Chilly November

This is one of those mornings I woke from a sound, undisturbed sleep, something that doesn't often happen. I was a little stiff from lying in the same position for so may hours but I also didn't dream and I feel refreshed instead of like I need to crawl back under the covers and sleep for another eight hours. I usually want to sleep more but I get up and work and write and do all the things I need to do before it's time to climb onto the torture chair for another 8-12 hours of slave wages. That's life--or at least that's my life right now.

It's a clear cold morning and the sun glances off the bare branches striking silver and golden sparks beneath a cold pale blue sky full of drifting banks and islands of clouds. I smell snow on the breeze sneaking through the window I left open just a crack, a sharp, clean scent of moisture. There's a slight heaviness in the air, an anticipation like a held breath or an caught sigh. The buses labor through the streets outside the windows and cars whoosh by but here inside it's quiet and calm and full of golden light. Now I know why Feng Shui says the head of the bed should lie on a west wall--to see the dawn.

I haven't used an alarm clock in ages and I don't really need one most of the time. My windows are bare and the morning sun nudges me softly every morning, waking me slowly like a lover's kiss. There is no jangling bell, burst of raucous laughter or music or insistent buzz, just the slow tiptoe creep of the sun on the horizon getting slowly brighter and brighter welcoming me from the underworld of sleep and dreams and calling me back from my wanderings to another day.

The weekend was busy. Can you tell?

65,698 / 50,000 (131.4%)

And I'm not done yet.

A note to doctors

It is my job to make sense out of your dictations so I have a few pointers for you.

rant

1. Every time you race through a dictation and garble test results and technically difficult surgeries you waste my time and yours. I have to take extra time to figure out what you're saying while you eat your meals, speak at twice the speed of sound or fumble through technical jargon with an accent thick enough to cut peasant bread. When I leave blanks because I cannot decipher what it is you're saying then someone else has to take time away from their job to fill in the blanks. Most of the time they cannot figure out what you said either and must send the report back to you to fill in the blanks. You have wasted my time, their time and your time. If you would talk clearly and succinctly and spell out the difficult or unfamiliar words (not the easy ones since I know how to spell CT scan and radiograph already) you would save all of us a great deal of time.

2. Dictate your reports within a day or two so you don't have to waste my time while you leaf through the patient's file to figure out what you did two or three years ago and so you don't have to race through 500 reports in the space of 20 minutes (see above).

3. If English is your second language speak slowly and clearly and do it in a quiet environment, not at home with your kids screaming and running around so that you have to tell them to go to their mother or leave the room, not in your car on your cell phone with the windows down and the music on, and preferably in an area where cell phone coverage is clear and doesn't have dead zones. I cannot transcribe static into anything coherent. You waste my time and yours because you will inevitably have to dictate the report again, so please do it right the first time.

4. Read the patient's case file before you dictate and not while you're dictating. A 2-minute report should not have 15-30 minutes of dead air while you leaf through the report to familiarize yourself with the patient.

5. If you dictate the same operations over and over, please dictate a template and indicate changes where necessary. This saves us both a lot of time and you won't have to race through your dictations or dictate while you are eating, driving, bawling out your children, commenting on having sex with nurses and coworkers, or sneezing, coughing, and sniffling in my ear for 10 minutes while you dictate one page of copy.

6. If the patient broke his hand or had a table fall on his foot, of course there is no head trauma or loss of consciousness.

If you follow my suggestions we will all be happy. You will get clean and error-free reports that you will not have to go back and fix. I realize you have a difficult job and that you see a lot of patients, but remember these are people and you and I are responsible for making sure the report is accurate. I don't have to worry about malpractice, but you do. Keep that in mind when you dictate. I'm sure your insurance company will thank you, too. I certainly do.

/rant

That is all. Disperse.

Happy dance

I knew the ice truck killer was still at large and the guy they picked up, a taxidermist, living in an old trailer, with a genius IQ and a desire for immortality, was a dud. The ice truck killer would have definitely have not had a lame hobby like taxidermy when he practices his art on humans, and I don't mean to demean taxidermists. They have their art, too, but it's like equating Picasso or Michaelangelo with a kid in high school art class who can draw stick figures. No contest.

Anyway, I was right about the identity of the ice truck killer. i knew I was right two weeks ago and today I got confirmation.

Don't know who I'm talking about? Check out Dexter. If you haven't seen it on Showtime at least check it out the available episodes on the web, and definitely make a trip to the library and check out Jeff Lindsay's Dexter books. They're both worth the time and effort and you'll be amazed. This is how truly creative minds work.

That is all. Disperse.

Two truths

There are two things I realized today. Popcorn made with Crisco is not nearly as good as popcorn made with olive oil. I can't believe that's the way I used to eat it until I ran out of Crisco and used olive oil more than 10 years ago. The popcorn had a fruity taste and scent to it that was very different and the popcorn was very light. (Yes, I still make popcorn the old fashioned way because I can't stand the smell of the microwave kind). I'm the frugal sort so I will choke it down and go to the store on Tuesday and buy some more olive oil. A 20-gallon drum ought to do it.

So many people I know complain that they don't understand why people who lie, cheat and steal get everything they want. I've been one of those people. Not any more. I know why now.

While we might have the moral high ground the liars, cheaters and thieves own fertile ground at the bottom of the hill. While good and decent people are getting shafted left and right and focusing on doing the right thing the liars, cheats and thieves are focusing on getting what they want by any means necessary. Those kinds of people leave no stone unturned, no trick unplayed and allow nothing and no one to get in their way to getting what they want. What they have is focus and drive. They are single-minded and think of nothing but their wants, their needs and their success. If someone gets hurt or loses money, property or love to them, so what? Those moral people should be willing to risk everything to get what they want. There is no middle ground. You either focus on getting what you want anyway you can or you end up eating the dust of those who will.

Moral people focus on what the immoral people are doing wrong and crying into their beer, coffee or tea instead of focusing on doing their jobs and making success come to them instead of waiting for it to happen in God's, goddess's, gods', fate's, the Universe's or Karma's time.

Whatever you think of an immoral person's lack of ethics one thing you cannot deny. They get the job done. Maybe it's time to take a lesson. Politely ask someone to move out of your way before you have to run over them, but get where you're going. Keep your eyes on the prize and you will get it. Time to stop whining and asking why, hitch up your pants and damn the torpedoes.

That is all. Disperse.

Weirdness

I called my parents tonight to check up on Dad. He's been having trouble sleeping and has been in a lot of pain. Mom complained that he lies in bed and moans and won't get up and take a pill, which is Mom's answer for everything? Have a problem? Take a pill.

Dad went to the doctor this week and was told he's healing up nicely two weeks after the surgery and he can go back to work. This should help relieve the relieve the depression that has gripped him so tightly this past two weeks. He's happy to go back to work. He's that kind of guy. What kind of guy he isn't is a sports kind of guy. Neither is my brother. The sports fans in the family are all women.

Mom is a big fan of the Cincinnati Reds baseball team and she and her mother never missed a game whether it was on TV or on the radio. They would each listen and then it was a race to see who could get a call through first to say, "And this one belongs to the Reds," a saying not heard very often in my grandmother's latter years because the Red weren't playing at all well. One could even say they weren't playing at all, but that's another post.

Beanie and Carol are both football fans. Beanie loves the Chicago Bears and Carol is a big Cleveland Browns fan, although I'm not sure how she feels about them since the original team was bought out and are now the Baltimore Ravens (the city of Cleveland would not allow Baltimore to buy the name). Bears and Dogs for my sisters and Carol really has gone to the dogs--and cats. She has a houseful of both. I followed the Minnesota Vikings back in the old days but haven't watched my football in recent years. I have had other things to do. But I know a lot about football, having played powder puff football in junior and senior high school and even before that with the boys in our neighborhood in the park that ran down the center of the street in front of our house for a block. The center was heavily wooded but the ends were clear and dry (when it wasn't raining) and that is where I learned the fundamentals of football first hand, usually on the bottom of the pile-up. I was the only girl among hormone-filled teenage boys. Need I say more?

Mom doesn't follow football but when I called she was watching the Ohio State-Michigan State game tonight. That's the Buckeyes versus the Wolverines for those who follow such things. She was cheering the touchdowns and very involved in the score that stood at 35-31 with the Bucks in the lead. She knew to cheer for the touchdowns but kept getting upset whenever the Wolverines pushed the running back out of bounds, thinking that was the end of the Buckeyes' possession of the ball. I gave her a quick lesson (and I mean really quick because she was yelling in my ear all the time) about downs and stopping the clock and conversions and penalties. One of the players, Michigan of course, was called on a penalty for a face mask. First down for the Bucks. "What does that mean?" Mom practically yelled into the phone.

"It means the Bucks get to move the ball ten yards and have the first down."

"That's good, right?"

"Yes, Mom, that's good."

