I am more familiar with and worked with for 10 years is one that never needs to be shut down, opened and initiated once. It can be set to manual or automatic by the operator to get one job or five jobs at a time, sending finalized work automatically, and downloading new jobs automatically. Less time is wasted. The MT endures a lot less frustration and is hence more productive, which translates to more pages typed and more work done for a bigger paycheck. I'm talking about hours, not minutes. It's such a simple concept.

Her complaint that if a dictation is cut off in the middle and continued on another dictation, then the pieces will not be connected and the job incomplete. That's specious. If an MT is getting one job at a time, finalizes the job and sends it up, and then gets the other half, the pieces won't be connected. It's very unusual for a follow-up dictation not to arrive within the next three jobs and can still be typed, combined, finalized and automatically uploaded with the integrated system, which I explained at length. She said Jason is revamping the system and will take my suggestions into consideration. I offered to work with him; I don't know if she'll take me up on it.

When I finally finished work last night, I was exhausted, aching and tired. All I wanted to do was go to bed, but I checked my email and shut down the browser to find that Patrick Swayze died yesterday. It was not unexpected, but still it's sad. Someone posted a YouTube link to Dirty Dancing where Patrick and Jennifer Gray dance the last dance ("No one puts Baby in the corner.") and I watched with a great big smile and tears in my eyes. Patrick was young and exuberant and so talented in that movie and I am glad it remains as a ever bright memory. That, of course, led me to thinking about Ghost and his touching performance as Sam Wheat, the man who couldn't say "I love you" until he was dead and trapped between life and death because he wanted to find his murderer and protect his girlfriend, Molly, by forcing himself on a psychic conning people who actually was a psychic, Rita, played wonderfully and memorably by Whoopi Goldberg. ("Molly, you in danger, girl.")

And Ghost puts me in mind of so many people who can't say "I love you" or tell people how they really feel, and probably won't until it's too late. Time moves on and few people will leave the legacy Patrick Swayze leaves behind him. He put his heart and soul into his work and his life and left no doubt in anyone's mind what he thought and how he felt. That is a tribute few people can boast. He lived his life broadly and without compromise right to the end and I am so thankful I have even a little bit of his talent and zest for life to remember him. He is one person about whom I have no illusions and no confusion. He was simply a wonderful, loving, intelligent and talented man and I'm grateful to have sat on the sidelines and shared a few happy moments and tears. Can't say that about too many people in my life -- our near me.

It's times like these that remind me most of what is speeding past like a bullet train on anti-gravity rails without brakes and how much time is wasted by waiting for people to wake up and realize what is rapidly slipping through their fingers and out of reach. I have wasted too much time waiting and hoping and am now galvanized for the forward push up the rocky slope. Life is seldom easy, but it's worth every blister, broken heart and struggle to get to the good moments, and there are only moments. It's just as much a waste of time to hang around celebrating when there is another road to cross and another mountain to climb. The heavenly moments are for resting before the next big push, not for sitting around until you're either thrown out or bored out of your skull, weighed down by depression and ennui. To be human is to keep moving, hopefully holding hands, supporting, and being supported by a like-minded companion. The real blessing is finding lots of like-minded companions to share the load and the road, and I've been lucky and blessed, although I miss those who shared the journey for a short time -- too short.

If you do nothing else today, don't hesitate to tell the people you care about how much you care. Don't be afraid to say "I love you" because you might not get another chance. Tomorrow is not guaranteed. The only thing you can count on is this moment. Don't waste it.

Fugue in ouch major

Just when you think you're immortal, or at least not decrepit, your back goes out or an old injury twangs your last nerve, such is the case with me the past few days.

