Unreliable truth

Memory is like a worry stone or a coin in the pocket you keep rubbing and rubbing, imprinting your desire and vision onto its surface. Maureen Murdock and several other writers whose books I've read over the past year point to the same thing, that memory is subjective and colored by emotion and the stories we tell.

Case in point is the story of George Washington chopping down a cherry tree and, when asked, said, "I cannot tell a lie. I chopped down the cherry tree." It never happened. The story, which has become legend, was fabricated by the minister who wrote a biography of Washington and, when turned down by a publisher, spiced up the book to include that legendary tale, among others, to illustrate the point that Washington was an honorable and truthful man who should serve as a model of behavior. The same thing has been done to demonize, as well as to honor, most notably in the stories we tell about our acquaintances and ourselves. It's the old game of Chinese telephone. Tell a story at one point in a circle of people and pass it along. Does it remain the same?

In relationships, more fights have started over differing memories than anything else and at least one person in the relationship is determined to paint their partner black to gain control or to keep a metaphorical sword of Damocles hanging above their partner to keep him in line and, more often than not, to stoke the fires of jealousy, anger, rage and discord whenever possible. It wouldn't do for the guilty party to become too comfortable or to think the fight is over because it's not. In the eyes and mind of the controlling partner, the fight is never over, and the story changes over time, sometimes subtly and other times more obviously, adding misdeed upon misdeed until the original fault mutates into a moment of horror or evil so black as to taint everything from that point on when it should have been forgotten and left in the past.

I watched my mother dig up ancient dirt on my father, reminding him she was a saint and he a sinner because he made a mistake decades before. It's the same story for many people who have been guilty of some fault or flaw or misstep and have seen the light and become saints -- at least in their own eyes. None are more zealous in uncovering and digging up dirt than a sinner who has seen the light and moved from their wicked ways to the moral high ground, their detractors gaining a new coat of blackest evil along the way that makes the former sinner shinier and more saintly by comparison. Those acquaintances that come into the newly sainted person's circle of influence long after their checkered past has been weighed down by their recent conversion to virtue and never know the real story, hear only the unreliable truth of self-aggrandizing memory. In schools, it's called history.

During a discussion of past misdeeds between newly formed and slightly older acquaintances, one of the former acquaintances said she didn't believe something because it was the same every time she heard it. One of the newly formed acquaintances said, "Isn't that the definition of truth?" "No," she said, "it sounds like it's rehearsed."

Have we become so used to hearing the constantly edited unreliable truth that when the truth is told it is unrecognizable? Is no one willing to dig beneath the layers of exaggeration and confabulation to get to the heart of the story or is everyone so lazy and gullible they will accept anything at face value? Considering how the media keeps rewriting history and constructing carefully shaded versions of events to advance a private political agenda, it looks like truth is quickly going the way of the dinosaur. Truth has become a malleable instrument to spread hate and demonize former friends and acquaintances to build up the texture and imperviousness of the mask many people choose to wear.

Like Judge Roy Bean's soiled doves who, once they became respectable, wanted every new and single female out of town who didn't measure up to their jaundiced and crooked views of respectability. The former soiled doves were determined to forget their pasts while finding new and more creative ways to explain away what once they embraced with conviction and delight, smearing more layers of dirt and filth over the bosom companions they once claimed they would stand by through thick and thin.

Luckily, time is on the side of truth. No matter how many layers of filth must be scraped off, the truth has a way of coming out, usually at the most inopportune moments. It's no wonder people are so angry and full of rage. Somewhere inside, the fear that the truth will come back to bite them in the tender bits gnaws at them. No matter how a story changes, as long as one person knows the real story without the embellishments and exaggerations and outright lies, the unreliable truth will be an edifice built on shifting sands with the tide is coming in.

Details, details

Life settles into a familiar rhythm so quickly, into a yin and yang, moving to and fro, working, sleeping, eating, handling chores and the unexpected spills and quicksilver moments that bring tears, smiles, sadness and laughter to every day. It takes so little to interrupt the rhythm and leave a void, a feeling of confused bemusement.

The raucous birds argued and gossiped, their cries and conversations carrying through the windows to spear directly into my dreams this morning, to rouse me from a discussion about writing, about a particular writer whose work is good but doesn't go far enough because there are no veins opened. Depression is a good subject, one guaranteed to prick the emotions and set trembling the emotional candle flame but only when the writer digs deep, opens a vein and engages his heart, and thus ours. Nothing written is any good unless it affects the emotions, engages the reader in such a way the experiences become familiar, echoes of personal experience, even if a faint echo. It's not that difficult to learn the mechanics of writing: punctuation, spelling, sentence construction, plot arc, characterization, movement, etc. That can be taught. There is no teacher for reaching the heart of a story, for playing the emotions. It's the different between a violinist or pianist with technical superiority and one who fudges and slurs their way through the difficult passages and still wrings tears or teases smiles from the listener.

I've read stories that were technically bad and yet the story held my interest because the writing had heart. The author made that most painful of sacrifices and opened a vein on the page. And there are movies when the actors say their lines well, imitate the emotions like a mime but fail to inhabit the character or the scene, becoming two-dimensional and flat. That is not to say that bombastic gesturing and emotional fireworks are necessary to draw the audience in; sometimes it is quite the opposite. A soft voice, minimal gestures and sometimes the way a person holds himself, his body language more eloquent than any deftly delivered line is all it takes to make the character, or the writing, come alive. That cannot be taught. It must be lived, learned and internalized.