The Bucks scored a touchdown and I explained that they could run the ball in for two points or kick a field goal for one point, converting the points from 6 for the touchdown to 7 or 8 depending on what they did. She couldn't follow but she yelled out the score. "42!" Okay, they played it safe and kicked the ball right between the uprights.

This is the most worked up I've heard my mother in a long time, even though between plays when she wasn't getting upset about the backs being pushed out of bounds, she also brought me up to date on her vomiting situation. She's still vomiting. Late in the day. Bringing up breakfast. "TMI, Mom," I said just as she yelled again for some penalty call.

I talked to Dad briefly and then when Mom yelled, "What is going on? What does that mean?" he handed the phone back to Mom who promptly told me she didn't have time to talk. She was concentrating on the game.

"Okay, Mom. Goodbye. Have a good evening. Enjoy the game. Time for me to give my poor ear drums a rest so I can hear again."

At last!

The last few edits are done. The manuscript is back in its original format and off to the publisher. Now I wait.

In 10 minutes I have to get out of my comfy nest in bed and get ready for another work day. I'd rather curl up here and go back to sleep. It's cold outside and some time during the night a light dusting of snow covered everything. The snow is already off the streets but the rooftops are white and glitter in the sunshine. There is a curiously brittle look to the naked tree limbs and they glisten as though covered with ice. A chill creeps through past the windows and sends shivers over my exposed arms. The rest of me is warm and cozy and safe beneath the covers. I don't want to get up. I don't want to have to face another 12 hours of doctors. I want to read a book and nibble on the turkey I baked last night.

The whole house smells of cloves and spices and caramelized maple. I decided to try something different since I've sworn off breads and cereals for a while. I peeled and sliced some yams, marinated them in dark organic maple syrup and stuffed the turkey with them. The result was pretty good, since that is what I had for breakfast nearly three hours ago. I'd eat some more but I can't afford to go back to sleep, much as I want to do just that.

Oh, well, time to be a responsible wage-earning adult and put in my shift for slave wages. I suppose there are worse things--like sleeping under an over pass in this weather or bedding down in a noisy shelter on a sway-backed cot under a scratchy blanket. First a shower and then work.

That is all. Disperse.

Oh, for the simpler days

This week is barely begun and I'm digging my way out of a huge pile of work. In addition to my regular job, which takes up a good 1/2 of my day and sleeping about 4-5 hours, the rest of the time I'm working feverishly to finish the edits on a novel to send to an interested (and may I say avid) publisher. In addition, I have an article to finish for a magazine, a review to write (not to mention the ten other books waiting to be read and reviewed), and my novel for NaNoWriMo to get back to work on. Then there's the three other articles for magazines I need to get done by the end of the week and four more stories I owe for print anthologies. Somewhere in that time I need to touch up my roots, do some laundry (it never seems to get done), and clean the apartment. I may have to cut back on sleep just to get it all in.

And Beanie wants me to watch House with Hugh Laurie, whom I adore, but my TV isn't back from the shop yet. Even if it was, I wouldn't have the time to watch anything since I need that time to work and I can't spare an hour of advertisement-riddled television on a show I haven't seen that is in its third season. Nope, I don't think it's going to happy this week--or for the foreseeable future.

When I talked to Beanie on the phone yesterday she told me Mom was on the other line and wanted to know if I wanted Uncle Bob's number in the hospital. (Here's your sign) I got the number and called my uncle--my favorite uncle--and we talked for a few minutes. He evidently fell down the stairs and was unconscious for a considerable amount of time. My aunt found him at the bottom of the stairs amid the shattered glass of a table top. Lovely. The EMS had to cut off his clothes. He had an intracranial bleed and the echocardiogram showed an aortic aneurysm they needed to fix once the bleeding had subsided. He's been getting dizzy for some time and this is his third fall with a head injury.

He was glad to hear from me. We hadn't seen or talked to each for about seven years, although Mom keeps Uncle Bob and my aunt supplied with my writing. Uncle Bob said I made his day. He made mine. He's the only one left in the family who has never called me by my name. He calls me Pearl (or Pearly Mae). My grandfather nicknamed me Pearl and he never called me anything else. Grandpa added Bailey to the Pearl and he and Uncle Bob would torment me as a child singing, "Pearl Bailey won't you please come home." I got so upset and would tell them over and over, "I am home," but they kept it going just to hear my protests. I grew out of that a long time ago, but it was good to hear my uncle call me Pearly Mae.

Grandpa had nicknames for everyone and he called me Pearl, he said, because when I was little my teeth were like tiny, perfect pearls. Gram said it was because I was his precious pearl. Either way, I got the good name. You should hear what he nicknamed all the others. Some of the names make no sense and the rest are downright--rude. Imagine calling a child Leaky or Blacky or Gassy or roadhog? Then, of course, there's Bessie the bull frog and that is my sister Carol. There's also Pickle and Hatchet Face. Simpler days.

Well, it's back to the word mill for me so I can finish the final edit on this novel and send it to the waiting publisher and then I have to go put in about four more hours with the doctors. Oh, for simpler days when all I had to think about was homework and boys.

That is all. Disperse.

Veteran's Day

My oldest son was born on Veteran's Day 33 years ago today but I don't think of him nearly as much as I think of the men in my life who have been touched by war and death. I wish my son a happy birthday but those men haunt me on Veteran's Day as I remember what it was like growing up with and without them.

I was named for my mother's brother, Jack, who died of leukemia five years before I was born, the year my parents got married. He was a sailor with a wife and two children, none of whom I have met because there was some kind of rift between them and my grandmother. He fought during World War II but it was cancer that took his life five years after he returned home triumphant. Mom took me to decorate his grave ever Memorial Day an Veteran's Day.

My cousin, Lacey Prater, was a fun loving, happy man with haunted eyes and deep twisted scars like ropes around his thumbs. He survived the Bataan Death march. Every time he came to visit he'd tell funny stories and laugh. While everyone else's eyes were filled with tears I looked into his eyes and just for a moment saw dark haunted shadows. One time he caught me looking at him while everyone else was looking away or bustling around fixing dinner and he knew I had seen past the careful mask he wore. I asked him about the scars and what the death march was like and he smiled a smile that never touched the deep shadows in his eyes. A joke died on his lip and tears glistened in his eyes as he shook his head. I knew he couldn't go back there or it would trap him forever. He pulled me onto his lap and kissed my cheek. "I lived," was all he said. His eyes haunt me in the middle of the night when I can't sleep and darkness is shattered by the scream of an owl or the howl of a dog when the night train whistle moans.

My grandfather was too young for World War I and too old for World War II. My father didn't serve in World War II because he was too young but he mustered for Korea twice. He sent lots of pictures of his friends and the places he saw in the aftermath of the war but he doesn't talk about his time at the Demilitarized Zone (DMZ). He did have an evil looking knife someone nearly stuck into him, but he doesn't talk about that either. I see shadows flitting in his eyes from time to time and I know he saw the relatives of the demons in Lacey Prater's eyes.

It was my boyfriend from high school who gave me a better glimpse of those demons one night when he wasn't high or drunk. It was Christmas and he was on the DMZ. Red and green tracer fire like Satan's idea of Christmas tree lights flew back and forth. Bursts of automatic and machine gun fire ripped through the black void on that frozen winter night when his best friend's head exploded all over him, decorating their entrenchment with glistening red and white shreds wrapping the twisted olive drab metal of his helmet. A hysterical scream of fear and rage played counterpoint to the a devil's hymn of gun fire while the night sky bled red and green tracer fire. The smell of burnt flesh filled the air as his gun glowed red hot in his hands. I wasn't there. I didn't see what happened. I saw his eyes when the haunted shadows nearly overwhelmed him while he screamed his fear and rage unaware of the mug that shattered in his hands or the blood that dripped slowly onto the floor.

My son is 33 years old today and he has never known war. None of my sons have known war, but there have been important men in my life who have seen the demons and lived to tell about them. It is them I remember most of all. It is them I celebrate and honor because they made it possible for me to celebrate the birth of my son.

Thank you all.

Submission blues

There is something wrenching about putting together a submission package for something you have written. Fighting the urge to edit one more time or get one more opinion on your story, you procrastinate and hem-haw around. It isn't the rejection you fear, although that is always waiting in the back of a shadowed corner of your mind next to the unforgiving editor, but success. What if they accept your book or story? What if they publish you? What if it's a success and you are expected to follow that up with more success? What if...? The questions are endless and are guaranteed to keep you from sending it off into the cyber world or putting on the stamps and handing it to the mailman.

It is easy to sit back and write stories and articles and books and keep them in the drawer awaiting one more editing pass, but it's all a matter of what you want to get out of the process. If you want publication you are going to have to grit your teeth and send your work out into the world. If you'd rather stack the pages and disks in a trunk in the attic or a cabinet in a corner and wait for someone to discover you after you're dead, then go for it. Not everyone gets to be Emily Dickinson.