About 20 years ago while wearing heels, I skidded across the slick, tile floor in Sears at Northland shopping center in Columbus, Ohio, ending up on the ground with my right ankle ballooning to Goodyear proportions, which was ironic since I was sitting on the wet floor next to the automotive shop where Goodyear tires were prominently displayed. A cashier rushed to help me up and was followed closely by the chief of security and a very apologetic janitor who forgot to put out the "wet floor" signs. The janitor and security chief helped me to the security office where the store manager met us. He had already called the local Doc-in-the-Box down the street. An ambulance took me to the clinic where an x-ray revealed my ankle was unfortunately not broken, but would have to be casted because the ligaments were stretched and torn in places.

I haven't thought about that incident in year, about 20 years, certainly not since the cast came off and I could drive again. Friday morning my ankle hit me with a wave of pain that nearly turned my stomach inside out; it was a good thing I had not eaten yet. To make matters more interesting, my lower back refused to bear me upright without help, the help being the walls between my bed and the bathroom. I wasn't in so much pain I couldn't breathe, but there was enough discomfort to make every movement an orchestration of dissonant and quickly stifled howls. I had typed most of my pages the night before and decided a few yoga stretches and more sleep would set me to rights. I woke again in enough time to finish my required pages and crawl back into bed for more stretches and sleep and by 8 p.m. my back and ankle had reset their levels to a moderate aching throb.

Sitting up for any length of time provides ample reminders of my ankle injury and the lower back pain from carrying to term four fairly large babies. Standing and walking aren't too difficult once I get going, but lying down and resting after yoga stretches have helped the most and quiets the worst of the muscle spasms. This in turn has had a direct effect on my writing -- I haven't been able to write. I'm saving my energy for the week of work ahead and I am almost clear of the worst of this bout of "Introduction to Age: The Painful Years." At least, I don't have arthritis.

Actually, the cold and damp weather is what brought on the aches, spasms and howling pain, so it's obvious a little arthritis has crept into my bones and must be repelled and set adrift to pirate someone else's life. I have a list of enemies ready for use if necessary.

It's difficult to be reminded of injuries decades after the events, but it is inevitable as gravity and time take their taxes, or rather, balloon payments. I have a couple things on my side: blind faith in my own healing powers and knowing enough yoga to combat the worst of the pain and relax the muscles. After all, it worked with sciatica. Stretches and rest cured the sciatica in two days -- thirty years ago. So, I'm back to blind faith.

Things could be worse. I can't think how right now, but I'm sure something will come to me.

Grammar: How are they dangling?

I debated about whether or not to tackle split infinitives, but decided to try something a little lighter today since I'm knee deep in work, critiques and books. It isn't an unusual state for me to be in, but it's as good an excuse as any to take some time away from work and reading and do a little writing that doesn't require too much work.

A modifier is a word that otherwise clarifies, describes or gives more information about a concept. A dangling modifier is a word or phrase that leaves the subject, concept or word described unclear.

Having finished the laundry, the bed was turned down.

"Having finished" is the action, but the bed (the subject of the main clause) doesn't turn itself down and it doesn't do laundry.

Having finished the laundry, Louise turned down the bed.

In English sentences, the doer is the subject of the main clause that follows, that is Louise. She is the one doing the laundry and turning down the bed. In other words, in the above examples, the modifier left dangling is Louse, the object of the action and the subject of the introductory clause.

Revising dangling modifiers.

1. Determine the appropriate or logical subject of the main clause:




Without asking first, the car was taken.



Who took the car? The sentence reads as though the car needed to ask permission to be taken. Revision:



Without asking first, Marshall took the car.



In the main clause, Marshall is the subject who "took the car" (modifying phrase). The sentence makes sense.


2. Change a dangling phrase into an introductory clause by naming the subject of the action in the clause:




Unless his name is given, it will be impossible to introduce him.



The way the sentence reads now, "it" doesn't know the name to introduce. Who would do the introduction? Consider this revision:



Unless the butler knows his name, it will be impossible to introduce him.



It's a subtle difference, but an important one.


3. Combine phrase and main clause:




To enhance his appearance, the suit was tailored.



Who wanted to enhance his appearance? The suit would enhance its own looks? Combine the phrase and main clause into a simple, complete sentence.