I've always been a technically good writer, but until I let down my guard, broke through the thick glass wall between me and the audience and opened a vein, my writing was nothing special. It's the same for many well known writers. Technical superiority and experience in writing confers the belief that anything can be good, but it is a false sense of superiority and it's fairly easy to tell. Unfortunately, most of the publishing world is unaware that technical superiority is no substitute for writing with heart, writing that engages the senses with characters that live and breathe as though caught in an unguarded moment. Anyone can write and just about anyone can be published, especially these days when publishing can be a cheap operation, but the shining literary moments when characters inhabit all dimensions are few and far between. Those are the characters and writers that become classics, regardless of genre. Think about it for a moment. Go back through your memory files and list the characters that leap forward. Then reread their stories and I'll bet you find what it is that makes them special. That is what writing is about. That is what writing should be.

I guess what kicked off this literary reverie was a surprise in my mailbox yesterday. I received a check for another anthology containing one of my stories. The book will be available at the beginning of July: Cup of Comfort for Cat Lovers. I drove over to cash the check and ran into a friend who surprised me with a gift, a housewarming gift: four wine glasses in four pastel shades, the very ones I've been eyeing for months. Serendipity. A thoughtful gesture from a caring and intuitive friend.

A moment like that can't be planned nor can the reactions. It's a magical surprise in the familiar rhythm of every day life with heart. The feelings of surprise and delight and the happiness of giving a gift to a friend can be manufactured and retold on the page, but it's the emotions behind the details that set the tone for the characters and the story. It's always in the details.

Like the sound of children going to school in the morning while the birds scold and chatter in the trees as the sun rises over the horizon and fires the trees with gold and crimson, when they're gone they leave a void, a sense of dissonance in the daily rhythms that something is missing or just different. It takes a while to define the missing element, to probe the tiny space where it once fit so securely, before a new rhythm falls into place. It is those moments between one rhythm and another, the emotional blip on the screen, that makes life special and surprising, and it is the writer who notices that transcends the mechanics and gets to the heart of the story and the audience. It's all in the details.

Poison ivy and karma

It's a beautiful sunny day and children are arriving at the school across the street. They sound excited and they should be; this is the last day of school. Children's voices at play, the scrape and thunk of boys skateboarding in the parking lot outside, laughter and voices rising in contention, these are the sounds of my mornings and early afternoons here.

Yesterday, I sat outside on the deck with a book breathing in the smells of summer and basking in the sun and the sounds. Warmth on my arms and legs and a cool breeze filled with bird song was just what I needed after a double shift of typing operative reports while I waited for the postman. I didn't realize he had come and gone since the mailbox is down at the street and I was engrossed in my book of essays. I did happen to notice what looks like poison ivy surreptitiously extending a long stem out from the profusion of budding plants that have sent runners up the side of the window at the front of the house, purple buds that looked like clover but are beginning to look more like unfurling sea anemones waving in the breezy currents. I looked closer at the extended fingers of the buds and I think they are petals tightly curled and soon to burst forth when the rest of the stubby purple budlets grow. The plants could be clematis after all, but I don't think so. They don't look like the deep purple jackmanii that used to twine around the post below the lantern at my house in Columbus that opened to show the ringed gold at its heart. I'll know soon enough what they are and I can wait. I'm used to waiting.

It's cool and the sun is hidden behind a cloud, casting the view out the window in shadow and it's nearly time for me to get to work. I'll have another hour or so outside on the deck when I finish and the afternoon is barely begun but I realize I cannot sit out there on the deck much longer without a chair or lounger or some kind of comfortable cushion. It's beginning to dawn that I have a deck where I can sit and read or eat or just enjoy the rain, the cooling breezes and the warm, radiant gaze of the sun whenever I like. It's a whole new way of thinking, of feeling, of being and I'm not quite used to it, but I will get used to it just the way I get used to all the changes in my life -- like losing another member of my family.

Last year, Dad died at the beginning of spring and his brother's wife, Peggy, followed in the autumn. Uncle Don, Dad's brother, was devastated. He had been with Peggy longer than any other women he had married or lived with, and there were many of both. Uncle Don was put in ICU a few days ago with congestive heart failure. The doctors wanted to do another heart cath on him and were sending him to Cincinnati but changed their minds yesterday, releasing him from the hospital. The doctors said he has maybe three months. Mom said, "He's 83. He has had a good run," with that tone that says she's ready for him to leave her home. There's also her unspoken question, "Why is he still alive when my husband is dead?" I have no answers for her, except that it was time for Dad to leave. He always knew when to leave before the host and hostess announced loudly and pointedly, "It's getting late." Dad didn't need such overt signals or reminders. He was a very classy man. Uncle Don? Not so much. Uncle Don is as hardy as poison ivy and as tenacious as a weed and I do not doubt he will last longer than three months. Mom would not like to hear that, especially since he's staying with her and Carol.

Carol says she's running an old folks home and sometimes it seems that way with Mom carping at Uncle Don, raising her voice to near shrew and fish wife levels because he's deaf, while Uncle Don blithely continues making beautiful placemats and watching television. He occasionally tells Mom she's too loud. He's not afraid of her and he is not dependent on her good moods, not that Mom actually has many good moods, but Uncle Don is definitely cramping her style. Mom doesn't like being out of the limelight or even slightly to the left or right of center stage. So Mom mutters and walks out of Uncle Don's hearing range to carp and complain, reminding everyone that he doesn't understand the meaning of pain and he's not so bad off as he makes everyone think. Uncle Don does tend to whine a bit and make a little more of his aches and pains than Dad did, but my father was a stoic. Uncle Don is not. And he is not a martyr, unlike Mom who has martyrdom down to a fine art she has honed over decades of constant and consistent practice. Mom is a poor substitute for Peggy but I think Uncle Don is the Universe's way of visiting a little karma on Mom. There's no doubt in my mind the Universe has a sense of humor, like hiding poison ivy among the profusion of purple buds and greenery in the railroad tie planter at the front of the house next to the deck where it can reach out its sticky poisonous fronds and tap me on the leg to leave a trail of blistering fire on anyone but me.