It all comes down to making choices. I just made one. I sent another finished book that I'd like to edit "one more time" out into the ether to a publisher interested in the story. For some reason, for me it is more difficult with full length works I've written than for books I've ghostwritten for someone else, i guess because it's my butt on the line.

Every journey begins with a choice and a step. I took that step tonight. What about you? What choice will you make and when will you ignore the sarcastic, snide voice of your internal editor and take that first step?

You're kidding me

As I sit here psyching myself up for another day of work and looking at the calendar I realize tomorrow is my oldest son's birthday. He will be 33 tomorrow. His birthday is the easiest to remember because he was born on Veteran's Day. Then it hits me: Veteran's Day. That's a holiday. The company I work for pays for this holiday but it's not until tomorrow. Time for Google. The federal government observes today as the holiday which means the post office is closed and all federal bureaucratic wheels stop grinding (although they're slow at the best of times when no holidays are involved). Could it be? Is it possible I have the day off? I fired off an email to the office manager just as I realized if this is a holiday she won't respond. What do I do? If I work and it's a holiday I will get paid the usual holiday rate and add quite a few more pages to the total making this a good day, not to mention that I won't have to fight for work since everyone else will be taking the time off. Or do I stay in bed cuddled up with my laptop (preferably with the heater on or clothes) and write more on my NaNoWriMo novel. Then the responsible me starts nagging me.

What about the dishes in the sink (all five of them) and the laundry that needs to be done (point taken)? What about finishing up a couple more review books and posting the reviews? What about the piece you have to write for the breast cancer anthology (for pay)? What about a walk in the park and running errands? What about...??

Shut up already! Jeez. You'd think I had an unlimited amount of time today. It's just a day, a day without work where I get paid for not having to sit and look out the window at mountains, a day where I can go to the mountains with a sketch pad and some pencils, a snack and some water and just breathe. A day when I can write to my heart's content (and the characters' needs) without having to worry about the time I'm taking from work. This is a free day and I'm going to take it.

Okay, it's decided. I'm going to turn on the heater, put on a sweater and climb back into bed with a bowl of hot oatmeal and frozen mango and write. Y'all come back now, ya hear?

That is all. Disperse.

Odds and ends

The past week has been a blur of activity and more than just the view outside my window keeps changing.

I went to Woodland Park on Saturday for VE exams. We had eight candidates and seven of them passed, one with nearly perfect scores on all four tests. He took the last test because he was there and missed on 3 out of 50. Not bad for not having studied. He lives near me, too, just down the road from here and we talked about getting together again soon. We also talked about antennas and radios and such and all kinds of things, but mostly over coffee (hot chocolate for me) at Java the Hut across from the library where we host the exams. Wes forgot to sign the sign-in sheet although he never forgets to comb that thinning alfalfa patch on his head. He could wear a hat like Dean does so no one knows he's bald(-ing) but he'd rather keep coming the fronds in hopes more of them will grow back instead of end up in his comb. It's funny watching him sometimes.

The rest of the week after the weekend was nothing but work, work and more work but I did manage to sneak in a couple hours of free time to watch Heroes and catch up with the first season, Dexter of course, and the very Nathan Fillion-licious Lost from last night this afternoon after I came back from an impromptu lunch. There's a little Mexican restaurant, El Rodeo, just down the way from Mountain Mama's where Abigail used to work that I've wanted to try ever since it opened last summer. Today I gave in and decided to eat before I shopped for my groceries (always a good idea) and was the only patron in the restaurant, which was just fine with me.

Jorge is from Venezuela originally and has been here in Colorado for five years, by way of Houston and Florida. His ex-wife (he's single) holds dual citizenship (Venezuela and America) and met Jorge in Venezuela but talked him into moving north to Houston. Things didn't work out for them but there's always hope for other single females in need of brushing up their Spanish. We talked a lot while I was there and got to know each other a little, but Jorge doesn't work there all the time. He works at a Mexican restaurant in Woodland Park and invited me to have dinner with him there next weekend and every weekend I'm up there for VE sessions.

One thing I've found is when you wish upon a full moon in November (any month will do) it starts raining men. Make sure it isn't a full sun just coming out from the clouds; only a full moon will do.

That is all. Disperse.

See?

This is just one more reason why I prefer to use natural organic ingredients to deal with my body's needs and problems.

That is all. Disperse.

Genesis

Ever since Darwin wrote his Origin of the Species on Nov. 24, 1859 he has provided people with the fuel to jump start their brains and should probably be called the Father of Science Fiction. His writing was not based on science fiction but on his voyage in 1856 on the HMS Beagle and sparked by Gregor Mendel's work with pea plants. Mendel was a little known Central European monk who experimented with what farmers and herdsman have always known about breeding and cross breeding.

Out of this quest for knowledge begun by Descartes who believed that nothing in nature could not be recreated by Man comes the science fiction watched and read everywhere these days. The roots of the Human Genome Project are deep in this fertile soil which gives fruit to speculation about the evolutionary track Mankind will take. Enter the X-Men and Mutant X and now Heroes.

My subscription to the Sci Fi Channel's newsletter made me curious about the new show, Heroes, and after a brief struggle of several weeks I gave in and downloaded all seven episodes. Now they haunt my dreams. The show is interesting and gives reality to what Stan Lee and Jack Kirby created in 1963 with the X-Men, a comic I avidly devoured in my formative years. Not to take anything away from the movie versions of the X-Men, but Heroes is the embodiment of those ideas and people without the strong, gentle guiding hand of Professor Charles Xavier. However, once again life hangs in the balance as these models of natural selection and genetic mutation figure out what is happening to them and why and what they must do with their powers. The show's narrator says that change is violent and there is certainly violence in what is happening to these ordinary people who are beginning to understand just how extraordinary they really are as they head towards a cataclysmic clash with destiny.

What I want to know is whether or not Mendel and Darwin should be compensated for their work? The heirs of the protohuman who discovered how to make fire certainly didn't get his share of the residuals.

That is all. Disperse.

The low down

12,545 / 50,000 (25.1%)

I received a petition from a friend I have known for many decades. It was about illegal aliens being given the right to file for social security benefits, contrasting a little old widow who buys day old bread and generic brands and shops at Goodwill and the Salvation Army or dollar and discount stores while some "possibly illegal alien" buys names brands and shops at well known stores like Macy's, J. C. Penney's, etc. There was a lot of hand wringing and heart string tugging along with a bit of hate mongering in the short paragraph before the list of names on the petition. Someone needs to inject a bit of truth into the situation.

First of all, the widow doesn't have to by generic or day old bread; she can buy name brands and fresh baked bread but she chooses to use her money that way. It's her choice, just as it's anyone else's choice to buy whatever and shop wherever they want using their funds their way. There are just as many frugal illegal aliens as there are frugal American citizens, and there are quite a few spendthrift American citizens and illegal aliens. That's the way people are and it's nobody's business but theirs.

Secondly, despite what the petition and many people say, illegal aliens have been contributing to social security and federal, state and local taxes right along with everyone else, unless they're being paid under the table, which is less often the case than you might think. Many of them are using stolen or fake social security numbers but they are paying, either into the original owner's social security account or into a general fund that has been growing for decades and sitting there because it is not attached to anyone's verifiable social security account. The government has always had the tools to find illegal aliens but these people are a tax paying, vital part of our national economy. Social security recipients have been living off their contributions to the general social security fund all this time, including the poor widow who buys generic brands and day old bread. The people who work and pay into social security, even illegal aliens, pay for the social security benefits that are being used right now. And social security often gives these illegal aliens a brand new social security card of their own so their money can go into the general fund. The government has known all along where these illegal aliens are and how to get in touch with them but they have done nothing about it. Social security collects and disburses the money and they don't get involved in INS or other governmental policies. It's not their job to round up illegal aliens and no one has asked them to provide their records to help other agencies; that is the way government agencies work--or don't.

So, when you get one of these petitions and think about signing it think about what's really behind all this. Illegal aliens have been getting welfare benefits for decades and risk their lives to have their children across the border in our country because they know they will get paid and that money is more than they will probably ever earn in their own countries. America has been financing the poor and indigent illegal aliens for a long time. In turn, illegal aliens finance Americans with their hard work and their government taxed earnings. It's time to take a good hard look at the truth and decide what to do about it. Signing a petition without all the facts is like going blind-folded into the voting booth and pressing the first lever or button that comes to hand.

That is all. Disperse.

Another day, another $2.09

11,139 / 50,000 (22.3%)

I got some sleep last night after I went to bed with Dexter. His wry sense of humor kept me chuckling until the end and it was nice to see another nemesis bite the dust. Who knew serial killers could be funny and insightful?

In reading Dexter (and watching the show) I am learning a lot about addiction. In some ways, Dexter's need to kill and dismember the criminals the police cannot catch, try and sentence is as much an addiction as alcohol, drugs, sex or even love. He controls the urge much better than most people, or at least I thought so at first. There are some addicts who control themselves so carefully they never touch an addictive substance.

