It's easy being green

I've been working on some green articles and stories and I keep coming back to the same thing; I don't remember having to take out as much garbage when I was growing up. No wonder couples argue over who has to take out the garbage all the time. There was less packaging then, too, which goes along with the increase in garbage. When did it all change and why?

Growing up, Carol and I spent about a month in the summer (when we were in town and not in some foreign country or other state, of course) staying with our aunt and uncle, Mom's brother and sister-in-law, at their house in the country. They had five acres and I'm amazed now that their five kids and us two could fit in a two-bedroom house, but we did. Uncle Bob had remodeled the basement to include two more bedrooms, but there was still one bathroom and it seems to me we took baths in shifts and used the same water with lots of Mr. Bubble that petered out after the second round no matter how much you put in. They had a well and the water was hard so Mr. Bubble didn't bubble very much anyway. But that doesn't have anything to do with the green part.

There was a big mound (almost a hill) of table scraps that rotted quietly in the sun, attended by crawling and flying insects until it was raked out and spread over the garden in spring when Uncle Bob tilled it into the soil to ready the ground for planting. Out of the five acres, I'm pretty sure the garden took up about 1-1.5 acres and things grew there in abundance: tomatoes, peppers (not the hot kind, they weren't popular yet), green beans, corn, carrots, peas, etc.

All summer long we grazed surreptitiously among the rows when we weren't scouring the nearby woods and dump for blackberries. As the vegetables ripened, we picked them and ate them for meals, but we also helped can and freeze the bounty, sealing in the sunshine and warmth and color of summer in glass jars that had been used and reused for decades, some of which were probably used by Aunt Lois's mother and grandmother before her. A few of the blackberries made it to the freezer, but not many; we ate them as fast as we picked them, saving just enough to share with our uncle and aunt. They didn't buy much from the grocery store, outside of bread and meat. Milk came in a great big tin milk can from across the road at Gallagher's dairy farm, where they also got eggs. The milk was raw and tasted different than anything my parents bought at the store.

My aunt and uncle lived in the country but they weren't really farmers and their place, in spite of the garden, wasn't a farm, although there were still farms in the area all around them. They lived just a few miles from Worthington which is a fairly good sized town and now nothing more than a suburb of Columbus where the upper middle and upper classes still live. Even that close to town, my uncle's place was heaven to me.

I didn't mind the work that went along with gathering and preserving the harvest because it never occurred to me I should think of it as work. After all, it was summer and I was on vacation. We didn't watch much television but we were never bored. There was always something to do, especially in getting ready for our annual beauty pageant at the end of our visit.

In town, Gram had a little garden in the back yard where she grew a few vegetables for the table and for canning and I spent many happy hours sitting next to her with a newspaper across my lap stringing green beans and shucking corn. We talked about everything and nothing sitting there in the sunshine our fingers busily stripping and snapping the bright green beans fresh from her garden, and I helped her with freezing and canning the bounty so the smell of beans cooking with onions and a bit of ham or bacon would fill the house even in the winter time to make the mouth water and the memory quicken. And Gram made jelly from the grapes on the arbor behind our house or gave me a bobby pin to pit cherries that would be cooked and preserved in glass jars for later. It wasn't until I was married and we were stationed at Hill AFB in Utah that I decided to try my hand at making jam.

A neighbor told me about a field where we could get fresh strawberries if we were willing to pick them ourselves. I was game. I bought two cases of jelly jars and a block of paraffin and washed the jars in the dishwasher. While they steamed and dried we drove over to the field and picked baskets of strawberries. I had a vague idea of what to do but it didn't take me long to find a recipe in an old cookbook that had traveled with me from Ohio to Arizona and back to Ohio before we came to Utah. It was so old and worn the dust cover was yellowed with age and ripped in a couple of places; Gram gave it to me when I got married.

I found the recipe and decided to make jam instead of jelly, stopping on the way home to buy a food mill and some sugar, and then at home I set to work cleaning and slicing the strawberries, eating a few along the way. At the end of a very long afternoon I had 24 jars of strawberry jam safe under their waxy seals, gleaming like rubies behind the pristine glass. We had strawberry jam with the biscuits I made for dinner and more strawberry jam in the morning on the breakfast toast. The boys couldn't get enough, but 24 jars of jam is a lot to get through even with three hungry boys.

I gave a half dozen jars to my husband to take to a couple of his single friends living on base in the bachelor barracks and they came back a couple of days later clean and begging to be filled again. The jam was a hit and the word got out that the best place on base to eat was at our house -- if you could wangle an invitation.

We weren't allowed a compost bin or heap outside the door on base so the food scraps went into the garbage disposal, but even then there wasn't much garbage. Either packagers didn't feel the need to waste resources on hermetically sealing their products or the packaging was flimsier, but there was a lot less waste. I don't have my canning equipment here, but I think it's time to start stocking up so I can fill my shelves with the bounty that waits just up the street when the Farmer's Market sets up business on the weekends.

I miss seeing all the summer colors and sunshine tastes that that I helped put into reusable jars sealed with Kerr and Ball lids. I miss the taste of homemade piccalilli and sun ripe tomatoes that didn't come from a hot house but grew on a vine amid the dirt under the warm summer sunshine. I miss the sweet snap of carrots and stringing green beans on the porch and homemade strawberry jam and grape jelly. I miss the feeling of being closer to nature and knowing where my food comes from and having a hand in preserving it for the cold winter evening when a taste of summer is just what I need to brighten up a meal. But most of all, I miss those carefree summers and not realizing that all the effort that goes into preserving the harvest is more play than work back in the days when no one knew what it mean to be green, they just were.

Dinosaur tracks

I got sucked into playing Scrabulous on facebook but I didn't know there were cheaters out there. I found out when I kept seeing messages about not using word finders. I didn't see word finder as an option in the preferences for Scrabulous so I kept looking and . . . nothing. Went to my old friend Google and came up with several sites that offer a computer generated word finder for Scrabble players. I figured out how to work it and then realized that was how the people who beat me so badly did it; they cheated. I'm a good player because I've been playing since I was a child, but the idea that there was a way to cheat completely shocked me. I didn't think it was possible. It's like sitting down to a game of chess with someone you think is on your level and find out you've been playing against a chess master, or worse yet a computer. What's the point?

A woman I played last night asked me if I was using a word finder and I was surprised, to say the least. No, I am a good player. I looked at her stats and she is good, too, but with all the messages about word finders I can see why she might be suspicious. Scrabble is part brains and a big part luck because if you get lousy tiles (all vowels or all consonants) it can ruin your game. I can see where a word finder might help there, but I play the tiles I'm dealt and do the best with what I have. Every once in a while I'll exchange some tiles, but not often. I hate losing a turn. I guess that makes me a dinosaur. I do wish, however, that there was a way to tell if someone is using a word finder before you pick your partner. I'd have to say that someone with a high score, a really high score, is probably using it, although there are times when the tiles fall just right and your opponent leaves you wonderful openings, so ... it's still all a crap shoot.

In a world of computers and pirates everywhere looking to get ahead any way they can, it's inevitable that it will infiltrate even the hallowed boards and tiles of Scrabble. It's a shame really because it doesn't help you think better. I'd say it's the reverse and using a computer generated word finder is the best way to speed brain atrophy, but I'm a dinosaur about such things. I like computers. They have made my life easier and more enjoyable on so many levels, but they are also the devil's tool in some ways. As in life, there will always be rain -- or snow -- when you least expect or want it.

That is all. Disperse.

Judicious gambling

I feel -- I don't know what the word is. I'm out of words right now, having used them all in reviews I just finished. I wrote over fifty reviews last year and that doesn't even include the books I read for my own enjoyment. I'm doing two reviews a week now and I think it's time to take a breath, even though I feel good about the work I've done. There were so many good ones from this last shipment of books I'm going to have to read them again and find somewhere to put them. The floor is getting full and the bookshelves are bowed beneath the weight of what I already have on hand, and 95% of those are mine for research, for giggles, for -- well, just because. The last two included a book on a love affair with gambling and a Brain Bomber targeting the elite at universities across the country, another Unabomber targeting people with brains. If he'd been born earlier, he would have targeted Einstein and what a loss that would've been.

Probably the most interesting part of both books is the cultural difference. The autobiography reminded me of my childhood when my mother always wore dresses and jewelry and went out on the weekends with my suit-clad father to play bingo or have friends over for drinks and Canasta or Michigan Rummy. I miss those times when I didn't really know they had such a short shelf life and we would all end up spread out across the country and living lives completely separate and alone. Card parties and dancing and drinking and bingo and Sunday morning hangovers at the beach or behind drawn shades seem like a different century instead of a few decades ago, and it's hard to look back and not miss the simplicity and closeness we shared with our family and close friends. Such is life of a military brat no longer associated with the military. Things were different when Dad retired. There were still parties and cards, but no more drinking or hung over Sundays to get through before work on Monday.