John enhanced his appearance by having his suit tailored.

More examples of danglers:

• Incorrect: After reading the novel, the motivation remains unclear.



• Revised: After reading the novel, I find the motivation unclear.



• Incorrect: When you leave your job, your home should be a haven from work.



• Revised: When you leave your job, you should be able to relax at home.



• Incorrect: The revisions made no sense, not having read the rules of grammar.



• Revision: The author's revisions made no sense, not having read the rules of grammar.

I'll grant you some of these examples seem a bit stilted, but they are obvious in order to point out where dangling modifiers often occur. Check your sentences thoroughly and make sure the modifiers are connected and clear without dangling. Until next week, may good grammar become easier and the grammar goofs rare.

Tarot: A sword divides past and present

The past and the present are tricky. Spend too much time in the past and waste the present. Spend too much time dealing with the present and ignoring the lessons and experiences of the past and life becomes one-dimensional. There has to be a balance, but how do we find that balance?

Today was an unbalanced day for me, but I finally managed to get it together and concentrate on today's tarot post. I am not surprised that Mercury is in retrograde because communications have been on the fritz. It was so much easier in the past, but it's best not to dwell in the past and risk losing what is available in the present, although it's nice to have the option. Or is it?



The Queen of Cups is intensely sensitive to others' feelings and can seem like she's reading their minds. In a way, she is a mind reader because she pays attention to the details. Don't let her romantic looks and the far away look in her eyes fool you. She is focused on a dream and, although she seems slightly tragic and moody, thinking about ill fated princesses in fairy tales, she is deeply concerned for the welfare of others. That is what gives her insight. She has been down those roads and knows what it feels like to be poor, in pain, loved and lost. She has done and felt it all.

The Queen of Cups' heart is engaged with deep concern for loved ones and her own emotional well being. She knows that things aren't perfect, but sees the sensual beauty of the life around her. Her message is simple: Look to the needs of the heart. Don't be bewitched or swayed by emotion and don't let emotion overshadow the truth or reality until the truth is no longer visible.

It's one thing to be concerned about people and another to be so arrogant and controlling that people are no longer allowed to make mistakes and learn from them. That is how people learn, but making mistakes and fixing them. It's a heady feeling playing god/dess, but it's not so heady for those who are smothered by such overly attentive care. Remember the butterfly struggling out of its cocoon. Help it and it dies. Let it struggle and it will be strong enough to feed itself and live to procreate.



In the garden of childhood, before Pandora came with her mysterious box full of hardship, woe and illness, children played in verdant fields and filled their cups with flowers and animals. It was an enchanted time. In the foreground of the Six of Cups is a cat. It is clearer and more real than the idyllic scene behind it. The cat is the present and the happy, laughing children are the past, a memory of happy times.

Memories are tricky. Memories can evoke happiness, warmth and security when life was young and innocent, inspiring us to share the nostalgic, romanticized remembrance of things past. Too much time spent reliving and remembering the past can cause profound sadness and disappointment with the current situation, fraught with the ills and evils that flew out of Pandora's chest of gifts for mankind. In memory, the past is always better than what is available now, but was it so wonderful? Were things so much better? Were there not problems to solve and people and situations that broke the heart?

The Six of Cups reminds us to pick and choose our memories careful and remember that time and distance, and current desires, have a tendency to color the past in soft, water washed colors. The way to deal with the past is to remember the good, accept the bad without question and balance it all with the needs of the present, use logic and reality to show the best path forward. If the past controls all actions, the path will never be clear and life will slip out of control. It's a matter of balance. Isn't it always?



A sharp sword cut through the Gordian knot and solved a riddle; it was the keen edge of intellect and the rational mind, the sign of the Ace of Swords. But with power comes danger. The Sword of Truth will cut through the toughest problems with ease. It is the tool of the complex mind and the mind is the key to controlling reality.