The Addiction Connection

Because I'm interested in addictions I decided to check old Google and find out what he had to say on the subject and I chose Adult Children of Alcoholics (ACOA) for my search parameters because I know more about them. When I managed a psychology clinic back in Ohio a big part of our clientèle were ACOA so I had a working knowledge base that fit into not having a lot of time since I need to start work here shortly.

Since I was focusing on addicts who control their addictions, like Dexter, I sifted through the characteristics to come up with what such a person would be like. Like Dexter, they would be ultra responsible, almost rigidly so. They take themselves seriously, sometimes too seriously. Dexter covers his seriousness with amiable, even joking behavior, but he misses the point of other people's jokes. He is also extremely intelligent and a good liar. He would have to be to cover the fact that he is a murderer, a Robin Hood of the knife, dismembering evil doers and saving his neighborhood from yet another murderer. Dexter is a murderer with ethics in place of a conscience. Dexter is extremely loyal, but only to Harry, his father, and Debs, his sister. They are his family and Harry gave Dexter a code to live by and the tools to keep himself free from police scrutiny and Dexter works for the Miami police department, so Harry's code keep him safe when his Dark Passenger would rather he were more impulsive. Murdering and cutting up his victims is pleasurable for Dexter but he is careful to keep his pleasure within strict boundaries, Harry's boundaries. Dexter tends to be more flexible than many addicts who deny themselves the pleasure they crave and in that regard he is a more complex and interesting addict.

There are other addicts who have never touched an addictive substance and deny themselves even love and happiness due to a nearly oppressive sense of responsibility. These are the caretakers--in ACOA terms--and are usually the eldest child in an alcoholic or dysfunctional family. My landlady calls them "dry drunks". I think I finally understand what she means.

I thought she referred to a recovering alcoholic but she meant someone who is so invested in not becoming an addict or drunk like his/her parents that he exerts rigid control over every aspect of his life. S/he may have never touched a drop of alcohol, taken recreational drugs or even allowed them anything that feels too good because s/he might like it too much. These people often marry or become involved with alcoholics or addicts or even a workaholic or shopaholic, gravitating toward people who are emotionally unavailable. They are overly concerned about the needs of others to the point they neglect their own want, needs and desires in order to avoid feeling too good. They choose to remain in dysfunctional relationships because it demands little of them emotionally and because of their overweening sense of responsibility they refuse to give up rescuing the situation no matter what happens to them.

If these people stand up for themselves they feel exposed and guilty because they have been selfish and thought of themselves first when their duty is to fulfill everyone else's needs but their own. They may channel their own desires into projects and hobbies or even work in order to fill their time and keep out of the way or to be as unobtrusive as possible. Relationships with inanimate hobbies and objects they can handle and they crave an outlet for their frustrations, something they can control, somewhere they can feel productive.

These people don't like talking about their feelings because it's too much like admitting there is something wrong or something they cannot handle. Being less than perfect in everything they do is not an option. They enjoy the challenge and mental exercise, which is a stimulation they need, but more than that they need an area of their lives they can control. Because they fear abandonment above all else they will hang onto a bad or dysfunctional relationship to avoid the fear and the pain and they don't like confrontation at all.

One aspect I find particularly fascinating is that these people will avoid anything that makes them feel good, even love. If they have not mistaken pity and the need to rescue someone as love and they find a love that gives them the sense of sharing and being on equal terms, even understood, they will avoid it like the plague because those feelings are taboo. If they like the way they feel too much they cannot go back to their dysfunctional relationships and play their part, be responsible, stay disconnected, shut down and depressed. Momentary pleasures they can handle in small doses but real deep down soul pleasure that makes them feel alive and connected is to be avoided at all costs or portioned out the way food was given to the children in the orphanage where Oliver Twist lived and they dare not ask for more. What would they do if they got it?

This is just one group of characteristics of addicts. There are so many more but these are the ones most like Dexter who has caught my fancy so completely. The show is definitely taking a different turn than the books so far, and I wonder if Dexter's nemeses will end up the same way. I won't give away the ending of the books but I suggest giving Dexter a shot. If you don't have Showtime you can download the first six episodes of Dexter and watch them on your computer as long as you install a P2P program like Shareaza, which is free. I load the programs I want to watch and let them run all night so I can watch them any time I want. Since my TV is in the shop right now I downloaded Lost, Battlestar Galactica, and Torchwood and watched them on my laptop.

Those are my current addictions, along with writing, which I will be able to do later today. My TV addictions are limited by programming schedules and my writing is limited by time between bouts of working for a living and writing paying articles and stories, but most of the time I feel like Dexter when the Dark Passenger wakes from his blood sated sleep as the moons waxes full and hangs low and golden in the sky waiting for the next chance to write something--anything.

A full fifth and a little more

I hesitated working on the new novel today but I couldn't resist forever. I needed to get back up on that horse after the horrendous weekend reading that awful book. The book didn't get any better and I was almost afraid to write anything of my own because I might have picked up some awful metaphor virus. I couldn't resist for long and I knew I had to get back to it, so I did. Three thousand words later I'm nearly done with chapter five. That's the kind of fifth I could get to like. At this rate I might finished the book before the end of the month and start on another one.

I have noticed that the words are flowing easily and I'm not fighting the story or the characters. That hasn't happened in a long time. What really amazes me is that it's all happening so effortlessly. I say that now but when I have to put it down for a week or two and come back to it I'm certain I'll find more flaws than I can stomach wading through. That is then and this is now.

In a way, keeping this blog and just writing without worrying about style has helped so much, that and the awful novel. After slogging through a book so heavily larded and riddled with horrid metaphors that make little sense where the writer sacrificed a story (I'm still sure there is one in there somewhere) for style and over the top descriptions and adjectives, I think I'm cured. I remember what Twain said about the word "very". Put "damn" in place of "very" and a self respecting and conscientious editor will strike it as an obscenity. Considering what obscenities flow onto the page and into the air waves every minute of every day, his advice is a little behind the times, but the sentiment is still true. I wonder if there is such a thing as trans-metaphor lard free? Okay, I just made that up but you get the idea. Adjectives have their place, as do adverbs, but a story moves better with verbs and active sentences and you don't have to think as hard.

That is all. Disperse.

A little knowledge

...is like a mental hors d'oeuvre.

I was doing a little reading this morning and came across this:

THE LOVERS

Basic Card Symbols

An angel or cupid, a man and a woman, two trees (in Waite, it is Adam & Eve with one tree having a serpent and apples) - in some decks one tree is flowering, but the other has fruit. Also in some decks there is a man standing between two women.

Basic Tarot Story

The Fool comes to a cross-roads, filled with energy, confidence and purpose, knowing exactly where he wants to go and what he wants to do. And comes to a dead stop. A flowering tree marks the path he wants to take, the one he's been planning on taking. But standing before a fruit tree marking the other path is a woman. He's met and had relationships with women before, some far more beautiful and alluring. But she is different. Seeing her, he feels as though he's just been shot in the heart with cupid's arrow, so shocking, so painful is his "recognition" of her. As he speaks with her, the feeling intensifies; like finding a missing part of himself, a part he's been searching for his life long. It is clear that she feels the same about him. They finish each others sentences, think the same thoughts. It is as if an Angel above had introduced their souls to each other. Though it was his plan to follow the path of the flowering tree, and though it will cause some trouble for him to bring this woman with him, to go somewhere else entirely, the Fool knows he dare not leave her behind. Like the fruit tree, she will fulfill him. No matter how divergent from his original intent, she is his future. He chooses her, and together they head down a whole new road.

Basic Tarot Meaning

Originally, this card was called just LOVE. And that's actually more apt than "Lovers." Love follows in this sequence of growth and maturity. And, coming after the Emperor, who is about control, it is a radical change in perspective. LOVE is a force that makes you choose and decide for reasons you often can't understand; it makes you surrender control to a higher power. And that is what this card is all about. Finding something or someone who is so much a part of yourself, so perfectly attuned to you and you to them, that you cannot, dare not resist. In interpretation, the card indicates that the querent has come across, or will come across a person, career, challenge or thing that they will fall in love with. They will know instinctively that they must have this, even if it means diverging from their chosen path. No matter the difficulties, without it they will never be complete.

Thirteen's Observations

The Lovers is a confusing card as it is ruled not by an emotional water sign but by airy Gemini. The original trump featured a man and a woman with a cupid above them about to shoot his dart. Later this became three figures, the interpretation being a man choosing between two women, or a man meeting his true love with the help of a matchmaker. Still later, with Waite, we have an Angel above Adam and Eve. The Angel stands for Raphael, who is emblematic of Mercury and Air, planet and element of Gemini. Gemini is the communications sign. It's all about messages and making contact; also, as it is the twins, about finding your other self. In this regard, you can see that the Lovers begins to make sense. Especially if you change it back to "LOVE." Here is a card about perfect communication, about finding something your soul requires. In this regard, its most common interpretation about being "A Choice" makes sense. When this card appears, you are being told to trust your instincts, to choose this career, challenge, person or thing you're so strongly drawn to, no matter how scary, how difficult, irrational or troublesome. Because without it, you will never be wholly you. It's sudden and unexpected, and it means a compete change in plans; but this is LOVE. True love. Go for it!