It's seems strange to be nostalgic for the old days when my parents drank, especially since it wasn't really an issue and never a part of my life even though I was of legal age at 18. When I married and followed my husband from base to base, we had the card parties and drinking, but neither my husband nor I suffered the Sunday hangovers. We didn't drink that much. The sense of family and camaraderie is something I left behind when I divorced the Air Force, and I sometimes miss it. I have friends and we get together and go to gallery showings and spend holidays together drinking wine and swapping stories, but none of them have children and mine are grown and gone, so it's just us old folks sitting around, and no one plays cards. I miss that the most, like Screw Your Neighbor which was sanitized and became Uno. I liked it better when it was a little bit naughty, at least in the name of the game. I even miss the weekly bingo games, even when I lost. I didn't lose much because I'm not that much of a gambler; I'm what people call a judicious gambler. I don't feel like I have to play and I never take more than I can afford to lose. My ex-husband said that made me no fun to be around, especially when I'd get up from the table while I was still winning. Do you know a better time to leave?

Anyway, it's time for me to get back to bed and get a few hours of sleep before the sun comes up and stirs me into facing another day of work and responsibilities. It was fun while it lasted.

That is all. Disperse.

Outtake

I've been pondering why I write. For a long time I didn't write, afraid to put my thoughts and emotions down on paper so they could be found and used against me, used to punish me for allowing such thoughts. That's why I quit writing. My thoughts, my confusion, my fears, my dreams were no longer safe between the pages of my diaries and journals, not even in the wall safe in the closet of my bedroom, not secure from my mother who searched them out wherever I hid them and punished me for what I'd written. Most of the time I didn't even remember what I wrote, having purged it all and vented my spleen onto the blank pages, but that didn't matter; I was punished all the same. I was silenced.

It was out of silence I began writing again, the silence that surrounds a stranger in a strange land. The land was a jail in New Orleans where I waited out the ice storms and freezing rains incommunicado because on paper I didn't exist. I was lost in the system. Then I got a wonderful gift, a pad of legal paper and a black felt tip pen and I began to writing, haltingly at first and then with more confidence as the black ink swirled along the lines and down the pages, filling them with everything I thought and felt. I didn't care who read it as long as I could write, just the way I wrote as a child and a teenager contemplating the changes around me and where I fit in.

Oblivious to the women around me, I wrote, set the filled sheets aside and wrote some more. Curiosity, Eve's original sin, led the women to peer over my shoulder or sit down next to me and shift the papers closer to read, and they were excited. More than that, I found where I fit in when they sat down wherever there was an empty space near me and told me their stories. They wanted a witness to their lives.

None of those women told me they were innocent. They told me the simple truth about shop lifting for their children for Xmas, their johns, their charges and their complaints about the legal system and the cops. Some of them were innocent, but they knew there were things of which they weren't innocent: being black, being poor, being women. Some women were confused about why they were there; I was one of those. Some women were proud of their histories and how they beat the system or called in favors to lessen their punishments. But all were honest with me because they wanted someone to know the truth as ugly as it sometimes was. And so I wrote for myself as much as for them, giving them a voice they were denied outside the facility walls, and through them I found my voice.

My voice has changed over the years since then, growing stronger, more confident, sometimes complex and sometimes simple, but not silent, never silent. I am a voice for the disenfranchised, the forgotten, the hurt, the dead and the silent.

That is why I write.

Before there was Green

I read a lot more than books to review. I read everything I can squeeze in between downloads and uploads of work, when I'm waiting for meals to cook, when I have a free minute or two and don't feel like reading another review book and every chance I get when I have to stand in line. I'm the one at the post office with a book in my hands moving forward whenever I feel air where there was body heat and perfume, sweat and fabric softener scents. I read at meals, even though I know I should focus on the food -- and I do focus on the food -- but reading relaxes me and smooths out the bumps and potholes in my day. Reading keeps me connected to the rest of the world in a way that wandering down a strange street or sitting in the park writing in a journal and watching the world go by does not. Even in a reading trance I am acutely aware of everything around me, catching sounds and sights from the edges of vision and filing them for later use. Everything is fodder for the writing that comes with the reading.

While researching what it takes to get a grant to focus solely on writing, and reading the latest offerings in writing newsletters, as I do every Saturday, I realized there is a wealth of material for me to use. An article about the rise of female protagonists in previously male-dominated science fiction (some of which I have read and reviewed) and scoping out the markets for Delta airlines in-flight magazine focusing on being green gave me an idea of how to work the two together and maybe even put together a project that will be suitable for a grant. Most of the research is done, since I've been reading the author for decades, and there's something about pointing up a legacy that gives me a certain sense of pride. Maybe it was Sir Arthur C. Clarke's death and the recent death of so many literary lights that put the thought in my mind, but it's there now and I'm willing to throw the dice and see whether they come up snake eyes or seven.

Long before Marvin Gaye pushed Motown records owner Barry Gordy to record Mercy, Mercy Me Andre Norton was writing about the environment. She wrote stories about technologically advanced civilizations that fell through a crack in time and space and were faced with the destruction of the environment and how it affected everything around them, and how nature fought back. Short stories, novels and novellas chronicled worlds in rebellion and those healing from the devastation humans wreaked. She dreamed of the populations of the seas catapulted into evolutionary overdrive and able to make treaties with the rag tag ends of mankind and worlds were cities raked empty skies with rusting claws, harboring four-footed and insectile intelligences while humans huddled on the brink of extinction as nomads. She wrote of children caught up and transported to fairyland only to come back to a world that smelled of industry with air that tasted of burn fuels and how a handful of seeds sown into the depleted soil sprang up into lush growth overnight and reached outward to claim more and more of the mechanical world, bringing with its riotous growth a resurgence of animals, birds and insects that had fled or died out.

J. R. R. Tolkien was touted in one article as an environmentalist who showed the ravages of the industrial age and how it was reclaimed when Saruman's tower was overthrown and the land cleansed by the Isen river. But he wasn't the first, and he certainly isn't the last. Andre Norton was there first with strong female protagonists and an almost prophetic knowledge of what will come if we don't change our relationship with this earth we inhabit. Man against nature and man in harmony with nature, making peace and learning to live side by side were all part of Andre Norton's stock in trade before the hole in the ozone, before Green Peace, before Tolkien and before the world began to wake up and see what they were doing. I wonder if her stories, dismissed as tales for young adults, worked their way into the consciousness that sprang up in the 1960s and 1970s and subtly goaded a generation toward the green path. There are other topics and I'm sure I'll find more than I bargained for, but for better or worse I'm casting the dice.

That is all. Disperse.

Buffy and Quantum Physics

I've heard people say they don't get Buffy the Vampire Slayer and I'm confused as to why, especially when I see episodes like, Out of Mine, Out of Sight about a student who becomes invisible and has a grudge against Cordelia (who wouldn't). It's Joss Whedon's version of Schrödinger's cat.

In a quantum physics world, reality is determined by seeing it -- or hearing it like the tree in the woods. Nothing exists until you observe it. Everything is in a state of waiting to be seen or never existing at all. In Joss Whedon's world this means that a girl who was overlooked by all her classmates and ignored becomes invisible because no one sees her, which segues into the wackiness that ensues when said girl, suddenly given a most powerful superpower like invisibility, uses it for evil instead of for good. It's an elegant concept and Joss did it proud.

That's the thing about Buffy and her Scooby gang and the various evil elements that pop up on the show. It's not just about a young girl killing vampires and staying alive longer than any other vampire slayer in history but about so much more: quantum physics, philosophy, sociology and the arc of existence that is growing up. The theme of death and how we deal with it is all part of the experience, and not just in the vampires are the undead and they kill people kind of way. Buffy is a very complex and multilayered show.

That is all. Disperse.

All things being equal

I finally got around to seeing The Mist, one of Stephen King's novellas (a long short story) and I wasn't happy with the ending. It wasn't the one I remembered from the story, which admittedly I haven't read since it was originally published, but still...what happened to the original ending?

With the Lenten season in full swing and Easter upon us, in addition to the ranting of the church lady in the movie, I was beginning to see a trend in King's writing that had before seemed more like subtext but was screaming at me from the end of The Mist about expiation and sacrifice. It was definitely the theme in The Stand and its in Thinner, Dolores Claiborne, The Dark Half, The Shining and Desperation. In fact, in most of King's work there is the same theme of sacrifice -- one (or more) die to save someone (or a group of someones), expiation. I felt an article coming on and that meant a bug hunt, which led me to the director of The Mist who had a disagreement with King about the ending. Stephen King wanted the ending to remain the same but the director saw it in his mind as he filmed it. King and the director parted ways. I don't know if it was King refusing to see what is so obvious about most of his work, this underlying theme of sacrifice and expiation, or that he didn't want to make it so obvious.

A writer whose book I recently edited said her friends couldn't understand how someone who had such a religious and upright background could write such violent and questionable books. She said she didn't understand how Stephen King did it either. So I explained that despite what most people think there is a strong religious streak that runs through almost all of King's work, not like it did in Carrie with the religious zealot mother who had overdosed on too much religion, to the point of oppressing and abusing her daughter with it, but in subtle ways that permeate the entire underpinning of each story. She said she'd have to take another look at King to see what I meant and came back a few weeks later saying she saw what I meant.

People tend to look at horror and see only the blood and guts and terror. They miss the thematic threads that hold the whole thing together. There is so much more to any writer than just the basic story, something I realize but didn't see until I took another look at a little story I write about a boy in a candy store that reeks of sexual repression and denial. It's in the imagery.