Life is a wonderful mix of excitement and sadness but at least there is excitement to temper the sadness and sadness to remind me of the excitement I've known and will know again.

Pictures of home

The first load of groceries are bought and put away and I'm still a little shocked by the cost of it all, though I didn't get that much. Ah, well, everything costs more these days with the government putting more stock in growing corn for ethanol than in growing food for people to eat. Throw in the cost of importing food from other countries where farmers have been encouraged to grow specialty crops for export instead of crops to feed their people and that is indeed a dilemma.

This is also the first time I've had to decide between paper and plastic. I chose paper. I need to replenish my stock of canvas bags since mine have gone missing. I used those bags for nearly twenty years before it was the fashion to be green simply because it was easier to carry groceries home and fewer things I had to worry about throwing out in the trash. They were sturdy and capacious and I carried them everywhere I moved since I bought them. The canvas bags were also great for stuffing full of books and computer equipment and stowing in the trunk with each move, packing full of gifts and for filling with laundry to go to the laundromat, etc.

Here's a glimpse of some of the cottage.

A new article

I know few of you are ham radio operators, but you might find this article of interest.

That is all. Disperse.

Quick shot

Ants in the bathroom to be eradicated by cinnamon oil. Dry kitchen floor and new hose on washer that does not spew water all over the walls and floor. Most of laundry caught up and done. Dryer keeps popping breaker and shutting off electricity. Someone coming over to fix that problem. Probably just a faulty wire. Paid bills. Took out trash. Folded and put away dry clothes. Errands to run this morning. Updated address on ham radio license this morning because I forgot it before this morning. License now not in jeopardy. Still not getting forwarded mail which is being returned to sender with a notice that the forward is out of date; I only put it in on May 9th and it's already out of date, and yet they keep forwarding magazines. What is wrong with this picture? This makes check for recent reviews late so I had to call my boss at Author Link and make sure she had the new address, which I sent three weeks ago, and let her know my check may have been returned if the new girl in the office, the one that can't seem to get it together and get checks out in a timely fashion, did not change the address. Now off to shower, change into clean clothes and run errands before I have to be back here to work and make more money.

A word to the wise: Reading my journal is no guarantee you'll find out what you want to know. Maybe it's time you called.

That is all. Disperse.

Housework

I have clean clothes and I wish I had a clothesline. It's just one more thing that makes me wonder if I'm in the wrong time. It's no secret that I hate housework, but to be completely accurate I only hate certain aspects of housecleaning. I don't mind vacuuming or dusting and the smell of lemon Pledge makes me a little nostalgic. I love to cook but I hate doing the dishes, which isn't a problem now since all I have to do is load them in the dishwasher and turn it on. Wouldn't you know it? I have some pans and pots that are not dishwasher safe. I'll have to be more careful when I shop. I don't mind cleaning the bathroom but I'd rather not have to do it very often. And, for some reason, I like doing the laundry and hanging the clothes on a line and even ironing.

I'm having some problems with the new washer. It's electronic and I wish now I had opted for the kind that uses a dial you pull, turn and push instead. I went to bed with a problem on my mind that kept buzzing around my mind all night long, but I think I've figured it out. The hose needs to be connected to the cold water connection instead of the hot water connection and that's why it won't run when the rinse is set to cold. I'll fix it after I finish work this afternoon. As soon as I finish writing this, I'm going to take the sheets out of the washer and drape them over the railings on the deck. I hope it doesn't bother the neighbors too much, but I'm looking forward to the smell of sun and fresh air laced with lilac beneath me when I sleep.

I am a creature of my senses and my sense of smell is the keenest of my senses, although touch and taste run a close second, with hearing and sight tailgating. I revel in my sense of smell, especially when it becomes as much an intimate pleasure as it is a simple pleasure, and it's about to get a big dose of happiness in a couple of weeks when the farmer's market opens. That will be a feast for all my senses and I plan to spend part of every Saturday down there picking and choosing and indulging myself. I've decided to start canning and freezing the summer's bounty.

Preserving food is something else I enjoy as much as hanging fresh washed clothes in a line and I get a bonus: those activities are green, or so I've read. For me, it's not so much about being green (See, Kermit? Everyone wants to be green.) but about doing things that bring pleasure and save a few dollars. If I owned this place, you can be sure there'd be plans to convert to solar energy in the works and I'd have a clotheslines somewhere even if I had to dig up part of the parking lot to make it happen. Yes, it's physical labor but that's not a bad thing.

Memories of my grandmother pushing her clothespin bag along the line, a few clothespins in her mouth, while she hung out Grandpa's snowy white shirts and charcoal trousers, sheets, pillow cases, blankets and her dresses and unmentionables, remind me of the little ironing board that Grandpa found for me so I could iron play clothes for my brother and sister and myself. I'd help Gram take down the clothes, burying my nose in the fresh, sun-warmed towels and sheets and filling my heart and lungs with spring, summer and fall. The dryer was only for those days when it was too rainy or too cold to hang out the wash. Gram even let me help sometimes when she did the laundry in an old wringer washing machine, reminding me not to let my fingers get too near the heavy rollers that squeezed out the water when I fed in the pointed ends of cloth. I was very careful and never let the rollers get hold of me.