That is all. Disperse.

In hell

I have read literally hundreds of books and reviewed nearly as many but I can usually find some redeeming quality or feature that keeps the book from being truly awful. Not this time. The book I'm currently slogging through is an example of what not to do when writing a novel. It is the worst piece of garbage I've ever read and I need to find a professional way of saying simply, "This one sucks".

I don't usually look for information on publishing houses but I decided to break with habit this once because I could not imagine a legitimate publishing house buying and producing this one. A legitimate publishing house isn't responsible for this one. It's self published. That doesn't make a difference in my estimation because some excellent and truly noteworthy books have been self-published: all of Mark Twain's books and The Celestine Prophecy (before it was featured on Oprah and bought up for a mind boggling advance), as examples.

I am truly in hell. I have to finish this book this weekend and write the review but I also have my own writing to do and it has never taken me this long to read a book. I've been working on this one for five days and it's not getting any better. John Grisham may have been turned down by umpteen publishers before his first book was published, but he had something worth fighting for. Even in the world of the Old Ones this book would not be considered literature and the Old Ones would have destroyed the author for screwing up even their twisted and arcane sense of reality. If I were the kind of person who read the first few pages of a book and a synopsis and then wrote the review, I would, and I'm sorely tempted to put this one down and burn it after reviewing the half book I've read. Too bad I'm not unscrupulous. Being professional truly sucks sometimes; this is one of them.

That is all. Disperse.

Cold lizard moves

A cold lizard moves very slowly, comes from being cold-blooded and needing the heat of a summer sun to get their blood flowing and their limbs moving. That's how I felt this morning: cold and slow. Instead of jumping right into writing another 2000 words, I opted for a warm shower to get the blow flowing and my limbs moving. It felt really good, too, but today is definitely a sweater day, and possibly a sweater and jacket day. The sun room is cool most of the time even when the sun hits it but I also like a window open for the fresh air to keep my head clear. That translates to cold fingers and cool temps. Sacrifices. Warm, limber body this morning means no words written.

And then there was breakfast to cook and eat. No oatmeal, although that would have felt really good going down and lighting a warm fire in my belly to last a few hours, so eggs, but before I could cook anything the phone rang. It was the landlady needing to talk. Since she's a friend as well as my landlady breakfast could wait. After 45 minutes on the phone with her and gulping down two eggs, I am already late for work. Just two minutes, but two minutes late means two minutes extra and probably a short lunch. The life of a single writer who still has to slave for wages is not very glamorous. It is, however, my life and it's still a good life, warts and all.

That is all. Disperse.

So many words

Well, the day is finally over and I added another 2000 words to my novel over on NaNoWriMo and finished a chapter. Looks like I'm going to do this. I already know there are some areas that need to be reworked but I'm resisting the urge--successfully for now.

Today was a busy day. I actually had plenty of transcription to keep me busy and I received an email from the other company telling me they want to set up a phone interview. I'll do that tomorrow at 1 PM (3 PM their time). I also had to send them the names and numbers of three professional references. I can't exactly ask my current employer for a reference and I lost contact with my supervisors and QA techs at the old job a while ago. No one sticks around for very long (the company's choice, their choice, who knows whose choice), so I had to scrounge and beg a little today. I was surprised the people I asked responded so quickly--and said yes. I have good friends.

I also called Mom and Dad and got some news. Dad sounds great and he's in good spirits.I had to yell so Dad could hear me but he was laughing and joking and back to Dad. Must be the lack of testosterone poisoning in his system. This surgery may have been a good thing, outside of cutting off the food supply for the cancer. I know how attached he was to his jewels. It's not like taking out a woman's ovaries. We are attached but not quite so attached to them. Our ovaries don't define most of us. Our breasts do.

Anyway, everything is squared away, or so I thought. Beanie told me she's moving. Not here to Colorado or even to Montana or Wyoming, but into Mom and Dad's house. I knew it would happen but not until after our parents were gone. That changed with Dad's surgery. Mom and Dad have decided they need to move back to town so they're not so isolated. They also want to cut back on expenses. The house isn't as big as Beanie's house now but they will have more land for their horses and animals. Beanie's son Ants is a little upset because its farther from Charity's house. I told Beanie to tell Ants it will give him more practice driving. She laughed. So, Beanie and her husband will put their house on the market and take over the payments on Mom and Dad's house, which is a scant eight miles away from their present home. So much is changing and the inevitable keeps moving closer.

At least Mom and Dad will be closer to the hospital and Dad's cardiologist and Mom can go back to Mt. Carmel for her monthly transfusions. It's a good idea but I didn't think it would happen so quickly. Surprise!

In the meantime, I'll focus on work and finishing the new novel and book reviews and more work and just keep busy. I may even manage an afternoon nap once in a while so I can write until 11 PM. Now it's time for bed. Oh my gods o'clock comes early in the morning and I want to get another hour or two done before it's time for work. I have words to write and words to transcribe.

That is all. Disperse.

Quickies

Dad had his surgery yesterday--finally. They kept changing the time so that his original 9:30 AM start time became 1:30 PM. He was in surgery about 30 minutes and since his replacement heart valve is failing they did the procedure under a local anesthetic. That means that Dad had a chance to talk during the surgery--and he did--a lot. I guess he talked the surgery team's ears off while they worked on him. That'll teach them to leave him awake. I'm sure he was nervous and a little bit anxious and that always translates to conversation. He probably couldn't hear everything people were saying because he wouldn't have been allowed his hearing aids, but there's nothing wrong with his mouth.

He came through the surgery all right but he may be dead this morning. I haven't checked. I talked to my mother last night and she said she was fixing dinner for Dad, always a bad sign. ;0) Just kidding. Dad is a better cook but Mom can open cans and use the microwave with the best of them. When it comes to desserts Mom shines as a cook, but only because she loves to eat them and would settle for nothing less than chocolately perfection.

As for the rest, I have writing to do before I begin my working day. I promised myself I would write for two hours in the morning and fit in some more later in the day. This is my short work day since payroll ends at 2 PM my time. I need the break from working like a mad woman for the past three days but I'll get over it. At least the work is finally there. I may make it after all.

That is all. Disperse.

Off and running

National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo for those in the know) began this morning and I began by editing and commenting on a friend's story. It's a really good story that could be better. I see some of the things I used to do when I first started writing seriously. I should say when I first started seriously writing fiction. Books and writers tell you to show and not tell but they never really tell you how. By editing other people's work I learned how to explain it better and how to understand it better. Nothing like taking someone else's words and showing how they tell and don't show.

I'm sure none of you is interested in writing talk but for the next 30 days while I struggle to write 50,000 words before the end of the month (and most likely more than 50K) I will be talking and writing about writing. For now, I'm off to the bathroom to take care of some business and take a shower before I plunge into another day full of paying work.

That is all. Disperse.

More tests

I thought I was done with tests when I got out of school but it seems like there are always more tests. Either I suggest them for others or I have to take them. I took several tests to get my ham radio operator's license and after a very false start did very well. I took several tests to get the job I currently have and, since I got angry yesterday and decided to find another company to pay me a regular paycheck, I received an email that sends me to a site to take more tests. Once this is done I will have another income to add to my main income and to my writing income.

Tomorrow I will begin another test, one that lasts a whole month. I will test whether I can stick with a program and write a book in a month. If I can do that then I will test myself even further and see how many months I can fill with writing books. I have several on the drawing board but I'm tired of waiting for time to write; I am just going to write them.

The thing about waiting and patience, no matter what you want to do, is that nothing ever gets done. Waiting puts you in a submissive position so that the Universe or god/dess or someone else can fill your emotional, mental and spiritual orders. You have to wait while you're pregnant for the baby to be born, but you're really not waiting. You're creating and adding to something. Your body is active. Your mind and spirit are preparing for the new life that will join with yours. It just seems like you're waiting and that's where the problem of defining waiting comes in.

When you wait for the right time to have a child, a time when you have enough money, a bigger place, a better job, etc. the right time never comes. People wait for the right time to leave a marriage or a job or start their own business, leaving their dream nothing more than a dream. They don't work toward the time when they can make their dream a reality; they just sit and wait for the right time to arrive. It never will.