Whether we are writing fiction or nonfiction, something of our thoughts at the time, like under tows, or rip tides sometimes, find their way into the story, inextricably bound to the words and themes about which we are often unaware. I remember Stephen King writing about not realizing he had written about his struggle with drug addiction in The Dark Half when he wrote it and yet I caught it immediately when I read the story, and have written about it here. I see the whole progression of his life and his distinctly Christian leanings in almost everything he writes. I see the early frustration with balancing a job with the creative muse in his early work as well as his maturity and aging as he coasts into midlife and beyond that is so apparent in his more recent work. The little boy chained in the basement among the spiders and demons is still there, but he's often more of a distraction, like a magician's sleight of hand, than the focus of the story. So much more is going on if you look at things in just the right way, in the same way that an impressionist painting looks unfocused and confusing close up and becomes something much more subtle and beautiful as you move farther away.

At least I'm not so rabid now to point out Stephen King's subtler themes becoming glaringly obvious in The Mist but whether I do or not, the director saw it and decided he had to make it, thus underlining Mrs. Carmody's crazed demand to spill the blood of the unjust to save the righteous coming back to haunt Drayton as he stands outside his car begging the monsters to come and get him while out of the thinning mist the Army plows through with the survivors from the store who wanted to kill him and those with him who wanted to get away from their blood lust. He killed his son and the people with him to save them from the horrors in the mist when help was already on the way. The question in my mind is if he hadn't killed the other four in his car and they tried to brave the horrors in the mist with their last four bullets would they have been saved or did they have to die in order to realize their blood was required as a sacrifice to expiate the sins of the world they espoused and championed? It's like the tree that falls in the woods when no one is around to hear it: does it make a sound?

There's no doubt where Stephen King's stands on the issue because it's just under the surface of his stories, and the director of The Mist certainly agreed or he wouldn't have filmed the ending that made it to the theaters. Is that where we are all headed -- to a world where those that don't agree with the majority that Christian values are the only path to salvation in the face of terror? Are we caught in a tide of religious reformation that will carry us once again into the Dark Ages or is this simply the struggle that comes when faced with a fork in the road? Time will tell.

In the meantime, Stephen King, your roots are showing.

That is all. Disperse.

The reviewer is reviewed

Other than a friend telling me an old boyfriend threw one of my books across the room, I haven't seen any reviews of my stories in the first two books out this year. I got that this morning, just a few moments ago. I made the reader cry. She said it brought up memories she had forgotten and that it was "very good". I'll take that. She's not a professional reviewer, but the stories I wrote were meant to touch people and not to impress reviewers. Yes, reviewers are people, too. I'm a people and I still read like a people, but I also read like a reviewer and balance my reviews to offer an educated and considered opinion. It's not the same -- and yet it is on some levels. Enough babble or I'll confuse me.

The old boyfriend who threw the book across the room is also a writer. He has tried for years to get his poetry and prose published, but with no success. He still gets form rejections with no scribbled notes on them. He does write and he gets paid for writing but it's because he publishes the newsletters and is the editor, so he can write what he likes. Of course, it's easy to write about security industry issues and products because he's done it for more than 20 years and his business is flourishing.

When I worked for him, he said he knew I could write, but he didn't know that I could write. He took me aside and told me that the board members or some of his clients would likely ask me to take over his job and he wanted me to say no. Of course I'd say no. I worked for him and I don't steal clients. If I had said yes when they came asking (and they did ask me) I would still be in Ohio with a lucrative communication business instead of typing medical reports, editing newsletters for free and writing and publishing in between. I wouldn't change places with him. My life isn't perfect, but mine is a good life.

My friend told me his criticism of my stories ("not good", "can't imagine how they were accepted and published", etc.) didn't match the rage and jealousy he displayed when he threw the book across the room or the tears that spilled down his cheeks when he read Love is Enough. I can't read the story without choking up and I don't know how I'll read it when I have to do public readings, but I know I'll find a way.

I fully expect some of the reviews, what few I do get, to be negative. It's the way things work sometimes. I won't always know what motivates the negativity but it's not important. Good or bad, the person had to read the story and that's what's important, not that they think my writing is wonderful or the characters fully drawn or that the prose sparkles. What matters is that the stories are read. Now, if I can only remember that when more of my work is on the shelf, I'll be fine.

As a reviewer, I realize that my opinion is my opinion and comes from the well of my experience and understanding. The way I respond to a story will not be the same way someone else responds. I have often wondered how some stories ever got published and there will be people who feel the same about me. My reviews one subjective point of view that should never be taken as gospel but rather as a guide post that should never be used to deny a reader the pleasure of forming their own opinion -- good or bad. It's one lone voice among the stacks.

There have been writers I have avoided like the plague and then come back to and enjoyed and vice versa. I couldn't get into Heinlein when I was a teenager and now I love his spare prose and hidden emotional currents. I liked Shakespeare as a child but I appreciate him more as an adult. Some stories grow richer with time and my own experience helps me see them from a different perspective that adds color and depth and meaning to words I may have read a dozen or more times before; it's part of the magic of the written word. And I'm proud to be a writer no matter "the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune" -- or cranky critics -- that come because I harbor the hope that someone somewhere will find in my words something that adds a small thread of color to the tapestry of their life.

Slowing down

I have never been much of a drinker, at least not of alcoholic beverages, although there was a brief period in my early married life that every time my husband and I went out to dinner I had a mixed drink, usually a 7 & 7. Of course, we went out to dinner maybe once or twice a year so you can imagine how little alcohol I imbibed during our seven-year marriage. We did go to the package store on base and get quite a few bottles of liquor and liqueur but it was only for cooking. Like I said, I have never been much of a drinker . . . until recently. I have had more to drink in the past month than I've had in the past few years. Except for sharing the occasional glass of wine on a nice summer night with the landlady or a margarita with dinner at the Front Range BBQ, I don't drink anything but water. That is until I joined a wine club.

Over the past few weeks I have opened a few of the bottles (two so far) and enjoyed a half glass with dinner to go with the meals I've concocted since I decided to actually enjoy meals slowly and with whatever ingredients suited my mood. I have to say that so far the Pinot Grigio and the Shiraz (with a slow cooked beef peposo) have been memorable wines. The Pinot Grigio was not too sweet with a crisp taste of green apple, peaches and something undefinable (at least by me) and the Shiraz is full bodied, fruity and mellow. Definitely a smooth wine that goes well with the peppery, garlicky peposo. I decided not to make the Parmesan polenta and used spinach linguine instead and it was good.

I'm eating dinner early tonight since I have a meeting with the local psychologist to begin the interviews and connections to research the article on men who are verbally and emotionally abused. I still have to take a shower and I have plenty of time to work off the Shiraz, three hours to be exact. I feel decadent and warm and relaxed. That's a really good feeling. Taking things slower and enjoying food and the occasional glass of wine is definitely worth the time. I guess that means I'm becoming decadent, but not so decadent that I can't "...see a church by daylight."

Since I took men off the menu -- again -- I have been bombarded by emails and offers for dates, dinner, drinks and hanky panky, to all of which I have said, " Thank you, but no." I have other things on my mind, like dealing with the first round of promotions on the first two books that just came out. My Aunt Lois, Uncle Bob's wife, finally emailed and told me she was excited about reading the books and that they looked very interesting. She also answered a few questions for me that I had emailed her about a month ago (she doesn't live on the Internet like I do).

With Valentine's Day just past and the date of my anniversaries of my previous marriages looming, I have wondered why, since Uncle Bob always forgets her birthday and their anniversary, why she hadn't strangled him long before now. She said she didn't care those days as long as he remembered her every other day of the year. She is indeed a wise woman.

We put so much emphasis on made up holidays, birthdays and anniversaries that we completely miss what's important -- that your spouse or companion love you, respect you and celebrate being with you every day. I could never understand why women nagged their partners about putting down the toilet seat or taking out the trash. It's not like they didn't do those things for themselves when they were single and it's really not worth arguing about when they're forgotten. I understand the division of labor so that one person isn't shouldering the whole load, but there are better things to fight about -- like who gets to hold the remote or which way the toilet paper unrolls when it's put in the holder, and just about as important. We get so caught up in the details we forget there are more important issues, like taking it slow and appreciating the little things.

A little meditation, a little deep breathing, counting to ten if it helps or simply slowing down and realizing that, yes, falling into the toilet and getting a rude, cold and very wet awakening because someone forgot to put down the toilet seat or schlepping the trash out for a change is sometimes annoying, but checking the seat before sitting down and remembering all the other times your partner took out the trash without being asked makes it all a bit easier to bear. We turn mole hills into mountains when we should be turning mountains into mole hills. Screaming at you, calling you names, emasculating or denigrating you until you feel like an amoeba on a flea on a rat is a much bigger issue. Forgetting your anniversary or birthday isn't a big deal -- especially if you plan ahead and remind them you'd like to do something special or just exchange a small gift, cook dinner or go out.

Life is complex and gets more so every day. It's hard to remember the little things, but it's not so hard if home is a place of refuge and sanctuary from the rat maze outside your door where there's always a line of rats pushing you from behind. Forget about the dishes or enjoy a special meal with a glass of wine or water or coffee or whatever. Turn off the ringer on the phone, leave the television off and hide the remote and just enjoy a few moments of a slower pace. You'll be surprised how much better everything feels.