When the clothes were dry, Gram sprinkled the sheets, pillowcases and Grandpa's white shirts with water from a pop bottle that had a sprinkler stuffed in the mouth of the bottle and then rolled them up and laid them side by side in a big plastic bag. When she finished sprinkling the clothes, she pulled them out one by one, snapping them open with a flick of her wrists and ironed each one. The smell of sunshine and fresh air intensified in the heat as she worked quickly: collars, cuffs, sleeves and body of the shirt. She worked her way through the bag full of rolled up shirts and sheets and her dresses and aprons in no time, emptying the bag and filling the collapsible metal rack with crisp ironed shirts, dresses and aprons and piling the sheets on the table to be carried upstairs and laid in the linen cupboard.

Mom learned something from Gram about the sprinkling part but she seldom got around to the ironing part before mildew speckled the moist cloth in the bag. She picked out the few things that hadn't been invaded and ironed them but the faint scent of mildew hid among the folds when she ironed the clothes. The mildewed clothes went back into the washer. Mom was so glad wen permanent press clothes and polyester fabric came out because it meant she didn't have to sprinkle or iron the clothes any more. I was glad, too, since it meant no more mildew tickling my nose when I huddled under the covers or hugged my pillow in the night. Mom preferred a career to housework.

I prefer an income to starving or living on welfare and food stamps, and I certainly prefer someone else to clean the kitchen and do the dishes, but I could live very happily knowing I had laundry to do that would soon fly in errant breezes under a warm sun to capture the smell of spring warming to summer and cooling to the smoky scent of autumn.

Real writing

It's quiet this morning, except for the sound of the refrigerator which is pretty empty right now. I've been up for hours and have caught up all my email and the usual morning rounds, including fixing a typo in my last post mentioned by a fellow amateur radio operator and newsletter editor in Las Vegas who wrote that he didn't know I was a real writer. I had to smile at that, especially when he said he didn't mean to offend me. It's a comment I've heard a lot over the years and my definition of real writer has changed quite a bit as I grew as a writer and as a real writer.

To most people, a real writer is someone who has their name on a book as sole author and to others a real writer is someone who has published hundreds of articles, discounting any writer who has ghost written a book or article or contributed a chapter to a book or a story to an anthology. Many well known writers were not considered real writers because they wrote books for Young Adults (YA) or because they didn't write literary novels, and this is something I have addressed before, and probably will again.

To put it simply, a real writer writes. So why do so many writers feel the need to justify themselves with lists of their accomplishments (other than for a bibliography or to land a job) and credits over and over? Is it because they don't think they are real writers or are they just looking for yet another pat on the back as validation of what they should already know? Or is it the knowledge that if they don't constantly remind people of what they have done they will be forgotten and overlooked? In a way, it's like choosing from a menu at an Oriental restaurant: One from column A, one from column B and two from column C.

Harper Lee only had one book published, a book that continues to sell. She wrote another book that purportedly was no good, but that does not change the fact that she is a real writer. And I could continue listing writers, and poets, published posthumously that are real writers. Where the rubber hits the road, a real writer writes. That includes editors of newsletters who write and edit articles month after month and are never recognized for the job they do. It's all about the writing not about anyone else's perception of what a real writer is or isn't because someone will always find a way to exclude someone else to make themselves feel better and point to their own accomplishments as the only accomplishments worth noting, and that is all about jealousy and fear. The fear is that another writer is better than they are or more prolific.

Some writers are technically better than others but that doesn't make them better at everything. Every writer has something they do well and, if they're smart, the more they read and write the better they will become. In the end, it's not about who is a better writer or more prolific but about the writing itself. The writer's job is to tell a good story or present information in a clear and memorable way. The rest is details. Even good writers make mistakes and fail to tell a good story or leave the reader scratching his head wondering what happened, but they keep writing and reading because good writers know that in order to continue growing as a writer they must also read -- voraciously. Writing is not created in a vacuum, just as the knowledge a writer gains is not worth much if it isn't shared and built upon.

I am a writer, not because I have written X number of articles and stories or been published in X number of books, but because I write. Like I said, it's simple. A real writer writes.

At ground level

I've got the itch, not the kind that requires antibiotics or steroid creams, but the itch to dig my fingers deep into the soil and plant things. There's a railroad tie planter out front with lots of open space and the rain-washed scent of lilac that delicately wrapped me yesterday as I took out the garbage made me yearn for more color and scents to greet me all year long. Think there can't be scents in the winter? There are, especially when melting snow releases the clean scent of pines and evergreens in the weak but warming sunlight. A year of scents is something to work for and maintain.

Although I've given up the heights, here at ground level I have gained the earth and the opportunity to play in the dirt. I had a little container garden and a couple of spider plants but only the container garden gave me any hint of scent. I may even go over to Rick's Nursery and pick out a rose bush or two, maybe something in a climber, to go with the herbs and flowers I'll plant to draw butterflies, bees and hummingbirds. I miss the hummingbirds that weren't supposed to live up at the cabin but swarmed around the feeder when I put it out. I may have to fight off raccoons again, but nothing comes without a price.

I feel as though being close to the earth is grounding me, giving me back that innate sense of season and weather that I gained at the cabin. This isn't the cabin with it's seclusion and profusion of wildlife and trees, but it's close. It's peaceful here despite the faint sounds of traffic and children as though I'm on an island in the midst of a river, separate but still connected by a slender bridge of sound.