I've been waiting for the right time to finish the books I have half written and to start the ones I've been planning, waiting for enough time to sit down and write. In the meantime, I have written and edited lots of other things, but not those books. They are still dreams. They are still out in limbo waiting to see print. Granted, my work schedule has been impossible with me working 100 hours for 20 hours worth of pay, and by working I mean sitting at my computer starting and restarting a program every 10-15 seconds that tells me there is no work available or gives me 1 or 2 jobs. The program is not automated and I have no other choice but to sit there and click the program to start and end and start again until all I see is another screen telling me there is no work. I catch naps in between stretches of work, working every available hour day and night. I've been stressed and stretched to the breaking point and for all my diligence I get less and less work. I realize now I could have written something, even long hand on real paper, while I sat there fuming at a blank screen and answering emails and made the time work for me. I didn't. I couldn't see further than the blank screen with no jobs. I was frustrated and tired and very cranky. I worked weekends, nights, holidays and got more nothing. Not any more, not since I got angry yesterday.

So I will take the tests tonight, email them the results and my little essay about how I got involved in medical transcription and I will write my books starting with the new one tomorrow morning bright and early. No more working all hours of the day, night and weekend. No more giving up all the things I love doing or the people I enjoy seeing. No more waiting. No more patience. From now on I make things happen every day. I'll take my lumps and tests in stride and move forward into the present of every moment. Yes, getting angry and refusing to wait for the right time is the right thing to do for whatever dreams you hide and polish and put back on the shelf. Waiting does nothing but waste time and time is a precious commodity that waits for no wo/man.

Life is not a test but there will be tests to take...and pass.

That is all. Disperse.

Emotional Sati

The past week has been difficult. My mother was in the hospital for dehydration and to find out why she was vomiting constantly. She thinks it is the Glade plug-ins that Dad has in nearly every available outlet in the house, including under the kitchen sink. Dad does like the scent of jasmine but a little jasmine goes a long way and a lot of jasmine, to the point everything in the house smells of jasmine, will make you sick. There were no Glade plug-ins when she was here a couple weeks ago and she was vomiting then, too. She also has an upper respiratory infection that finally seems to be breaking up, but neither of those would be cause for almost constant vomiting. She also had severe cramps in one leg and the next morning woke up in the hospital with extensive bruising in the same area and the doctors didn't think it was red flag enough to consider doing a Doppler to check for DVTs (deep venous thromboses, blood clots in the leg). I wonder what good they are if I can spot a potential problem and know more about their job than they do--and I didn't go to medical school.

The pre-op testing caught a problem with my Dad's mitral valve, the valve that exploded and was replaced with a tissue valve seven years ago, which means he would be extremely high risk for general anesthesia, or any anesthesia come to that, which would be needed for him to undergo the removal of his testicles. The surgery was set for November 1st, but that may have to be delayed or even canceled if his heart valve, which only has a shelf life of seven years, is giving out. So now it's a matter of what will get Dad first, his heart valve or the prostate cancer that has moved into his spine, ribs, and pelvis. The testosterone generated by his testicles feeds the cancer, which is slow growing (relatively) and will grow a little slower (relatively) without the added push of the testosterone. Hopefully, the cardiologist, who hasn't put in his two cents' worth yet, will okay the surgery under conscious sedation or even a local so the spread of the cancer will slow down, giving my father a few more months of painful life as his bones succumb more and more to the spreading cancer before his heart valve gives out.

I paint a bleak picture but it's not nearly as bleak as I know it really is. That's the problem with having spent twenty-four years typing up operative reports and death summaries, not to mention oncology and hospital reports detailing similar situations. I know the course of many diseases and the cause of even more diseases and I type reports of people in situations similar to my parents' situations and I know what comes next. I have no illusions; my work took those away.

My parents have lived full and long lives at 75 and 78, respectively, but I'm not ready to let them go. Still, I'd rather they go now without suffering what I know is ahead of them even with the dulling and mind numbing effects of increasing doses of morphine. Even nearly 2000 miles cannot cushion the blow of talking to my parents and hearing them downplay what I know is really going on. I am caught between wanting their pain to end and wanting my parents around for another twenty years. All of this almost eclipses the lack of work and my growing concern with the lack of funds spilling out of the pipeline I have spent so much time filling.

There are times when I hate publishing's pace. It's like a snail frozen in its slime trail most of the time. Lots of work up front but no money for long periods of time. Yet this is the path I have chosen and one that I am working more and more, almost as much to earn more money as to soothe the sadness and pain growing inside me with every bit of news from my family, every moment of frustration with ignorant and incompetent doctors on all sides of my life.

I have been sad and depressed over the past few days but now I'm getting angry. Anger is good. It's like the liquid oxygen that when ignited pushes tons of metal and ceramic and glass through the heavy embrace of the earth's atmosphere and into the black void of space. Anger is the emotional sati that burns away sentiment and fear and depression.

That is all. Disperse.

Blue Shift

There is a point at night when the moon and stars are out that all color is leached away and everything has a bluish tint. It's called the blue shift. The rods and cones in our eyes perceive light and color in different ways depending on the type of available light. At night, blue is predominant except where flood and household lights approach the brightness and spectrum of sunlight.

Right now with the faintest hint of blue in the night sky before the sun stretches its fiery light toward the horizon and the sky is that deep midnight blue, the porch light across the street is an oblong hole in the darkness where the yellow and brown of the door is clear. The three yellow eyes of the house across the street are visible, as is a star burst of yellow of the porch light down the street. The street lamp at the corner pushes the darkness back with a sweep of amber and a fox flits by in pursuit of squirrels and other rodents and the landlady is banging doors downstairs. The faint rumble of a diesel truck passing by is the only sound outside my windows and the space heater's rushing hum keeps me company in the dark with only the laptop screen for light.

It's quiet and peaceful here this morning and I feel as if I've wakened from a nightmare. I did have a nightmare that woke me two hours earlier, a definite change from the erotic theme of the past couple of weeks. Scenes of blood, the sounds of automatic fire, the sight of blood and a house and area I have visited frequently in my dreams combined to keep me prisoner, unable to stop the bloodshed and the pain. I don't know what catapulted me out of the dream but I was unable to fall back to sleep again and so I am up writing, reading emails and journals and eating cantaloupe in the darkness.

Times like this when I lived at the cabin were usually full moon nights when the blue shift of moonlight on snow was an ethereal call to go walking. Stories of fairies and the possibility of shifting from one reality to the next only to find on returning I had been gone years kept me close to the house and on well traveled ground. I shift from reality to reality too easily when I'm asleep to seek the shift when I'm fully awake. I know the consequences and I know the perils and I'm not ready to venture there yet. I have far too much to do, so much to keep me anchored here that I'll save walking through the blue shift into that other reality when I have finishing sucking the marrow of this life and this existence. There is still so much to learn and so much more to do before I walk off into the blue shift under a food moon beaming down onto the silent snowy ground where foxes flit past pursuing squirrels and other rodents and owls call greetings from shadowed pines above sleeping elk and deer and bear. Someday, but not today.

To tell or not to tell

While talking with a good friend this morning, a subject came up that has been on my mind a lot lately. I have seen other people going through similar situations online and around me. How much do you tell about someone who was once a friend when they're no longer a friend and out to hurt you?

When someone hurts us or says things about us that aren't true our first instinct is to defend ourselves. We want people to see both sides of the story, to invalidate the lies and to have our say. We call it justice, balancing the scale, but it's natural. It's instinct. Someone hits you, you put up your hands or find some way to defend yourself. It is only after long training and sometimes even beatings we learn to ignore that basic instinct. We also ignore the instinct when we give up and wish to die. Defense of our person, and by extension our reputation, is hard wired.

It takes an effort to ignore that instinctive fight or flight response. There are times when that instinct would do more harm than good--such as in the case of bringing up confidences entrusted to us by a friend. I believe it is fear of those confidences being made public that makes some people fear and even hate former friends and makes them lash out and attempt to destroy the other person's credibility. They want the skeletons locked tightly inside the cupboard not laid bare.

In some ways it is a tough call to make. Do you defend yourself with someone else's secrets, information given to you by someone who was once a close friend but now isn't, just to let people know your oppressor is a liar and a cheat or worse? The information would prove the other person is a liar and not to be trusted. The act of revealing a confidence would also damage your credibility. People would not be able to trust you. If you would not keep a friend's confidence, whether or not they are still your friend, how could anyone trust you with themselves or their lives? No, you didn't lie. You told the truth, someone else's truth, a truth entrusted to you.

It doesn't matter that you are no longer friends. It doesn't matter how much they have worked to harm you personally or professionally or how they've held you up to public scorn. What matters is you were once friends. You don't have the right to air their dirty laundry or loose the skeletons from the closet. You gave your word and they trusted you when they were most vulnerable. Even if they spread lies and gossip about you behind your back, even if they want to destroy you professionally, you don't have the right to take their secrets and make them public.

I don't have that right, not if I want my friends, past, present and future, to trust me and know their secrets will be safe. Not if I want to be able to trust them. Not if I want to sleep at night and look myself in the mirror.