That is all. Disperse.

A kind of hush

If wishes were made of snow, I'd be a very lucky woman. It snowed yesterday and this time it's not going to burn away so quickly since the sun has decided not to make an appearance this morning. Even when it does fight its way through the thick white clouds it's probably going to be so fagged it won't have the strength to singe the soft hush of white mounded on every tree, lawn and roof. The streets are clear; I heard the plow go through at four this morning. What's so amazing is the pastel golden peach of the sky between the tangled branches heaped with their heavy white burdens. It's a beautiful and quiet morning that reminds me of the first big snow that greeted me after I arrived in Colorado five years ago. That snow shut down the airport and businesses for nearly a week and was awe inspiring. This time the weather does not so much grip the city as slow it down to a more sedate pace -- at least here in our little neighborhood. That's really nice. It's a busy week for me but this silence reminds me to stop and take a deep breath and just enjoy the world around me.

I finished two of the three books I have to review and will finish another one tonight. That's three for the books this week and only one left. I'm half tempted to take a break for a couple weeks just to read something for myself and not for work. That doesn't mean I haven't enjoyed most of the books I've had to review, but I wouldn't have picked them off the shelf to read, which is a good thing because I am exposed to a wider range of styles and authors that I would have gotten around to on my own. I didn't realize until I finished reading last night that one of the books is by an author I had reviewed before and liked. She has a wonderful way with characters, making even the most minor character as memorable and real as the main characters. Little flaws and delightful touches that can be chilling as much as endearing make each book a revelation.

There are some books I need to box up and send to my uncle and his wife and more books to take next door to the Lon Chaney house where Michelle is confined to bed with her third child. Hannah is nearly two years ago and Michelle was pregnant in the fall and lost the baby -- a boy -- nearly four months into her pregnancy. She got pregnant right away and is four months into this pregnancy and having trouble again, this time with placenta previa. The placenta grows in the lower part of the uterus and covers the cervix. The placenta usually moves upward during pregnancy until it is near the top of the uterus and with placenta previa it may not, that's why the bed rest, to give the body time to adjust and the baby to grow sufficiently to be delivered by C-section. Michelle is so intent on having another child before Mike turns 40. I don't know why 40 is the scary age, but it's their choice. Anyway, I thought since she's going to have to be in bed anyway, she should have something to read, and I have all these books just waiting for a new home, and shelves waiting for new books, that I thought it was a good idea to give some of mine away.

I usually send them to friends or donate them to the library, but I also have a lot of ARCs (Advance Review Copies) and those cannot be sold. Marcia Preston's book, the one I finished last night, was autographed to me so I don't think I'll part with it. I didn't notice the signature before I read the book but when I laid it down it fell open to that page and I read it. It's nice that she thought enough of me to inscribe the book to me, even though it was fairly awkward to read since it is spiral bound and fairly thick, but into each life a little rain...

The house on the other side where the college age boys with the revolving door girlfriends used to live is vacant again and we probably won't get a new neighbor until August or later. At least it will be quiet from that side. No more Lacey barking at every errant breeze or the horse-riding man eater screaming at poor Art all the time. It will be quiet. We can take a deep breath and hope for nice new neighbors, maybe a girlfriend for Nel or some eye candy for the landlady and me. You just never know. There are a kaleidoscope of possibilities.

That is all. Disperse.

The absence of heat

The sky is an icy blue. There is snow on the roofs, cars and yards but none on the sidewalks or streets. It is a brittle, arid day and the cold seeps through the sealed windows to wrap me with frozen fingers. As I sit here at the computer typing, I am wearing my quilted jackets with socks on my usually bare feet and I love it. Winter is asserting it presence, demanding to be seen and experience, demanding we revise our fantasies of an early spring. Phil is never wrong. Spring has taunted and teased us into a sense of comfort in the promise of warm scented breezes redolent of blooming lilac and the balm of golden narcissus and forsythia. It's a lie, a come-on, a bait and switch, and it's okay. I'm not ready to let go of winter yet, at least not until I have had my fill of snowy landscapes and cloud shrouded mountains and frosted pine trees wreathed in winter ermine.

More chores to do today and I am reluctant for the wind to spank my cheeks pink, but I need some ingredients for another delicious and satisfying meal. I look forward to cooking and improvising from the bins and shelves in fridge and cabinets. I'm also hungry for some homemade hummus and I don't have any tahini. Must have tahini. And blue corn chips would be nice, too, especially since it keeps my fingers clean. I think I'll use some of the hibiscus sea salt in the hummus to see what dimension that adds to the whole lovely concoction. I may even break open the bottle of Merlot I bought a few days ago for the peposo and polenta. Now, if I can only work it in between work and writing up reviews and working on a submission or two, I'll be one very happy camper.

I received a surprise in the mail yesterday, actually a drop-off from UPS, a box full of goodies from the cooking club. I have a real apron (not the frilly girly kind -- you should know me better than that by now), steamer basket, a lovely razor sharp paring knife, ceramic spoon rest and trivet, gorgeous new cutting board and a weird set of collapsible silicone measuring cups I need to review. Could be interesting and I'll use them to measure out the tahini, which has a tendency to stick to the cup. I coat the cup with olive oil before adding the tahini because it goes in the recipe anyway, which reminds me I should roast a couple of the peppers and add them to the hummus. I'm getting hungry and I need my morning fruit. I think I'll have a pepper, mushroom and onion omelet with the fruit, some bacon and maybe some crispy fried potatoes. It's Sunday after all. I don't think I'll have room for yogurt, but I can have that as a snack later.

I'm nearly finished with the book on narcissists, identifying and dealing safely with them, and I'm reminded how like dangerous beasts they are, one moment playful and friendly and the next rending and devouring their prey. Believe me, if you are friends with or an admirer of a narcissist you are not a friend, you are prey -- like cat and mouse. Make no mistake, you are nothing more than extension of them, a hive creature serving the queen bee without any purpose than to minister, stroke, adore and cater to her demands (that goes for the lion kings, too). The narcissist is charming with a magnetic and appealing personality, the consummate actor feigning emotions with an Oscar winning performance. Beneath the charming mask is a ruthless dictator who will invade every corner of your life, take over your emotions and deny your dreams and aspirations unless they can be used to further their aims. Narcissists are devoid of emotion, empty inside and full of rage and despair. It's best not to get involved or to extricate yourself as quickly and safely as possible when you realize you've encountered one. A narcissist will never keep their promises and will continue to string you along as long as you are useful, either as a bolster to their ego or can help them achieve their goals. Fail in either position and they will chew you up and spit you out, but not without first destroying your ego, your health, your emotions and your professional credibility with cold and heartless precision, using lies, half-truths, deceptions and malicious claims.

In order not to end on such a negative note, I'll offer this instead: The world is a complex and wondrous place full of dangers and pleasures. The world, like power, is a neutral force that can be used to heal, help or harm and even when it seems to harm we emerge from the fires tempered like steel and more capable of handling whatever comes as long as we are open to the possibilities. Like the frozen realm outside my windows, it is cold and forbidding, but it is also hushed and peaceful, a sleeping world biding its time, waiting for the sun to come closer and kiss it awake from its winter dream to bloom and blossom and flourish for a season. And it is beautiful.

Saturday morning thoughts

I'm cold and the heater isn't warming things up fast enough even though I actually got dressed instead of lounging around in my flimsy nightgown, but I'm happy. I feel like the yellow dog who lives across the street when he plopped down in the snow and rolled around on his back with his legs in the air, kicking up snow and writhing ecstatically.

It snowed yesterday, a big, wet, heavy, clumpy snowfall that covered everything in pristine white that caught fire when the sun finally burned a hole through the white sky. The stiff and creaking capillaries and veins scratching across the pale membrane of the sky at the end of the solid cracked grey-brown trees dried out from the desiccating winds of wind drooped under the heavy wet burden, sending clouds and gouts of snow tumbling to the ground, lost to view in the near whiteout conditions yesterday. Most of the snow is gone, leaving swaths and stretches smeared across the yellow-brown grass where the sun has yet to glare down and burn it away and I love every bit of it, even as I wish for it to stay around a little longer. I'm caught in that land between reveling in the soft hush of winter snow and yearning for the pastels and warm whispers of wind that wakes the trees and bushes back to life. But work must continue and the coffers must be filled.

I've been reading the next book from the review box and it has invaded my dreams and turned them to nightmares. Freeing Yourself from the Narcissists in Your Life has locked me in a permanent state between shock and understanding. Unfortunately, I recognize many people from my life within its pages and am no longer confused by the way I have been treated by these people. It's as if the book was written with me in mind, a handbook with a secret code revealed. The book is as frightening as it is amazing, so you can imagine what my review is going to be. This one will not leave my shelves and I will read it again and again.

The book explains the charm and Machiavellian maneuvering the narcissist employs to gain a following and keep people enthralled and enchanted until they destroy whoever no longer serves their needs or goals, and how to recognize these venomous chameleons. It explains a lot about some of the people I've encountered and freed me from further worry, guilt and confusion and I highly recommend it to everyone. My review will be posted at AuthorLink.com next week, but don't wait for the review. Get the book now and keep it close. You never know when you might need it.