The Ace of Swords is the symbol of communication and the weapon of communication are words, words that can hurt as well as heal. The sword bring the gift of thought, a gift that grants the ability to see the world clearly, communicate effectively and create a happy and healthy environment, a stable reality. Sharp words spoken with unguarded thought can destroy it all. A clever wit is a blessing, but it can be a curse if it is used to hurt or destroy. With the Ace of Swords, the Sword of Truth confers the desire for honesty, and that is its guard and guide in order to know where and how to strike. It's in your hands.

* * *

A man sits at a bar drinking a glass of soda. He doesn't drink alcohol because he likes to remain in control. His world is about to spin out of control.

A group of men come up to him and address him but name. He doesn't know them and it turns out they don't know him. They've made a mistake. Someone with the same name is scheduled to appear and give a talk, but no one knows what he looks like. It's a subject with which he is familiar, and speaking to the group will make it possible to drag himself away from the edge of the abyss of despair and depression. He agrees to talk to the group and has such a good time an idea occurs to him.

His name is common and a quick Google search provides tens of thousands of men with the same name, many of whom are the same age, so why not try on their lives for a while, see what it's like had another path been chosen, and possibly find a life that makes him happier than his own. Research will provide enough background and he can relive his youth when anything in the world was possible before he chose the wrong path and ended up miserable and trapped in a marriage with a wife who doesn't respect him and controls his actions. He had a chance at love, but waited too long to take it. If he can't have love, he might as well have a little adventure . . . as long as no one gets hurt.

No doubt, my mood affects my creative vision today, but it happens. Best not to dwell on it. I still have next week and three new cards to tempt the muse. Where will the muse take you with these cards?

Publicity, Greek yogurt and books

I'm no good at publicizing my work, outside of the usual channels, so I decided to check out a publicist who had been highly recommended. She has put several authors at the top of the Amazon Best Sellers list and even managed to slot one writer at #2. She's impressed with my credentials and resume and wants to work with me, but she's pricey, about $20 an hour, and I have to decide if this is something I can afford. Of course, I am just about to pay off my washer and dryer and that will free up about that much cash per month to be able to afford it, but still... It's a big bite and she doesn't do personal appearances, which is a down side, but overall, if her references check out, I may have no other choice because I need to build some groundswell recognition for the upcoming novels. Tough call, but it's all part of the wonderful world of being published and pushing your own books.

I also have to decide whether or not I want to enter Past Imperfect in the RITA awards. That's another big bite, especially when you add in five -- count them five -- copies of the novel, paid for by me, and the entry fee, which I have been told is not cheap when you include the membership to the Romance Writers of America (RWA). I'm not predominantly a romance writer and I'm not sure I want to be labeled as one when I write across all the genres, including horror and literary. Then again, the RWA covers a lot of territory and includes a whole lot of people who buy books and would buy my book. That's a consideration. Now I know what kills most writers in their first year -- promotions and anguish over contests and costs. I can do this. I'll be poorer, but not much since I am pretty poor already and there's not far to fall.

I'm still struggling with the usual things: work, writing having enough money to buy food -- and frozen yogurt. I actually found one I like that is gritty and horrible tasting: Cyclops Frozen Yogurt. They only have five flavors: banana, coffee, mango, strawberry, and raspberry (my store doesn't carry the raspberry), but it is the best thing I've had in my mouth for a very long time. It's made with Greek yogurt, the best yogurt in the world, and has swirls of pureed fruit (I've only had the strawberry and mango), and it tastes amazing.

Of course, the frozen yogurt isn't a treat, it's a way to repopulate my intestines with beneficial bacteria and flora. I care nothing for taste and yummy goodness. Not me.

I have spent a limited amount of time -- there are only so many hours in the day -- on Twitter and was coerced into buying a copy of Postscripts Magazine Issue 12 with 's zombie story in it. I think Kai and and Mary Ann with their zombie stories have put my reading feet on a strange and wonderful path. Besides, it showed up on Twitter and I was curious about it. Normally, I don't care much for zombies, but when good writers create wonderful characters and pack so much into such a small word count, I can't resist. I'll read anything in hopes of finding something really good, even things I don't think I'll like. Blame my Gram. She told me I couldn't say I didn't like something unless I tried it first.