The older we get the more secrets and baggage we accumulate. The more we need to be able to share the burden with someone we trust, someone we know will never hurt us, whether we remain friends or not. Without the ability to trust someone, to share burdens with someone, we lock ourselves into a smaller and smaller space away from people, relationships and friendship until we die inside. Most people won't notice the difference, but you will know.

It has been very difficult for me to remain silent on some subjects but in my soul I know that in defending myself I would inevitably harm myself. I can't do that. I won't do that. Just as I keep from saying things to friends and acquaintances that might hurt them if they knew, I decided to keep the secrets buried and the skeletons locked in their closets. They are not mine. I have no right to them. Silence is not a lie nor is it a lie of omission if no one is hurt. If the information would save a life or free someone, then I would find a way to make the knowledge available. That is not the case here. I cannot defend myself by breaking another's trust.

So many problems would be avoided and people would be happier if they learned to think before they speak. Ask yourself who the information would hurt most? Is defending myself worth proving I am untrustworthy? Do I add fuel to the fire by speaking my piece?

This morning, out of the blue, a good friend gave me the answer. She said she knows without doubt that anything she has shared with me in confidence will be safe whether or not we are friends. While I have struggled she has quietly watched. She knew the outcome before I did. She understood that sometimes when we answer the allegations and lies laid at our feet or thrown in our faces we prove the very thing our oppressors have said. We show there are reasons for us to wish them harm even if we don't. By enumerating the hurts we have received at another's hands, and despite our claims to the contrary, we prove there is something valid in our oppressor's claims.

Hammer some nails in a pristine piece of wood and then take them out. The wood is no longer unmarred or unmarked. It will always show the signs of what you have done. People are like that piece of wood. The damage will always be there even if you fill in the holes with wood putty. Saying you're sorry removes the nails but the damage remains. You can work around the damage or find ways to use the damage in a more constructive manner but the holes are still there. How do you apologize for inflicting hurt or damage without leaving a scar or a hole? You can't. If it means enduring a few more scars and holes, it is better to absorb the damage and the hurt rather than inflict more of the same on someone else.

Jesus said to turn the other cheek. Some religions teach that it is better to bend with the wind rather than break or to allow hurt to flow over and around you like water. Either way, the willow will lose a few leaves to be replaced in another season and the rock will slowly erode as the water flows around it. Everything and everyone affect the world and the people around them. It is inevitable. Like hiking a trail in the wilderness it is best to leave as little damage as possible. Dust and dirt, blood and sweat wash off. The trail will eventually incorporate evidence of your passage. The grass will spring back up once the weight is gone and dead grass will be replaced by new grass, but whatever you do, consider the consequences.

Words spoken in anger cannot be called back or unheard. Trust that has been earned cannot always be regained once it is lost. Betray someone and it is likely no one will ever believe or trust you again. Is defending yourself when there will be those who will believe the lie and not you no matter what you say, especially when you betray a one-time friend's confidence, worth it? Or is it better to keep an honorable silence so people will know, without understanding why they know, you are someone to be trusted?

More often than not, less is more and silence is indeed golden.

Working weekend

I just finished two reviews for Author Link and am editing my article for Byline magazine and that takes care of the rest of my writing obligations this week. If all goes well, by the end of next week I should have two sizable checks in hand and that ain't bad, especially with the way things have been going with work--or rather the lack of work. Doctors are lazy and don't keep up with their dictations until the hospital threatens their income. Once I fill my writing obligations I will take a shower, throw in a load of clothes and strap myself to my desk chair and type dictations all weekend long, only occasionally coming up for air, water, food and trips up and down the stairs doing laundry. Good thing I went to the store earlier this week. Bad thing is that I forgot to get comfort food--popcorn to pop. I don't know why but making popcorn on the stove and eating it fresh and hot with the fruity taste of good olive oil makes just about anything bearable--even transcribing medical dictations. I'll have to forego the Godiva chocolate raspberry truffle lest I lapse into a pleasure coma and am unable (and unwilling because of the endorphin rush) to get back into harness.

Next weekend will be similarly filled with writing since I have a book to finish, galleys to edit and a newsletter to put together so it's ready to send to the printer Sunday night. I would rather crawl into bed with Stephen King or 50 great short stories but I need to work and fill the pipe line so I can keep the money coming.

Since I was unable to get through to my parents on Thursday night I called again yesterday. Dad was at work and Mom was heaving up her intestines. I cannot stand the sight or sound of vomiting without going into dry heaves that threaten to bring up my intestines. I told Mom I'd talk to her later. I did find out (between retching bouts) that Dad's surgery is scheduled for November 1st. I don't know how he is doing, other than working, but that's pretty much a given since Mom didn't shoot him in the leg or hide his keys good enough. Parents! Can't live near them or shoot them from this distance.

The weather this week couldn't make up its mind, one day snowy and cold and the next Indian summer warm. The leaves are almost all down on the ground and the mountain is clearly visible without its leafy frame. a few bushes and trees are still green and hanging onto their leaves but they are gold and brown at the edges and the wind is yanking hard at them. They won't long decorate the snoozing branches and twigs as the trees go dormant for the winter. I'm not certain I want to venture out to be buffeted by the wild winds. It's warmer and less breezy inside so work doesn't seem like such a bad idea. I do need to fit a little tidying up in somewhere, probably when I'm so antsy I can't sit in my seat and listen to another mumbling or foreign doctor fumble his way through an operation at light speed.

I got fed up with clicking the program every 10 seconds to find out there was no work available so I came into the living room and watched Saw. At first I thought it was Saw II because of the flashbacks but after talking with Beanie I found out it was the first one. What an intricate and fascinating movie. In some ways it was very much like The Cube but it was so much more. I thought it was going to be the usual bloody slasher fare but I was wrong. I'm going to have to watch it again because I wasn't paying close attention to everything and I missed a few bits here and there. Like Seven in some ways with the serial killer's unique methods of justice, Saw was much more unique. The movie is definitely a keeper. Beanie told me Ants has both movies on DVD and he didn't know that Saw III came out yesterday. He was at the Circleville Pumpkin Show when I talked to Beanie but I'm sure he and his girlfriend will catch the movie tonight or maybe the matinée today. I definitely would rather see it here in the comfort of my well lighted home or at a matinée so it won't be dark when I leave the theater. The movie is at once frightening and fascinating and not at all derivative.

Well, the microwave beeped to tell me my lunch is ready to eat and I hate cold mushroom chicken, so for now...

That is all. Disperse.

All in the outcome?

I talked with a friend yesterday who is incredibly knowledgeable about astrology and all things divinatory. He amazes me with his insight and clarity of thought. He said that the road ahead is rocky but the outcome will be positive. "You're an outcome person," he said. "It's all in the outcome." I'm still figuring out if that is good or bad or if it really matters. Aren't we all outcome people? Don't we all want to know how things will ultimately be?

Some people can't focus on the story until they read the last page and see how it comes out. That's not always a good thing. With books it's the story and the journey not just the ending that makes a difference. The story should be so good it makes you forget everything except the words and where they take you. If you're looking for the ending before you've barely begun then either the story isn't that good or you're afraid you won't live to see the end or you can't settle into the story without knowing how it all ends.

There have been times I was tempted to look at the last couple pages to see how the story ended. The story didn't engage me but when I review a book I read the whole thing whether or not I'm interested. It's my job and integrity won't allow me to cheat. I find it difficult to write the review. I can't just come out and say it was a lousy book, although I have been tempted once or twice. Instead I need to analyze what didn't work and why I couldn't stick with the story. Most of the time I keep a tablet handy so I can jot down things that bug me about a story or places where the writing was especially good. Sometimes the story is so good and the characters so engaging I don't write down anything. Everything is there in my mind like a bright light in the darkness. Those are the books I relish, the ones I cannot stand to put down and sleep or work or attend to the demanding functions of nature. Writing is like that sometimes...

...and sometimes writing is a chore that I avoid with chores and movies and picking up the living room or cleaning the toilet or brushing my hair. Still, I can't get away from the writing because I carry it in my head, sleeping, waking, working. The words pop in there and write themselves. I do a lot of sleep writing when I'm avoiding really writing. The past few nights have been like that, writing articles and reviews and working on books in my sleep, even to the point of editing and rewriting. I have gotten used to the process and I know when it happens that I need to sit down and write something other than a journal post, that I need to put my nose to the grindstone and chip away at the work. I know the outcome but I can't just write the last page like O. Henry. Some editor is bound to want to read the blank pages between the beginning and the ending. At least my brain is working on the blank pages while I focus on everything but the outcome.

No, I don't think I'm an outcome person any more than anyone else. We all want to know there is an ending to pain, to grief and even to the same old passage of days and hours we fill with nonsense and everything but what we truly want. We want to know the story turns out all right and we get to the end of the journey but we still have to travel the blank space in between. It helps to know we will get to the end of the road in one piece but what do we gain by knowing that when it was the plan all along?