I also spent a little time reading science articles this morning from my Discover magazine newsletter and one of the articles gave me an idea for a story. It also explains the genesis of characters like Stephen King's Charlie from Firestarter and The Manitou by Graham Masterson. To think such power lies in the very cells of our bodies and could, if tapped, create the kind of devastation imagined in the show Heroes. What's really amazing is that a scientist found the way to measure that energy, as if we really needed proof that man is a storehouse of electrical energy.

It's a usual Saturday morning full of chores and empty of the work that chains me to my computer during the week, but an interesting Saturday with enough snow still cushioning the ground to keep the smile firmly on my lips and the memory of a yellow dog rolling happily across the ground in my heart, and it's enough.

That is all. Disperse.

Life Changing

Choose

Guest columnist

A very good friend sent me a new column this morning and I have to share it. So, without further ado, I present the bovine relocation specialist and philosopher.

"What's Under My Hat"
by Monte Tucker
January 28, 2008

Howdy friends and neighbors. Come on first Tuesday in November! I have already had about all of the Presidential election I can stand. Surely, somewhere out there in this great nation is a "good ol' boy or gal," that is worth voting for. You know, someone that has actually done something, not just talked about what they think they have done. It's only the first quarter in the game between the R's and the D's. Both sides keep talking about time for change. Just what are they going to change? They obviously haven't changed the game of politics. Billary and Bama Lama Ding Dong boost the word "change" every time I see the media put their face on my boob tube.

The first place they could start changing things would be on the Senate floor that they're already on. Just go and look at their voting records for the last several months and you will find they aren't showing up to vote.You know, the job they campaigned so hard to get by promising "change," but they just don't have the time. McCain isn't immune from this either.

Let's talk "change." What in the world do these hot air compressors think they are going to change and why? Again, I'm just a professional bovine relocation specialist (it's the 21st century, we used to call them cowboys). But the way I see it from Sunny Point , Oklahoma , how are they going to change the greatest nation in the world? All of the candidates are demanding we must change! OK. I wake up a free man every morning and I'm free to do anything that is morally right or I can do nothing. If I choose to do something productive that day, well I can whistle at my dog, start up my ol' tan feed truck that I bought with the help of a free enterprising banking system I hose to use. Plus, there's the fact that other free Americans assembled this truck, and the companies that bought, sold and hauled parts and supplies to make that pickup possible. As I turn the key, ol' tans fires up on diesel fuel that a mean, nasty, big oil company conveniently made very accessible and affordable to me. I turn out of my land that I can freely own, onto a county maintained road that leads to any point in North America I would choose to go to that day. Also, in this country, I am free to own livestock and free to care for them so that the livestock will return a profit so I can repay my bank, buy my feed and fuel, and provide for my family. On Sunday Morning (or any other day that ends in "Y") my family is free to drive from our house on a ribbon of roads that lead to the Church of our choice and worship the real owner of all things we know, God. We can give praise to Him for all and especially for Jesus.

Why can't these hopefuls for the highest-ranking governmental seat see that it is just that simple? Provide me infrastructure and protect me from these knot-headed whack's that think they can take away our freedom. Billary, Bama Mama or McNobrain aren't going to change anything. The foundations of this great country can't be changed by one person, no matter how much they think they can. As Americans, we have the right to succeed or fail and try again as we please. As a free man, I'm getting good at failing but I get smarter when I try again.

When presidential candidates tout change, the only thing I see in this country that needs changing is them. Life in America is good and for those that don't think so, you're free to leave at any time, go to another country of your choice and try to change it.

I'm Monte Tucker, and that is what's under my professional bovine relocation specialist hat. Wait, I'm not changing, that is what's under my COWBOY hat!

Remember our freedom is not free; try to wear a red shirt on Fridays to show support for our troops.

I don't know about you, but I like his style. I will add one thing. You can tell how good a nation is by the number of people waiting to get in -- or out.

That is all. Disperse.

Not even the butt crack

I think spikesleman has given me her insomnia, or at least disturbed sleep. I've been up for an hour. I felt hot and uncomfortable and I tossed and turned and finally gave up. I think I slept somewhere in there but I'm a little too fagged to know for sure. Yesterday was a busy day.

I only have eight more newsletters to do. I picked up this month's issue at the printer and labeled, stamped, sealed with the sticky little round mailing disks (2 per newsletter so they don't get chewed up in the mail machines) and mailed them. I do this in my car in the parking lot near the printer's because there's a mailbox there and the office that picks up from there is the only one in the city that will send them for one first class stamp without tacking on a whole bunch more postage. I don't know why it weighs one ounce at that station and 1.1 or 1.2 at every other station. The driver who picks up the mail there gave me a whole bunch of big ol' rubber bands to hold them together when I stick them in the box one day when we happened to be at the mailbox at the same time. In fact, I haven't seen too many other mailboxes out in the wild like that. Most of them are outside post offices. You'd think there'd be mailboxes all over the city in practically every shopping mall or near every big chain grocery store, but there isn't. Just one more reason this city is a bit weirder than any other place I've lived -- but I love it anyway, the way you love an awkward child or a schmuck.

I also received a letter with a release form attached. I have to sign it before another one of my articles is published. I'll have to keep that in mind the next time I submit to them, but they're paying me and another one of my articles will be published in a major national magazine. Not too shabby says I. And two of my books are out this month and should be on the shelves either now or some time this week: Cup of Comfort for Single Mothers and Chicken Soup for the Adopted Soul, the latter has been on the shelves since January and I still haven't been paid. I hope they send the check soon. My story is on page 98 in the Chicken Soup book. And there are more coming, lots more if this week is any indication, since I received two more acceptances. I need to get back to writing more regularly; can't keep going to book signings, readings and doing interviews if I don't keep writing.

That's another thing. Looks like I'm paired with two other Colorado writers (one in Aurora and the other in Pueblo) who are setting up the signings and they've contacted me to jump on board. Those women have other books out there and they've been doing the book signing/reading and interview thing for a while. Nice to know they're letting me tag along, and at least I'll learn something in the process. So, keep an eye out for news from Barnes & Noble and Tattered Cover bookstores because I'm a comin' and I won't be alone.

Research and work on the new project is coming along. I've already had an offer to syndicate the article from a major national newspaper I queried who is associated with the syndicate. I had no idea things would move along this fast, but I'm hanging on for all I'm worth. Radiantsun has helped enormously with notes and links and contacts since she's "in the business". I've approached Alternet, a group that has nationally syndicated my articles before, and they're very excited and want to move on this as quickly as possible. Reprints are half of the original article fee, but they want to syndicate it to hundreds of alternative newspapers and that's going to add up -- same thing with the national mainstream syndicate. I think I've picked a winner and I'm not quite sure how to handle all this, except to get back to work and move things along as quickly as possible. I always do my best work when I believe in what I'm writing, which makes me a lousy writer when I have to write something just to make money. I'm not good at hack work. I can churn it out, but it lacks heart and, I think, appeal. I could be wrong because people still like what I write and I have received my share of fan letters. From what I've been told by the publicity department at Chicken Soup and Cup of Comfort, I should expect more fan mail from my stories. I may have to get a post office box. At least it's tax deductible. I can use more of those since I'm making a lot more money from writing now.

Well, I don't feel tired yet and I have to get up soon anyway so I think I'll dive into some of the food I paid for and eat something nourishing -- like one of the four cantaloupes. I ordered four pounds of cantaloupe but they sent four cantaloupes instead. Good thing I love the stuff or I'd be miserable. What's really strange is opening the refrigerator and the freezer and find them both full of real food. That's a first since I moved in here. I was even forced to put canned goods in another cabinet, ruining it's pristine not used look. The way things are going, I may have to violate another empty cabinet because I broke down and ordered wine glasses for the wine that is currently resting in the fridge and one of the cabinets (white cold - red room temp). I'm becoming quite the connoisseur -- or something like that since I haven't actually opened the bottles of wine. I do occasionally cook with wine, but use only one bottle at a time. Nel and the landlady often give me a bottle of wine for holidays and my birthday and they go into the pot as well. I have to go out and buy some burgundy because I'm making this really wonderful chuck roast for dinner on Friday night since I have a date and we're watching a movie together. The chuck roast and a bottle of Shiraz are on the menu, along with the movie and good company, which is why I bought the wine glasses since I doubt they would appreciate drinking wine out of the bottle or in a mug or water glass. Some people can be so fussy.

That is all. Disperse.

Is it worth it?

Hold onto your seats and your hats. I'm going to make two posts in one day. That hasn't happened in a very long time and might not happen again for a while. If you need to go to the bathroom, get something to drink or stretch your legs, do it now. This might take a while. Then again, it might not.

As I sent another ham club newsletter to the printer I thought about what I've done and how hard I've worked to maintain a position that gives me more grief than pleasure. When I was first approached about the newsletter I was congratulated for taking over. No one bothered to inform me that I had been chosen or that the entire ham community in Colorado Springs had already decided to hand the reins to me. I went to a board meeting to find out what exactly was going on and was asked my credentials, something I found very surprising since, to my knowledge, no one before me had had the professional writing and editing experience I have. I answered the questions and offered a copy of my resume. Then I was asked to pay the membership fee in order to take over the job, and I did.