As someone recently suggested, I'm going to venture over to the ARC and maybe to Goodwill to see if I can find a box planter and some containers to put on the deck. I might even run across a little table and chairs for the deck, with or without an umbrella, and a charcoal grill. I still have the seeds and peat pots I brought with me from the cabin and now it's time to put them to good use. Dad must have granted me just a little of his green abilities because even in the rarefied atmosphere of the sun room seeds sprouted for me and grew. I can't use the spider plants as examples since it's nearly impossible to kill them.

Each morning I eagerly open the blinds and the windows and breathe deeply of the dewy scent of lilac and I have even caught sight of an insect or flash of fur as the nocturnal wildlife heads for cover when dawn faintly blushes through the trees. There is such a wealth of beauty in even the smallest glimpse of life and, despite my fatal allergy, I look forward to the sound of busy bees dusted with golden pollen dipping and zigzagging along a bed of flowers . I found a picture of a dragonfly covered in dew that I made into wallpaper to remind me of the gem-bright and breathtaking beauty of the simplest creature caught in a moment of rest.




That is all. Disperse.

New digs and old craters

The only computer time I've had over the past few days is on the work computer. I haven't had a lot of time to write anything, and my work load is piling up. I'm still getting settled and it will take a while before I get all the boxes unpacked, but I have made a considerable dent, and a big pile of broken down boxes stuffed into a bigger box that will go to the recycling dumpster down the block.

When I moved in on Friday I suddenly realized I didn't have a mail box. I know this place had to have one and I found it after much searching, all the way down at the sidewalk hidden in a bunch of forsythia bushes. It's pink. I don't particularly care for the color, but at least it's big enough to hold most of my mail and a few of the packages that arrive here most days. I received an email this afternoon that one package sent at the beginning of May was returned as undeliverable because the forwarding address had expired, which is strange since the forwarding address hadn't gone into effect yet. I suspect that someone sent the package back since the mail dwindled sharply the last few days I lived at the other apartment and was probably part of the general unpleasantness, an unpleasantness that followed me here and knocked on my front door. I have since decided that it's not worth the effort or the energy to continue to meet that particularly unpleasantness head on and have since installed a call rejection feature on my phone and input that particular number. I'll have to dig up the cell phone and put that number into the system, too. I can't avoid the unpleasantness coming to the door but I can, and will, ask it to leave or file harassment charges, something I am reluctant to do. I want to put all unpleasantness from that quarter behind me.

In the meantime, I am getting used to a different schedule and layout. The bathroom has a low flow toilet that is absolutely wonderful and I am embarrassingly pleased at being able to get into the shower every morning and relax. It's also nice not to have to wear a coat in the house and to open the windows and let the breeze blow through laden with the fragrant scent of lilac and rain. I'm still trying to figure out where to put the washer (it's a portable) so that it doesn't interfere with everything else, but I'm getting there. The quiet is a balm to my ragged nerves and I feel myself unwinding and the tension leaving my body with every passing moment. I still hear the traffic in the streets and the kids when they're getting out of school, but they are faint sounds and not obnoxious in the least. It's so quiet most of the time that I didn't hear the UPS guy knock on the door this morning. I did have my noise canceling ear phones in at the time and was focusing on typing dictations at the time, so that may be part of it, but it's also a matter of this house being soundproofed. I find I'm even more productive here and there are fewer distractions. I like that.

There is still a lot of work to do but I'm looking forward to it. Some of my friends have called and asked about a house warming, so that is something else to put on the schedule, along with the last two issues of the ham club newsletter and personal appearances filling my summer calendar and stretching into the fall. I feel almost as relaxed and hopeful as I did when I lived in the cabin, and a whole lot less stressed.

There have been other things to keep me busy as well, like helping Carol find information on grants and companies to install wind turbines and passive solar heating in her house and condo. I found a wonderful site that offers tours all over Ohio, some of which include lunch, to see what is being done and has been done with alternative energy sources. I almost envy her since she will be putting into reality what I've been dreaming about for quite some time. It's fun and I get to share a little of what I've learned over the past few years. I only wish I could do that here, but I don't think the landlord would approve me altering the cottage -- at least not yet -- but I can still dream. I even saw the latest in composting toilets for the modern home, but I can't say I'm ready for that yet. I like the low flow toilet and not having to flush 2 or 3x just to get a little bit of paper to go down, and I am enjoying the low flow shower head, too. With a garbage disposal and an energy efficient dishwasher, I feel more in control of things.

One thing I have learned with this whole experience is that it is best not to bottle up anger and frustration or it will explode at the worst possible time. I am convinced the crater in Arizona was not caused by a meteor or comet as some scientists believe, but by a dinosaur that had taken so much crap and bottled up so much anger and frustration that it finally exploded, taking most of the local dinosaur population with it and sending a plume of dust and ash and debris into the atmosphere that blotted out the sun and created the ice age. I would prefer that not happen to me. I would hate to damage the Rocky Mountains or put a crater in the middle of Colorado any time soon. Anger is a good thing, in moderation, and it is even better when it hasn't been pressurized over time.

That is all. Disperse.

The rabbit and the coyote

I'm almost finished with the move. I have a few small things left in the old apartment and the initial cleaning to do before the lady comes tomorrow to do the final cleaning. I'm about half tempted to forego steam cleaning the carpets, but I've already scheduled it. The guy came and hauled away the trash and asked me if I'd be interested in having dinner with him. His name is Jack. Isn't that just too cute? I said I wasn't available and thanked him for asking. He gave me his card and asked me to spread the word about his services to all my friends. I'm not sure if he meant his hauling business or the offer of dinner.