I know my parents are going to die and probably sooner than I want. I would rather enjoy what time is left to us than focus on the outcome. On the other hand, focusing on publication and the checks that will come is a worthy goal but it's not the reason I write. I write because that is a part of who I am and for the first time in my life I have no doubts about my abilities. I do have a whole lot of anxiety in finding the time to do what I want to do and what I know I will always do. There is still some part of me that hates seeing crumbs on the floor or dishes in the sink or laundry piling up in the basket but the alternative is taking the time to do the chores from the time I have to write. Each outcome is different and I know both have to be done. I don't think giving up sleep is a good idea. I had a hard enough time with that earlier this week when I couldn't sleep because of fever and being unable to breathe. In that state I couldn't do the chores or write since my mind was fogged and the only thing I could think about was the sleep that wouldn't come as I tossed and turned while my body fought off the bugs my sisters left me.

There are times when each day is like an alien landscape that is almost recognizable, a blank canvas of Colorado blue where the occasional mare's tale swishes beneath a fading con trail and where golden aspens are tucked in between the green and brown.

I am lucky in so many ways. I have more now than I have had in years and I live in a comfortable home, cluttered though it gets from time to time when I'm working (all the time). I see mountains outside my windows and the ever changing panorama of the seasons. I live in the beautiful shadow of grandeur and I have more than enough to make the journey interesting and fruitful. In between now and the outcome of my journey there will be time to sleep but I won't court dreams. I live them every day.

I am interested in the outcome but I wouldn't miss a single step of this journey. Would you?

Movie days

I was up early this morning writing, editing and submitting an essay for a contest in Elle magazine. I thought it was interesting. The prize is a Cole Haan large convertible tote that is very expensive but for me it's the thrill of writing something to be published. I'll probably sell the tote or see if they will swap the tote for cash. I would never spend $425 for a purse. The one I'm carrying now was a free gift with books. That's more my style.

Anyway, I was thinking back three years when I had just moved into the cabin. Some friends from Arvada asked to come up and film some of their movie on the property and I said yes without hesitation. It was a group of scenes centered around a dream sequence that included a crucifixion. They even brought their own cross. Many, many centuries ago (or so it sometimes seems) I designed costumes for the Columbus Light Opera, Columbus Metropolitan Opera and several local theater groups. In that former life I spent a lot of time designing and sewing costumes, as well as bridal and prom gowns, among other things, for a select group of clients. The costumer on my friend's movie couldn't seem to figure out how to make robes that actually looked like something people would have worn in the first century B.C.E. so I offered to help. I also created a quick costume that looked like Jesus's garments when he was nailed to the cross for the girl in the dream sequence and touched up some of the actors' makeup. I made some new friends that day, people that still call, email and visit from time to time now that I'm closer to Denver. When my friend and his troupe of actors finished they left me with a 10-12-foot cross that sparked quite a few conversations, especially from my parents who visited shortly thereafter. Dad even helped me chop it up for the fire.

As I look back on my life and visit some of those times it seems as though I've lived many different lives. I've had two full careers, one of which I still practice, in addition to the writing I began professionally after decades of silence. I have met interesting people and been involved with and part of some historical events. I have known the famous and the infamous, worked with and trained athletes, done more than a few stints in the political arena and brushed shoulders with actors in a few movies, seemingly always on the fringes where I could see and not be seen. I have engraved invitations to presidential inaugural balls and boxes of carefully preserved letters from people whose names are household words in many households, letters I treasure because their authors are now gone. Some of those letters contain priceless advice and all of the letters are glittering jewels of wisdom and pearls of shared memories and lives.

I once said that when I lie on my death bed I want to look back and remember all the things I've done and seen and not regret what I have missed. I have lived a continuous adventure, although the adventures are somewhat quieter at the moment. With my parents' illnesses so much in my thoughts, I wonder what they see as they look backward down the halls of their lives. Do they wish they had done things differently or regret not taking a few chances here and there? Do they see a full and satisfying life? Are they happy with what they have achieved? I don't know. Their lives are not mine. They traveled a much different path, a path I consider safe, but somehow, despite all the trouble and turmoil that has crept in here and there, I believe they are satisfied with their journey.

Not everyone is born to be an adventurer. The world needs people to dig the ditches as much as it needs people to design the pipes or whatever that goes into the ditches. Everyone, no matter what their jobs or beliefs, is part of the vast and intricate machinery of life. No one's value is less than anyone else's. Without each and every cog and tooth and drop of oil watched carefully by maintenance that makes the machine the designer imagined, the machinist to mill and tool, and the builder put together nothing works. Everyone is important.

My friend wrote the screenplay and his partner filmed the scenes the actors carefully learned while the costumer and makeup artist prepared them for the camera. Their job began with a concept and grew into words on a page and in the actors' mouths and finally on the film. Their job finished with the audience who watched and absorbed their vision, growing with each person's reaction. However, nothing was possible without the people who grew and picked the cotton and linen, created the materials that became their equipment and clothes and transportation, color, paper, ink, design, and film. From the smallest raw materials and elements to the finished product everything in that complex and symbiotic machine of creation is important. The loss or lack of one single element stalls the machinery of creation.

We are all interdependent even though we don't see how we all fit together. Worn out parts are replaced, sometimes with newer parts, but always with something that keeps the machinery of life and creation running. We forget that sometimes. We shouldn't.

No, my life is not my parents' lives and their lives are not mine, but without sharing some part of our lives we don't exist. I exist because two other people gave me the gift of life. I live because my parents, whatever their faults and mistakes, shared their lives and their home with me. I have traveled a long way from them and from their home, but even when they are gone a part of them lives on in me.

Yes, I remember her

I was watching The Exorcism of Emily Rose again and thought I recognized the actor who played Emily Rose. I did. She is Dexter's sister, Debra. Looks like she has found a niche in mainstream horror. She's quite the versatile actor.

Lots of memories are bobbing up to the surface with everything that has happened in the past few days so I decided to check back a year or so and found what I had suspected--revision of history. Comments have been deleted as well as my membership in . Considering who made the comments, not to mention the content of said comments, and who created the LJ community for writers, I am not surprised. Par for the course. Funny thing is that with everything going on with my parents things like this assume their natural level--lining the garbage can.

That is all. Disperse.

Storm aftermath

Calm and silent and white though it is outside, there is no calm here inside.

It snowed yesterday, heavy wet flakes that plumped down over everything. It snowed for hours, weighing down branches sparsely covered with yellow and brown leaves. Naked limbs sag with the weight barely able to move in the winds howling past the windows. Inside it's warm, too warm, and dry, sucking the moisture from everything. I have to leave my shoes off so I don't shock myself or short out the laptop or computer. Warm oatmeal flavored with organic raw maple syrup lays like a plug in my stomach, slowly, ever so slowly making its way down. Even the cars rushing by on the slick streets are hushed in the cold snow-heavy air. The mountains are layered with it. Everything is covered and silent, heavy and slowed. For the first time in weeks I slept for a solid seven hours, waking with the heaviness, my mind numbed.

I talked to Beanie and my mother yesterday during the storm. My father has given up. He was ill but went to work anyway. He got off work a little early because he was vomiting and ill. He sat in the car in Wal-Mart's parking lot in the rain and cold for over an hour until he felt well enough to drive. When he got home he couldn't get out of the car. Mom, already frail and dry as a leaf at the tail end of autumn, had to help him out of the car. She swears he is not going to work today. I told her to hide all the keys. "He'll walk if he has to," she said.

"Get out the rifle and shoot him in the leg if you have to," I said.

Beanie had already told me what happened. "He's given up," Beanie told me her voice at once angry and anguished. I told Mom. She agreed.

"We have a deal," I told Mom. "He can't leave unless he takes you with him." I said the words with my usual mischievous tone but I didn't feel them. "If he's given up and he's going, you'd better give him the rifle to take you out first."

The doctor has no time to take my father's testicles. He won't be able to remove them for two weeks. The cancer that has progressed to my father's spine and pelvis is slow moving. That's what they say. I keep remembering what George told me a few months ago. "I wish I hadn't let them talk me into the radiation. It made the cancer worse." He had the same primary cancer my father had seven years ago: prostate cancer. George was dead a year after his prostate cancer moved in his lower spine and pelvis. I could call George's wife or his best friend Doc and find out if they removed George's testicles and how long afterward he died but I don't want to upset them to find out something I already know. My father has given up. The weight of news and cancer are too heavy for him to bear.

Cold winds barely moved the branches and leaves weighed down with heavy, moisture laden snow. I see them twisting and shifting under the weight but in spite of the owling wind they do little more than fight a useless fight against the smothering white. Shot cracks echo through the cold, silent morning as branches and twigs bow and crack beneath their covering. Dried out yellow and brown leaves droop and thump to the ground piled high with frozen clots of white unable to stay up and attached to the drowsing tree. There are no more cars. Even the birds have fled. The streets are isolated and silent as death.