Getting information from the outgoing editor proved difficult and it was only after the first of the year he sent me a garbled email with even more garbled instructions and said, "Here you go and good luck." I didn't know how much I would need the luck. Emails for help went unanswered as if they had floated off into the cybervoid and gotten lost. I soldiered on but was unable to get the January issue out. No one was available to answer my questions, but one person did offer to pick up the newsletter from the printer, except they had forgotten to tell me who the printer was or where they were located, not to mention in what form he wanted the newsletter sent to him, mailed to him or hand carried to him. I still didn't know where the printer was located a year later when the same helpful member told me I'd have to start picking it up myself. I found out in a hurry. The past two years have been just like that rocky beginning, except twice a month every month I send out an email to the membership asking for news, articles, notices, ads, columns or even just a joke that isn't copyrighted to no avail.

Every month I pull together the ragged ends of whatever I can find, rewrite the misspelled and grammatically horrific articles I blackmail members to get to put out a 12-page issue. Sometimes I have cut the issue to eight pages just to get by since there's nothing else I can do to fill the pages without spilling blood and abasing myself for a single paragraph of content. People have made comments on my monthly nag and beg sessions in email as if it's a big joke, and I signed on for this gig.

After the first month, I put together a newsletter for the second month only to be told I would have to audition before I would be allowed to take over as editor. I faced down the president with what I had learned. They had never had a professional writer or editor to do the newsletter and no one wanted the job until it was thrust on me. The previous editor begged for two years to get someone -- anyone -- to take over. And he was requiring me to audition. He backed down and I got the job. Last year when the new officers were elected and another board chosen, I was attacked once again by one of the brand new members who was taking over everything he could get his hands on. I defended myself with no input from the board although the attack was carried out in public through emails to the board. One lone board member said my attacker should remember we are on the same team. I offered to step down and the board got together and gave me a vote of confidence. Like I said, I signed on for this. Now I wonder why.

This afternoon I wrote the president and gave him my notice. He has until December 2008 to find someone else to take over as editor. I'm done fighting for something no one wants and most people complain or joke about. I have no doubt that the same two or three members who always publicly thank me will do so again, and probably offer to pay for my dinner at the annual Xmas dinner, just like last year. Or they will finally break into the dusty vaults of the bank and vote to give me a plaque to thank me for my hard work and service over the past three years. I don't want their thanks but if I were going to give a speech in thanks, this would be it.

I'm supposed to thank you all for recognizing my contribution over the past three years and tell you that I am reluctant to step down. I'm not. I look forward to no more deadlines, no more begging and hounding and no more newsletter to put out for people who don't care except to complain. The time for your thanks is past. The time for your thanks was during the past three years when I asked you to get involved, to send in articles, pictures, jokes and stories for the newsletter. That is the thanks for which I've waited the past three years.

In various forms I have explained what it means to be a volunteer and how your input is needed to keep the lights burning and the newsletter full of something other than dry meeting minutes and a short presidential message that never fills a full page. I have changed the format and made it more colorful, easier to read, more accessible. I have added content to the email and web versions to entice you to get involved, all to no avail. I have spent hours of my valuable time giving you for free what other associations and professionals have paid me to do, and I have done it without your help and input only from the same one or two people. I have answered your complaints and fixed whatever was wrong. I have gone through endless web sites and begged local amateur operators to tell me their stories and send in the pictures, and I have had some success, but not nearly as much as I would have had if you had cared enough to get involved. I have watched the board put together programs and events that few people attended, stretching their own personal resources and time to cover the jobs that no one would take, and the same people kept showing up all the time. I have watched as board members begged for someone to take over as chairman of the Megafest or just show up to set up, take down or even take tickets, but the only ones who answered are the same small group of people who always step up to take your place. I know they must be as tired as I am right now and just as frustrated. So, no, I am not sorry to step down. I am eager to let someone else find the right words or twist the right arms to make you all care enough to get involved in your own club. Were the past three years worth my time and effort and the fight I put up to keep the job? Right now, I don't think so.

Goodbye and good luck. You are going to need it.

I think that goes over pretty well. Don't you? At least it isn't screw you and the horse you rode in on.

That is all. Disperse.

Secret abuse

I'm on another bug hunt. This time it's something that has bothered me for years, something I grew up with, something I have researched and come up empty-handed. It's verbal abuse. Ah, but you'll say. There are plenty of books and articles about verbal abuse, how to recognize it, how to stop it. No, I tell you there aren't, at least none that are focused on men being abused by women. There's the rub.

Men, those big, strong bastions of protection for women are being abused by women and no one seems to want to talk about it -- least of all the men. Why would they want anyone to know that some fashionably thin virago torments them, screams at them, denies and denigrates their feelings? They wouldn't. That's why all the books on verbal abuse are for and about women with barely a side note about men. And so, dear reader, that is why I've decided to write about it -- not here, but in a real mainstream magazine article, and maybe a series of articles or possibly a book.

I'm not a psychologist or a psychiatrist or even a counselor, except of the ad hoc variety, but I am a writer and I have access to many knowledgeable sources. I will just do what I always do: interview, research, listen, learn and write. I've watched too many men in relationships being abused who had no one to tell them their partner wasn't just a screaming, nagging bitch but that there was a bigger problem; they were being abused.

From what I've already run into, it may be a hard fought battle, even with professionals, because they want to focus on women being abused and not the men. That's feminism for you. This morning I found one counselor (the right one) who told me about several women in the area who work with abused men and he would be happy to introduce us. He and I will meet next week and begin the interview and collecting sources. His colleagues will provide me with more material and case studies and introduce me to some of their clients. I have put an ad in the Writers Weekly forum for men who want to tell their stories and will put together a questionnaire based on what I get out of my meetings with the counselor and his colleagues. They may even have a questionnaire I can use to help gather and collate information for a statistical database. I am on the hunt and this will be consuming what few free hours I now have. I guess I'll have to give up my wild social schedule in favor of research and writing. What a shame . . . NOT.

If any of my readers are currently involved in or have been involved in a verbally abusive relationship and would like to tell their story, contact me at fixnwrtr at gmail dot com (I'm sure you know the drill). Initials only will be used for stories that are used in the article(s) and the information gathered from those who don't want their stories used will be included only in the statistical database. A release of information must be signed in order to be included to protect all concerned.

What it comes down to is this: no person, male or female, should be overlooked or ignored when they are in pain, even when they don't see it themselves. Since the established psychologist/psychiatrist/therapist/counselor authors have not addressed this issue, I will. It's about time someone did.

That is all. Disperse.

Procrastinating no more

I don't have a writer's block problem so much as a procrastination problem. I like to avoid unpleasant things, such as not having anything to say when I have a couple of pages to fill. Then I get going, writing off the top of my head (Gram always said that was the fertile part) and finally pull something together. No one is more surprised by what comes out than I am.

This time I started with a discussion I have been having through LJ with about the environment, global warming versus cooling, sunspot numbers, Maunder Minimum and the sun. He's a self professed information junkie and I'm just plain curious. As a non-engineer type ham radio operator I have a basic knowledge of how the sun's radiation affects high frequency, which we use to make the radio work by riding the frequency waves (so to speak), but not much beyond that. I do have a good bit of historical knowledge, but after talking with I knew I needed more information. I was intrigued and in bug hunt mode. For those of you that are just tuning in, bug hunt mode is my term for being in research mode to satisfy my greedy curiosity. Okay, back to the issue after I get another spoonful of peanut butter. Yummy.

The whole global warming issue, as put forth in An Inconvenient Truth (something I've written about before and recently) is that because of the excess of carbon dioxide (CO2) in the atmosphere and the way it keeps in the sun's rays, trapping them in the Earth's atmosphere (like a greenhouse), we are headed for a greenhouse effect. The polar ice caps will melt. Coastal areas will flood. Arable land will turn to desert as the water supply dries up and we will live in the land of Soylent Green where people may become the next item on the menu when plankton sources die from the heat as the seas evaporate. (I always did wonder what would happen to all that water if it evaporates. It has to go somewhere. Even greenhouses trap moisture, which is why you raise the windows to vent things or you end up with a steaming jungle. But that's another topic for another time.) That is the premise that Al Gore sold to the people and to the Nobel prize committee. Turns out the inventor of the Internet might not know as much as he wants the rest of the world to think.

Yes, the movie was awful -- or so I heard -- and it showed polar bears clinging to melting ice floes as the polar ice caps shrink and fall into the sea. Greenhouse gases (CO2) abound in the air. We are polluting ourselves to the edge of extinction where a nuclear war will finish us off as countries battle for the last sources of food and water before turning on their own population for food. Bullshit! Yes, you heard it here. Bullshit! And I don't apologize for what I say. If I say it, I mean it.

There were much higher levels of CO2 in the atmosphere during the age of dinosaurs and the world was a hot house, a jungle, a rain forest -- if you will. There were much higher levels of CO2 in the atmosphere during the early 17th century at the advent of the mini ice age, about which I have written before, and the levels continued to rise as people burned more coal and wood to keep warm. The levels now aren't quite so lethal. Of course, that doesn't address the issue of polluting our rivers, streams, lakes and ocean or the pollution that is poured into the soil to make crops grow better and keep away the weeds that soaks into the water table.