I have read some great zombie stories, most notably Brian Keene's The Rising. That was the best zombie story I've read in ages. No wonder I gave it a great review. I can be led in strange directions, but only because I want to see what's around the next bend or over the next rise. I'm adventurous that way.

In the meantime, I've had a long nap and I'm up for a few hours, so it's back to writing for me and maybe even a few op reports to get a leg up on the day ahead. I do have a guest coming tomorrow (on Facebook): Cindy Davis, author of the short and powerful You Have The Power: Self-edit Your Way Into Print, an excellent resource that needs to be on every writer's bookshelf. I'm even doing the exercises in the back and I don't do exercises unless there's something in it besides sweat, blood and tears. Arrivederci and good night.

That is all. Disperse.

Life as a political whore

In yet another unprecedented move, the president is taking over the chair at the U.N. Is there nothing this media whore won't do to be popular and attract attention? How about standing in a sealed room with 100 bee hives? How about sitting in the Oval Office and doing your job instead of jetting all over the country and the world with your entourage? You know, work. Do your job. This president has taken more vacations in the past seven months than most presidents took during their terms in office. When will the country wake up and start asking some hard questions instead of being all twitterpated and goggle-eyed because The President is going to be on Leno or Letterman or Oprah or coming to a town hall near you? Less talk. More action. Do the job you are being overpaid to do instead of playing superstar.

No, I'm not cranky, or I wasn't when I woke up this morning, but I'm tired of seeing this scene chewing ham and his teleprompter crew everywhere I look. His smirking mug is even on the magazines that come into my house. Thank goodness he's not on Writer's Digest or The Writer. When he is, I'll cancel my subscription to those, too.

Well, three days of critiques, work and writing have not cured me of my desire to dive back into writing, but I must earn a living so that I have the electricity and resources to do my job to continue writing, although I have done pretty well in the past with few resources and I'd rather support myself than have the county, city or state support me. It's just a quirk, but one I hope I never get over.

The good news about my sale of a story yesterday made me feel so good I decided to write something new. I've been kicking it around in my head for a while and decided it was time to set it free. Oops, that reminds me. I have a critique to send out, so I'll keep this short.

The message to stay in school and work/study hard is a good one, but the message should be read. Read everything you can get your hands on and keep reading. Don't stop. Don't ever stop. If you read, you will have in your hands a ticket to anywhere and everywhere, even to the stars. Don't just read fiction, read nonfiction. Read newspapers. Read books on science, math, art, history and everything in between. Read things you don't think you'll like and read things you do. Read when you're bored. Read when it's raining and you can't go outside. Read before bed and when you're sitting on a bus, riding in the car with someone else driving or waiting in line. Reading is the best education you will ever get.

That is all. Disperse.

Prophetic words and news

Now back in 1927, an American socialist, Norman Thomas, six times candidate for president on the Socialist Party ticket, said the American people would never vote for socialism. But he said under the name of liberalism the American people will adopt every fragment of the socialist program. One of the traditional methods of imposing statism or socialism on a people has been by way of medicine. It's very easy to disguise a medical program as a humanitarian project. Most people are a little reluctant to oppose anything that suggests medical care for people who possibly can't afford it.

~ Ronald Reagan on health care in 1961

In other news, I just got word that A Taste of Bittersweet was picked up for the Dreamspell Revenge anthology. A sale is always good news. If I keep plugging away at Memory and have it finished by October, I should have another sale. Then it is on to the next book which will either be a body switching story about Marilyn Monroe or a tale of a house infected with pain and sadness, and a little bit of evil. Am I becoming a horror writer? I've always thought of myself as more of a fantasist.