I talked to Nel for a little while because I wanted to tell her I was moving. She already knew. The landlady told her a week ago. I'm surprised the landlady waited so long. Right after I parked the car I saw Mike from next door and wanted to tell him I was moving. He already knew. The landlady told him. What's worse is he seemed a little uncomfortable with the conversation when he told me he had already heard and I mentioned the landlady. As soon as I said her name he got this look in his eye like a rabbit cornered in a sheer-sided canyon by a coyote. I told him where I moved and invited him and Michelle and Hannah to come visit any time.

At Nel's, Michael, the guy who used to live in her apartment when she lived in mine, was on his knees on the floor in front of a mass of DVD players and VCRs covered in cables and connectors. He knew I was moving, too. The landlady again. I gave Nel the phone number, the same one I had there but Nel didn't use it since the door was so close, being right across the hall and all, and the new address and made plans to celebrate her birthday over here. She apologized for forgetting my birthday; it was understandable since her brother died that weekend. I didn't expect her to remember and I told her so. We'll celebrate both our birthdays on her birthday in July. I don't want to lose track of her just because I'm not across the hall any more.

Someone banged on the front door. It was the guy who was going to haul away the trash. I went down and opened the front door to let him and his son in and who should come out into the hall with her work apron on hanging onto Pastor's collar but the landlady. She left a client on the table because she said Pastor had to go out. I asked Nathan, the guy's son, to close the gate and the landlady let go of Pastor's collar. He sniffed Nathan and then ran out into the yard when Jack drove up and came through the gate. Satisfied they smelled all right, Pastor went back into the house right past the landlady who was still on the porch and asking Jack and Nathan questions. "I guess he didn't have to go after all," the landlady said. No, Pastor didn't have to go but she had to find out what was going on, leaving a client on the table in the middle of his massage.

I followed Jack and Nathan back up the stairs and showed them what needed to go and they began carting the stuff down the stairs. I went back to talk to Nel and Michael as soon as they left. I told them how the landlady came outside with her working apron on and Michael just smiled. "Yeah, she has to be in control all the time. She's like the Gestapo." Nel just smiled and nodded. "That's why I moved out."

"Up until recently," I said, "she was good to me, but since Marius moved in, not so much."

"She's nice to you as long as she's in control, but the minute she feels like you're in control she turns on you." That's what happened. When I pulled in and focused on work and my other activities and didn't spend so much time chatting and drinking wine with the landlady she became very different. "She used to bring food when I had been off her radar for a few days just to ask questions and find out what was going on."

"I just keep to myself," Nel said.

"I did, too, but she didn't like it." I told them about how she ambushes me in the hall, on the front porch, even at the front gate. "She used to do the same thing to me," Michael said.

"That's why I like living in this apartment," Nel said. "I have the back entrance. It's harder for her to catch me."

"And she was always cornering me in the laundry room."

I shook my head. "I couldn't get time in the laundry room. She was always in there. I started going to the laundromat. It's easier, even though part of my rent is for the use of the laundry room."

"I had to tell her I needed a certain day." Nel leaned forward. "I couldn't get it either until I just told her that Sunday was my day."

A little while later, after comparing experiences, Nel and Michael left to go to the store to pick up an RF modulator because her new DVD player wasn't compatible with her 2-year-old TV. I went back to clearing out more stuff and then went back to the apartment with some boxes and a computer tower Nathan had been kind enough to put in my car. I called the landlady when I got home to let her know I'd be in and out this weekend. She had left two messages for me on Friday, the second angrier and longer than the first, to let me know she must be kept in the loop on my comings and goings. When the phone was finally hooked up at almost 5 p.m. I called her and told her the phone was just hooked up and I got her messages. "But your phone was on," she said. "I left messages."

"Yes, and I got your messages. That's why I'm calling. But the guy from Qwest just left. He had to configure my modem and turn the service on here and at the switching station."

"I left messages."

"Yes, the phone number is the same but it was off over there and has just been turned on over here; that's why I'm calling."

I explained the changes to the original schedule and let her know my plans, as per her demands in her messages, and then gratefully hung up after telling her I had to be here for a couple of deliveries and would probably just grab something to eat, since I hadn't eaten all day, and get some rest.

"You will pay for the extra days. I already have someone coming to look at the place but I want to make sure it's good before I let her come. You know how anal retentive I am." (Yeah, I have noticed it a bit.) "You go eat and relax and you tell me when you're going to be here. Keep me in the loop."

That's the way to keep her happy and off your back, keep her in the loop.

I am somewhat naive about some people. I trust them if they're nice. I believe them when they do things that seem unselfish and open. I don't question their motives until something happens, and I never know what the trigger is. It's like old dynamite that sweats pure nitroglycerin; dangerous if moved or shaken the wrong way. One false step and KABOOM!

I knew about the landlady going into Nel's apartment to close her windows when she wasn't home. Nel's windows are on the west side of the house and they look out onto the side of the house next door where the college-age guys with the revolving door girlfriends used to live. The landlady would have had to go outside and between the houses to check to see if Nel's windows were open or closed, something I already knew she did on my side of the house because she called me several times in the middle of the night or before dawn to tell me to close them. I like fresh air coming into the house but she doesn't like it because she has to turn the heat up higher, or that's what she said. It's not true. There is no working thermostat on the second floor, not one that is connected to the boiler in the basement. There are two thermostats connected to that: the one in her apartment and the one right next to the boiler in the basement. She has total control of the heat. Nel said she spent her first winter wearing her coat and extra layers of clothing because the landlady controlled the heat and none of it made it upstairs. That's when the landlady gave her a space heater that she keeps on all the time right next to her feet when she's in the living room and in the bedroom at night. It didn't cost the landlady anything because the tenants pay for their own electricity. I can't imagine what it would have been like if she included the electric in the rent.