The inconvenient truth is that we may very well need the CO2 in the atmosphere in order to maintain the airy envelope that surrounds Earth and keeps us from frying up like Venus or turning into a frigid world like Mars. The real interaction between solar radiation and CO2 is not as well understood as scientists -- and Al Gore -- would have us believe, and messing with the balance, even to bring it down, may put Earth on the road to Venusian Hell or Martian Ragnarök.

What some scientists -- not the popular ones screaming the sky is falling -- now know that the sun has been hotter over the past 50 years than it has been in recent memory and that is what has caused the temperatures to rise, the weather to be wildly erratic and the winters in the Midwest to be milder than previously. Since the sun is hotter and much more active, it bombards the Earth with higher levels of radiation that could have turned us to a cinder by now if not for the cushioning effect of CO2. Since December when a new solar cycle began (the sunspots changed direction and polarity), we have had very few sunspots, going for days without any activity, which is probably also responsible for the very cold winter we have had worldwide, the complete opposite of Al Gore's claims. It is doubtful we are headed for another ice age -- yet -- but it is possible, far more possible than a runaway greenhouse effect and cries of "Soylent green is people!" It may be that the sun has been having hot flashes or just a temper tantrum for the past 50 years and will return to more normal operations soon, although the solar scientists (the ones Al Gore doesn't talk or refer to) believe we are in for a very busy period of sunspot activity once this cycle gets cranked up. That means more solar winds headed towards Earth, longer period of Aurora Borealis activity that will be seen nearly to the southern United States, more cosmic radiation bombarding the Earth and a probable increase in skin cancer if we don't have sufficient CO2 to protect us from the effects.

In effect, the inconvenient truth is that we may be doing ourselves more harm than good because we don't have enough experience or knowledge or understanding to know how much carbon dioxide in the atmosphere will hurt -- or help -- us. We're like children with a little bit of knowledge: we are dangerous to ourselves and to our planet. As it stands, we are more likely to be faced with another mini -- or full blown -- ice age than we are of becoming food for the masses when we die and are ground up into soylent green, and then the CO2 levels will climb as we burn whatever we can to keep warm. I know what you're thinking, I write too much. You're probably right.

That is all. Disperse.

Take a nap

It's Saturday and I'm going through my usual Saturday morning ritual: reading email, responding, catching up on news and views, reading articles and trying to latch onto the words, phrases and stories racing around like screaming children after eating an entire basket full of Easter candy. The one thing that has latched firmly onto my synapses and creating a data loop is heart, or rather writing to/from the heart, reminding me that the newsletter has to be finished this weekend and uploaded even though my heart isn't in it. I'm back to asking why I fought so hard to keep doing this when I had an out last year.

I've decided this is probably my last year to do the newsletter and I've been resisting (with the help of my work schedule) going to a meeting so the members can thank me for taking over the newsletter and doing a good job, something I wouldn't otherwise know if they didn't hand me a piece of paper or an insulated travel mug. All the thanks I ever wanted, and still want, is for them to thank me by submitting material for the newsletter so I don't have to spend 40-60 hours every month reading and looking for articles and information to fill out twelve pages, 11-1/2 if you discount the mailing label on the back page. It isn't that I don't like the opportunity to write what I'm thinking about, but most of the time what I'm thinking about is how I can read, absorb and write about electronics and radio in a new and different way so that the same people writing the same old stuff don't fill the already boring pages full of cub and board meeting minutes or the single column of hastily penned thoughts I pry out of the president every single month that lands on my computer the day after the deadline. No wonder editors begin to dislike the writers they need to fill their pages and resort to advertisements and coupons and articles by pharmaceutical companies on the values of a drug-driven life.

I'm tired of working so hard for no one to notice until I'm gone as they hand me an insulated travel mug with the club logo imprinted on it as I walk away having left not a single ripple in their quietly stagnant pond. Don't get me wrong, it's not why I write anything, or why I edit, but it's why I want to quit so much and why I have to flog myself to get the blasted thing done so I can go back to pleasanter pursuits, like reading another book to review or writing my own books, articles and stories.

Although this seems like a rant (yes, it's a little tiny rant), what is really on my mind is heart and doing only what comes from the heart and reaches others' hearts. It's the difference between telling a joke and getting a polite don't-poke-the-hungry-lion-in-the-cage laugh or telling a joke that makes people laugh until their sides hurt while tears stream down their faces and they can't help but repeat it. Human experience can be bleak enough, stuck as we are in our own deep, high-walled ruts as we plod from moment to moment, day to day, hoping and praying for a holiday or vacation day when we can just loaf, but to drag it even further into the mire by making what we read and write onerous is, in my estimation, criminal. Life is too short.

Even Seneca (that would be Seneca the Elder, not the tutor of Nero who burned while fiddling Rome) wrote about the perception of life being short. Even a 102-year-old man who had gained wealth and prominence, fathered children, made and broke careers and generally lived life to the fullest (even when he stepped on the necks and backs of others to get there) will bemoan the short length of time to do everything he wanted to do on his death bed, bargaining with Death for just a little more time. Life is not worth living without some happiness, some pleasure that lightens the dark corners of existence, even if it's a gift of love, the birth of a child, a good meal or glass of wine, or doing what defines you. Life is too short and so much of it is sucked down the abyss with work and bills and discord and anger and enmity and silence.

I don't think I realize how much silence has sucked away the enjoyment of life than when I picked up the iPod Beanie sent me, put in the earphones and turned it on. Music filled my ears, my mind and my heart and my body responded as it always has with movement. My voice that had been silent for so long carried me away on a wave of music and words. Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast and I have had a very savage breast for a while. Like the bear I was caught under the bridge but I didn't think to simply take a nap and let things sort themselves out and bring me safely out of danger. I kept hoping and struggling, looking for a way out, for a way to make things better and not much changed as I wandered in a foggy daze.

Somewhere along the line I must have taken a nap because I woke up. The problems are still there and the obligations still pinch like a bad pair of shoes, but I can breathe and I know there will be an end to the pinching because I'll simply take off the obligations and do those things that make life worth living for the short time I am here on this earth this time around. Music helps. Fresh air. A good meal. A glass of crisp wine that fills me with the scent of cool breezes and fresh pears or a dark ruby-filled goblet that exhales a breath of raisins, earth and sunny days. Cooking a meal for friends or a dessert for a friend who's ill. Diving back into the well of words and coming back dripping with stories and possibilities undreamed of while I struggled. And love.

It's out there

The weather can't make up its mind if it's winter or spring. One or two days of warmth and deep blue skies and then it snows and the temps drop like a plummeting bomb. I went out to the store to pick up some groceries and the cold slapped both my cheeks until they were pink. I didn't feel that cold when I had the window open in the sun room most of the day, but the sun was still up. After the sun goes down the warmth leaches out like a thunderstorm on a sidewalk chalk drawing. Oh, well, it is still winter for another couple of weeks and it is March: in like a lion and out like a lamb. It's too much to expect spring before the first week of March has had its say.

One of the surprising things is that this is considered global warming. I guess it's one of those inconvenient lies people are jumping onto the bandwagon to shout about before they even know what the shouting's all about. That is not to say that we shouldn't be careful of the environment; we should. But Mother Nature isn't as fragile as current fear mongers would have us all believe and they suppress or slant the evidence to shore up their positions.

Centuries ago the Mayans, Aztecs, Incas, Toltecs, etc. held sway in what is now South America. They built cities and cut down the rain forest to slash and burn for more space to plant more crops and put up more buildings until they had devastated the rain forest and Mother Nature slapped them silly, devastating their great civilizations, refusing to grow sufficient crops to support the population explosions in the cities and eventually took back the cities and monuments and pyramids, forcing the people back into what was left of the rain forest to live a hand to mouth existence. There was more carbon dioxide in the atmosphere at that time, according to ice cores from the Arctic and Antarctic, from burning all those trees and brush and the result was a mini ice age during the 17th century. It was in all the history books. Every time civilization goes too far and takes too much, Mother Nature (Gaia to pagans) steps in and resets the balance.

All those pictures of polar bears clinging to melting ice floes were taken during August, sometimes known as summer even in the arctic. Check it out. There has been a population explosion among the arctic polar bears, something the global warming group doesn't want you to know about. There couldn't be more polar bears if the polar ice caps were melting because the polar bears need the ice to survive and sustain life. In fact, you'll find out if you look in the right places that the ice is much thicker now than it has been in decades. Couldn't happen with global warming and yet it is happening. Did someone get their data mixed up or just want to push their own agenda?

The problem with all of these fear mongers is that they thrive on misinformation and have a tendency to slant the information their way to make their point and keep all of us off balance and scared. Most people take the news at face value but I think by now most of us have learned that the news is and has been slanted to fill a lot of agendas, none of which are in mankind's best interests. Yes, we need to rethink our energy position and begin to find other sources of energy. Yes, we need to quit dumping chemicals and hormones and antibiotics into our food supply and find a more sustainable way of farming. But most of all, we need to keep an eye on the media because they will not tell us the truth. They prefer a grain of truth in a great big old inconvenient fairy tale (or lie) because someone or some group is lobbying for more money and more of a hold on our minds by using the goad of fear. Most of what we have been told is either exaggeration or outright lies. The only cure for fear is information. You might have to dig but it is worth it. The more people dig and the more people willing to dig and tell the truth, the more we will control our own destinies and lives. After all, that's what free will and freedom of information is all about, not to mention the free exercise of speech.