I have been playing around with a story about a woman who goes looking for her reincarnated husband and it could go one of two ways. She could kill him and the woman he died to be with or it could help her move on. Maybe I'll write two stories. Or I could let her think about killing them and then realize that she has as much right as he to be with the love of her life. Who knows? Anything can happen.

That is all. Disperse.

Grammar: Semi scoping the colon

Are you confused by when to use the colon and when you should use the semi-colon? It seems evident, but everyone needs a little help now and then, so let's get down to business.

If two independent clauses are connected, either by emphasizing or restating the first clause or when they are of equal emphasis, use a semicolon when connecting two independent clauses together. Sounds like Greek to me, but it's much clearer in practice.

Bram Stoker's novels are still popular today; Dracula and The Jewel of Seven Stars have outsold all the rest and have been the basis of several movies.

If using a conjunctive adverb (however, therefore, moreover, furthermore, thus, meanwhile, nonetheless, otherwise) or a transition (in fact, for example, that is, for instance, in addition, in other words, on the other hand, even so) to connect two independent clauses, a semicolon is used.

Romance novels are a thriving business and sell more copies than any other genre; however, romance as a genre remains a niche market.

When the individual items of a series includes commas, use a semicolon.

In movies, Dracula has been traveled to cities around the world, including New Orleans, Louisiana; London, England; Bucharest, Romania; Richmond, Virginia; New York City, New York, etc.

When the second of two independent clauses is emphasized, use a colon.

Roanoke is where Virginia Dare was born and went missing: historians and writers continue to look for traces of her.

Independent clauses followed by lists, a quotation, appositive, or other idea directly related to the clause should be followed by a colon.

Labor Day means a three-day weekend for most people, but for me it means one more day to get chores done: laundry, dishes, cleaning, reviews, critiques, letters and cleaning the toilet. Are we having fun yet?

Instead of hanging out a shingle, she should put up a neon sign: friend, cheap rates.

Lionel Trilling might have been writing about the current health care debate, which is touted as a charitable and Utopian ideal: "We are at heart so profoundly anarchistic that the only form of state we can imagine living in is Utopian; and so cynical that the only Utopia we can believe in is authoritarian."

At the end of greetings in business letters, a colon is required.

Dear Random House Editor: (although it's best to find out the name of the Random House editor first if you want to avoid the slush pile)

Everyone knows about separating the hour and minute with a colon.

5:00 P.M.

Separate the chapter and verse in Bible quotations with a colon.

Song of Solomon 5:8

Well, that was refreshing and short, compared to the comma coma of weeks before, but I hope you learned something; I certainly did. I knew most of these, but there's always a surprise somewhere or a rule I have forgotten because I don't use it much. Until next week, I wish you good grammar and easily fixed grammar goofs.

The cyber touch

Well, I've jumped on the bandwagon, albeit a bit cautiously, and joined up with Twitter, so if you're interested and would like to find out what I think or am thinking, hop on the bandwagon with me. I'm still not sure how it will be working without a net -- a cell phone for the rest of the world -- since I do not have and have no intentions of getting one. After all, I work at home and don't travel all that much, so why add another expense I'll have to lose the rest of my weekends working to support? I'll stay out of that particular end of the tech pool, at least for now.

One quite divine femme wrote about how easy it is to misunderstand a simple flirtation online and turn it into a budding romance -- or first step on the stalker trail. It's something I have lots of first-hand experience in.

My profiles are pretty businesslike, fact-based information with a bit of word play that have been misconstrued as flirtations and come-ons. They have garnered me quite a few propositions and numerous proposals of marriage. I could say I don't get it, but I do because I used to be the voice on the line that spun fantasies and helped men find the orgasm within. That's writer code for phone sex operator. It was many years ago, but a sexy voice, a creative and imaginative mind, coupled with a way with words and it's a recipe for instant romance. Funny isn't it that I really don't care much for hard core romance?