There were other revelations. Michael said she always kept track of how long he was in the shower and I remember a conversation just after I moved in when the landlady told me that Michael liked long showers and when his son lived there he took a 30-minute shower once or twice. She always complained that Nel was using too much water, a shower in the morning and a bath at night and running the washer all day Sunday, which wasn't quite true. Nel usually had the laundry done in about 3-4 hours. She goes through a lot of work uniforms and towels. And the list went on, most of them similar to my experiences, like with the trash. Nel said she was paranoid about the trash because the landlady went through it when she threw it out and commented on how many beer cartons there were and how much more or less trash she threw out each week. Michael said she did the same thing to him. So it wasn't just my imagination.

I still have to go over there today to finish up and get out the rest of my things even though I'm half tempted to just leave them. I don't want any more gossip to go flying around the neighborhood, and it would because it already has since she has notified five other neighbors that I'm moving and they mentioned it to me when they wished me well. I'm glad to be living in a cottage with no close neighbors and not because I don't like people either. I am tired of gossiping landladies who have nothing better to do with their time than go through someone else's trash and count how much water they use when they flush the toilet or take a bath or shower. I know what kind of gossip will fly because I heard it about all the neighbors when I moved in over there three years ago. Nel's stuck over there because she can't afford anything else, but the landlady told me she is going to raise her rent so much she'll have to move. Now that she has another tenant lined up for my old apartment Nel will be all alone, isolated. The new tenant has no idea what she's getting into, but I'm sure she'll find out if she steps outside of the landlady's loop, just like Michael and Nel and I found out.

It's won't do any good to let the new tenant know because she probably wouldn't listen to us anyway. We're strangers and the landlady has such a friendly demeanor. She seems like someone who would be a good friend, someone you can trust, someone who will listen to your troubles and offer cakes and sympathy. Like so many other people who must have control in a relationship, the minute the power is balanced or even a little skewed to your side, the controls clamp down and the friendly demeanor vanishes. With a smile on their faces and solicitous words on their tongues, people like that will trash your reputation and do their best to run you out of their sphere of influence while they try to make you believe they have your best interests at heart. It might now show up so clearly at first. There will be little barbs and digs and subtle comments they'll laugh off or assure you sounded differently than what they meant, but eventually they drop all courtesy and smiles and plunge the knife directly into your back. They might even offer an olive branch when you have something they want or would benefit them, but as soon as they find out they have it or can't have it, the axe they wanted to bury will be buried in your head.

It's hard to spot these people because of their chameleon-like camouflage and their seeming friendliness and innocence, but if you're careful and you listen to people who have known them a while, or better yet listen to how they talk about people they once called friends, the signs are obvious. The only options at that point are to hunker down and protect yourself or get away from them as quickly as possible, cutting all ties, because if you're even remotely connected or on the fringe they will send out subtle messages couched in friendly and helpful words to make sure you know they're still aware of you and still watching. It's a sign they're still threatened and when threatened these people are dangerous like coyotes cornering a rabbit against a sheer box canyon wall, and they won't hesitate to strike. You can count on that.

Near the road's end

That glorious sound that has been missing for so long is back, the sound of thunder. Lightning snakes through the clouds and brightens the overcast sky in a searing flash. Cars swish by through the rain and torrents flood the sky and my ears. I've missed the rain and the sound of thunder. The blossoms on the tree next door are deep pink and stand out as though freshly painted, the backdrop of pale yellow-green leaves brighter and more real now that it's raining. Everything is darker, brighter, clearer with the rain and the air smells like spring. The sun gilded everything moments before but the massed clouds hold the world in a twilight grip, the day hanging between dawn and dusk like the world is holding its breath, eyes half closed, still, but not silent.

This explains my recent lethargy and heaviness, the sense of some impending something suddenly released like elastic pulled to its limits and let go. I feel energized as I always am during a storm with so much electricity and energy in the pounding rain that needles my flesh. I've missed this. I need this. And to think so many people fear this. I cannot imagine why, but probably can't imagine why someone would feel as if the bottom dropped out of the world when looking down from a height the way I do. Then again, they probably haven't fallen thirteen feet from the slender grasp of a rope swing in a tree to a debris-littered jungle floor with only an arm ripped open and a hairline fractured humerus and got up and walked away. I can.

I don't know if everything has its opposite or that there are subtler shadings to the universe where all possible choices and situations and states exist at the same time mirrored in the myriad differences of every person on this planet and every parallel world that moves in all directions from this point. There are degrees of fear and elation, degrees of everything, but we seldom see the pastel and nearly black and white shades because the vibrant primary colors, the brightest white and the deepest black command the attention.

I wished for this rain last night, seeing it in my mind, hearing it with my heart, feeling it with my soul and knowing it would come today and wash the world and wash away the heaviness in me as I tossed and turned in the suffocating warmth of my bed last night. I am separating from this home where I have found solace and imprisonment, happiness and discontent. I know it is time to move on. I have lived here longer than I've lived anywhere since I left home thirty-five years ago and I know my next home, a simple cottage at the edge of the alley, is temporary, too. There is another home waiting for me, a home where I can finally put down roots and let them thrust down into the hard packed skin of earth and drive through the soil like a Methuselah tree instead of the shallow-rooted pines so easily blown down in a violent, ripping wind. I have been transplanted too many times to count since I was born and have finally reached my natural home. There will be one other home, a quiet aerie higher in the mountains, a retreat, a place to re-energize my soul and my heart, to cleanse my mind of the sounds and lives that sometimes intrude and hem me in. At last, I am where I belong and I've had lots of experience letting go and moving on, being pushed or running from one temporary haven to another, but not for much longer. My road is narrowing and coming to an end, not a final end, merely a permanent home from where I can welcome travelers and direct them onward. My mother will be so proud. I'm almost an adult.