It's all about fear. How long are you going to listen before you start asking the tough questions and looking for answers? As Fox Mulder always said, "The truth is out there," but you have to go find it for yourself and refuse to take no for an answer.

That is all. Disperse.

Orphan no more

My Common Ties submission found an artist to render it and is an orphan no more. It went live this morning in their new 20 questions format. Just to preface, I didn't lie but the guy who chased me down and held a gun on me thought I had.

The question: What was the most terrifying moment in your life? The answer.

That is all. Disperse.

Spring's busting to burst

You can tell when spring is near because men lose their minds -- and so do some women. I've not lost mine yet but I think a couple men may drive me in that direction.

I decided to do a bit of spring cleaning early this year and get rid of some pernicious suitors, specifically some men who have lately come out of the woodwork, so to speak, to change my mind and my heart. I also cleared the way of a man who wouldn't make up his mind. I have little patience with fools and schmucks. But to think one guy would think my brush-off feisty and a come-on is proof he's either lost his mind or is deep in spring rut before the rut begins. Ye gods!

On Saturday, one year ago, my father died and as the time gets closer I feel sad and miss him. I also feel that I don't want to waste any more time because I may die tomorrow or on Saturday or some day soon with fools and schmucks sucking the very life and excitement out of me. That's why I decided to make my feelings known. There's nothing like remembering a loved one's death to remind you how much there is still to be lived.

So today I went to the east side of town, a place I venture to visit only once a month when I pick up the ham club newsletter at the printer's, and met a few guys for an afternoon of ham radio exams, cookies, and coffee (I don't eat cookies and I don't drink coffee). Out of the group, only one failed to get their license and I met a gentleman from Columbus, Ohio, my hometown, who graduated from Eastmoor High School. He wouldn't tell me which year, but I'll bet it was at least 1960 or thereabouts. His name is Rick (just what I need, another Rick in my life) and the corporation he works for offered him twenty thousand dollars to put together a radio station and ham radio classes for licensing. Now that's what I call corporate intelligence. The radio station is state of the art and not quite done yet, but I did get pictures and a bit of video. Of the two women there, one got her license and plans to go on to get her General license now that she has her Technician's license. We definitely need more women in amateur radio and I'm glad they're both determined to keep going.

It was a beautiful day today full of good friends, pleasant acquaintances and even a lovely drive -- even if it was to the east side of town -- with the air freshened by a cool breeze and full of clear Colorado blue skies and sheepish clouds meandering across the sky in front of Pike's Peak's snowy face, the kind of day that reminds me what it's like when the sap begins to rise and makes me glad I live here. Can the forsythia be far behind?

That is all. Disperse.

Wired for sound

For my birthday Beanie sent me her old iPod since Ants gave her a brand new one for Xmas. I asked for it and I got it. I finally got around to getting a battery (she sent it with a dead battery) and ear buds (no ear phones either) and last weekend I plugged it into the laptop (she did include the USB cord), figured out what was on there, what I wanted to keep and then downloaded some audiobooks and music and copied them onto the iPod. I'm ready to rock and roll and I figured out what has been missing for so long -- music. Music motivates me to move and dance and even clean house. That's my line and I'm sticking to it. Music lifts my spirits and makes me feel as energetic as watching a movie with dancing when for a few minutes (or several hours) I feel like I did when I used to go out dancing during the disco years and before when I danced in musicals. And all this time the only thing wrong was that I needed a soundtrack. Go figure.

In this morning's emails (I took the day off so I'm taking it slow and easy today) I received my usual fare from AltReligions and was surprised to find out that The Golden Compass bombed at the theaters and the other two movies in the trilogy will not be made and all because of right wing Christians who conducted a smear campaign. An article that cites Mike Nichols disgust and dismay at the mob censorship and misinformation on the Internet was an eye opener. On the one hand, as a democratic country (less so as time goes on) we all should support free speech even if the speech is counter to our desires and beliefs. It's the exercise of free speech that keeps us marginally democratic. But does that mean anyone has to right to ruin the chances of a good children's adventure movie just because it might show religion in a bad light? Yes.

What is really specious is the claim that the film "...was a covert plot to advance the cause of Satanism..." Give me a break. Satan is a Christian idea and construct and not part of most of the world's religions and the movie is a very toned down version of the books. The books do not espouse Satan in any way. It's like the furor over a scene in the third book, The Amber Spyglass that supposedly promoted adolescent sex. Of course the woman who made the complaint had never read the passage she was complaining about and decrying. Sound familiar? It's another case of misinformation like the woman who wanted the Harry Potter books banned from the library because they promoted Satanism and taught children witchcraft. It's amazing how these religious zealots see Satan everywhere undermining their plans to spread the message of Christianity and Jesus to the darkest corners of the earth. Too bad they don't turn the lights on in the dark corners of their minds, especially when it comes to politicians like Mike Huckabee.

As an American I have a big problem with anyone who wants to lead this country and puts their personal religious agendas ahead of their job as head of a country founded on religious freedom. Just like a have a problem with any candidate that uses their sex or color as a platform or a stick to bash their opponents. For instance, Hillary's new campaign slogans: "'We Want Experience, Not An Experiment and The White House Is No Place for Training Wheels." I've got news for Hillary. Some of the best presidents have had little or no experience in politics wheeling and dealing and undercutting the Constitution and the Bill of Rights. Anyone ever hear of George Washington or Abraham Lincoln?

Both men were failures. Washington fought in the French and Indian War and failed miserably, losing nearly his entire company in a battle that he should have won. The first few engagements of the Revolutionary War were also big losers with Washington leading. The tide did turn and he came out victorious, but not without a lot of help. As for being President, he didn't have a clue but he wanted to do a good job and lead the people of the nation that had put their hearts and trust in him. Lincoln was a failure at many businesses before he ran for office. When he was elected President, he had no experience, but he led this country through the difficult years of the Civil War and paved the way to heal the wounds of the war that split our country and families apart.

Right now, in this political climate, I think we'd do better to elect someone who doesn't have the stench of political glad handing and power brokering on them. We might get a fresh perspective and a better deal with someone who is willing to work for us instead of for themselves. Come to that, we should abolish the electoral college and the two-party system. Then we'd see changes and people who will work for us and not against us instead of millionaires who want to feather their own nests and push their own agendas. We might get another Washington or Lincoln or someone even better. Or I may be a dreamer who still believes in a Republic and a nation of the people, by the people and for the people and I should just eat my poisoned mushrooms.

In the meantime, music take me away and bring me peace and life.

That is all. Disperse.

Is that all there is?

After seeing The Golden Compass I had to get the books and read them, especially when there was such furor over the way the movie changed the basic themes of the books. Now I get it and I wonder why the trilogy were sold as children's books, other than that the main character, Lyra Belacqua, is a young girl. The themes are much deeper and more complex than a simple fantasy or adventure story, which is not to say that children wouldn't enjoy the books simply for the story. In a way, it's ironic that such a weighty subject is classified as children's literature when the basic theme is that religion, Christianity, and the Catholic Church specifically, is based on the belief that we should remain children in order to be rewarded with heaven.

I read two of the interviews referenced on Philip Pullman's website and Christianity Today focused on the subject of Dust and the religious themes in His Dark Materials. One thing that Pullman brought out is that Christianity is based on the idea that the only good comes from being Christian and that the idea of morality, generosity, sacrifice, honesty, happiness, and ethics can only come through the church and thus through God. All other instances of virtue are tainted by the association of humanity unsanctioned by belief and faith. So what did humanity do before God came and made all virtues holy? How did humanity exist, prosper or even act morally and ethically until they were "saved"?

More and more it seems to me that religion seeks to put humanity back into the Garden of Eden naked and dependent on a Master to feed and house them and that to religious leaders free will is another name for giving up sovereignty over existence. You have a mind, but unless you allow God or the church to tell you how to use it you will misuse it. You will question and that isn't allowed. And look where that kind of thinking got western civilization during the Dark Ages. It's like Svengali has grown to infinite size and proportions with an infinite appetite for control. The very idea demeans the whole of human existence. Are we merely puppets?

There has been a rise in movies and on television of the idea that this existence, this mundane, sometimes banal existence is something to be cherished and enjoyed, but religion would have it otherwise. Build up your treasures in heaven not on earth where moth and rust corrupt. Give up your life destroying another religion or people and you will live in Paradise waited on hand and foot by virgins. Sublimate your desires, your pleasure in life, your very mind and you will be rewarded. (Isn't that just another name for slacker?) If that is the case, then why are we here? What purpose do we serve except to exalt a disembodied Creator whose roller coaster moods seem more bipolar than holy? Why bother to exist at all if our only function is to worship and turn our energies, our minds, our very souls over to the church and God so they can enjoy living on this earth in their bodies? Are we slaves or are we missing the point? Have we been led down the garden path blindfolded to be slaughtered so that it is as if we never existed?

Is that all there is?