I shouldn't say I don't care for romance because I love romantic gestures and romantic men. I even appreciate romantic women; I'm one after all, bearskin rug in front of a fireplace in a snowed-in cabin is the essence of romance when you add a glass of wine or champagne, fresh strawberries or a decadent cheesecake to share with the lust man of your dreams (or at least my dreams). But to read some of the romance novels that have gone from bordering on soft porn right into hard core porn is a little much and my un-favorite romance is the saccharine sweet kind that drip syrup and relies on a formulaic approach. I'm not against any other kind of romance; the world needs a lot more romance and men need to learn about romantic gestures.

Dracula by Bram Stoker was definitely romantic, but it wasn't the blatant in-your-face romance and sex that hits the top of the Romantic Times Best Sellers list over and over. There's nothing more thrilling, or frankly more sexual and erotic, than being bitten on the neck. Think about it in more anatomic terms. In the 19th century, writing about sex was confined to a very profitable and lively niche called pornography, and 19th century pornography is every bit as racy and provocative as anything written today, even more so, if you want my opinion. Yes, I have read it. Everyone should. Pornography has been around since men first learned that charcoal would make marks on cave walls. Emperor Tiberius was a great connoisseur and consumer of pornography and locked himself away in his villa and gorged himself into a Dorian Gray picture stupor until he died. Dracula isn't pornographic, but it is erotic.

The act of a vampire sinking his teeth into a woman's vulnerable and unprotected neck to drink her blood is very erotic, but you knew that. It is in a way a substitute for sex. The act of intercourse requires the man to sink a part of his anatomy into a woman's most intimate essence, the deep, warm recesses of her femaleness.

Dracula, unlike his more virile and sexually potent modern offspring, wasn't capable of a phallic erection, but his fangs were erect and hard and probed deeply, over and over, and his victim, preferably a virgin, was penetrated, defiled and aroused to orgasm. When Dracula attacked men, his assault was vicious and homicidal. Although he ultimately killed his female victims, he was gentle, taking them into his arms, romancing them into baring their vulnerable necks and embracing him passionately. It was a surrender that eventually led to death, but sex in the 19th century often led to death in one form or another (childbirth, syphilis, rape, Jack the Ripper, etc.). It was beauty and the beast with a new twist; the beast wasn't changed into a handsome prince by Beauty's tears or her kiss. Dracula remained a beast while beauty died. Is it any wonder the book still sells and directors and actors still clamor to bring him to the screen?

What does that have to do with people falling in love with faces and words online? Romance.

It is so easy to fall in love over the phone or online because you get the essence of the person without all the baggage, and because romance is sadly lacking in the world. There are so many demands and claims on attention that an escape, any escape, is necessary to keep people from running wild in the streets raping and pillaging along the way.

The vikings probably wouldn't have been so vicious and blood-thirsty if the Internet existed then. Vikings weren't after romance, not in the general sense, but they were after something to spice up their lives, usually booty, wine, riches and women. There were seldom enough women to go around, not with women dying in childbirth, of syphilis, rape and Jack the Ripper. Even though it seems to us in our modern cyber-connected world to be vicious and antisocial, it was still at the heart about finding a woman to clean the house, bear the children, do the laundry, cook and be vulnerable to their less blood thirsty pursuits.

As a society, people are so locked into work, chores, family and money that they crave something more human, more intimate. The net provides that, and not just in the blatant sex ads and porn sites, or even in personals and dating connections, but in seeing someone through their words that stirs something inside. In the end, we all want the same things, to be seen, heard and touched. We want a connection that has nothing to do with plugs and liquid crystal displays. There are people on the other side of the cyber-chasm and they're looking, too. The farther we move away from each other physically into the world of computers, cell phones and television, the closer we yearn to be physically connected.

Sex and love are born in the brain, but it's the body that is starved for a simple human touch. The human touch is necessary to life and we forget that until words on a computer screen touch something deep inside and make us reach out to make the fantasy into real romance, to touch the flesh behind the words, to feel the heart beating in time with ours, to sink into those deep recesses impaled when we are at our most vulnerable.