Like a long soaking rain, instead of the wind harried storm that blows in and moves on, my life has changed. I have changed. Both are needful and both welcome, but the change is as welcome as it is inevitable.

Thank you, technology

Despite some of the drawbacks of communicating on the Internet and in emails, I am so grateful for them both. You don't really understand what kind of paperwork is involved in moving until you consider all the magazines, books and publishing checks that could be rerouted and maybe not arrive at all. It used to be such a chore, and filling out the form from the post office helped a little, but it doesn't help with changing information on subscriptions, or what to do with all the labels stored up for future use from charitable organizations wanting money. I have a drawer full, a big drawer full. But the post office now exacts a charge, although it is only one dollar, to change the address on line.

That's a lot of money when you figure in how many people move on a daily basis nationwide who have computers and want to simplify things by making changes online -- and yet they are raising the price of stamps again, as if the two cents last year wasn't enough, now they want another penny. This is getting ridiculous. They should learn to spend less money and save more instead of dinging the consumer again and again and again. No wonder more people use email than snail mail. If Scotty could beam my online purchases directly to me and save having to deal with delivery companies and the post office. Talk about reducing the carbon footprint, although I'm sure someone will figure out how that is depleting the ozone or adding more carbon dioxide to the atmosphere so Al Gore can pick up another Nobel prize for wagging the dog. I digress.

People are talking about minimizing the individual carbon footprint and I do my part. I get most of my bills by email and pay online so there is no paperwork, and yet the phone and utility company continue to send me notices by mail. At least I could change my address by phone or online with both of those. I did my share. Of course they will send me a confirmation by snail mail even though they also sent one by email. Government mentality.

I also changed all of my subscriptions, at least the ones I could remember, online and that saved a lot of time and effort. I'm good to go and go I shall very soon now. The only paperwork I expect from those changes are the magazines going to the new address without being routed through the post office to be forwarded and risk ending up in a plastic bag with an "I'm sorry we ruined destroyed damaged your [fill in the blank]" message printed right on the bag.

Not to fret too much. There was good news last night, and again this morning, but it was followed, as always, by bad news. The picture I sent the magazine to go along with the detailed and very personal questionnaire I filled out is insufficient for publication. It's not 300 dpi (dots per inch) and it's too small and resizing it is not possible. I can size it down but not make it bigger without losing even more resolution. There are two options left for me now. I can either find someone to take a picture of me with my digital camera and end up as I usually do looking more hideous than I truly am or I can spring for a professional digital photo that I can send out whenever another picture is needed, and I've been asked several times today for pictures to go with upcoming books. What happened to the words being sufficient?

I called around and found several local photographers who will do the job but not for less than $250 if I want to have the pictures on a CD or by email. I don't understand why it costs so much. There's a little touching up to do, but that is a minimal charge of $9-17.50, depending on which photographer I choose, but why does photograph that exists in binary code and can be saved to a CD that costs less than a dollar cost more than a package of photos that have been printed and sized and come in different sizes? Technology should reduce the cost not increase it, especially since there is no darkroom time and no chemicals to buy and use and no paper and hardly any time at all to develop the film since it isn't developed. At least I can take it off my taxes as a business expense and this writing business is getting expensive indeed.

I'm not complaining about the writing just the circus maximus that now attends the creation of stories and articles, etc. and the need for the public to see a face with the words. I doubt that Shakespeare or Plato or Aristotle or Guy de Maupassant or even Poe would have lasted in this image crazy time in which we live. On the other hand, Washington Irving would have loved it, especially since he sat for so many portraits, although fewer in his later years.

I told Beanie about my situation and she said, "I know. I don't like having my picture taken either." Beanie is a petite little thing of 43 years who still looks like a 12-year-old boy when her hair is up and she's wearing ball cap. Not everyone, no matter who they are, likes to have their likeness preserved for eternity -- or at least as long as someone remembers how to use the fragile technology we've created. I'd offer to let them use my skull to create a likeness when I'm gone, but the skull will be ash, along with the rest of me, when I depart this particular physical form. Oh, well, I have about a month to save or earn enough money to pay for the digital rendering of my head and shoulders and I hope someone knows how to use Photoshop. If I'm going to pay that much I want my skin tone like blush on a peach, my eyes luminous, my mouth like a ripe plum and my cheekbones sharp enough to cut marble.

That is all. Disperse.

Oh, no, Mr. Bill

I love clothes. I love looking at them and mentally designing different looks. I do not want to be the one who has to go trawling through the mall looking at and buying clothes. I am missing that gene. But I have a dilemma. I am scheduled, so far, for four personal appearances to promote Cup of Comfort for Single Mothers and I don't think I can get away with my old standbys. As someone recently pointed out, when I wore them two years ago they were nearly transparent.

I have had the clothes for more than a decade and they have a few holes that I've patched and they're clean, but they are getting a bit thin and the elastic waistband isn't what it used to be: tight, springy, etc. I have added one or two things over the years, but even they have seen better days (I don't know how those stains got on there, except that they went into the washer without them and came out of the dryer with them -- I blame the fabric softener). I do realize that I should be presentable, but I hate shopping. Why oh why can't someone make shopping easier for shopping gene-free people like me? What I need want is a personal shopper with a keen sense of style that won't make me gag or feel the need to commit murder, an eye for bargains and the ability to stay within a limited budget. Somehow I don't think such a person exists.

Most designers, and I use the term very loosely, design clothes for the hanger. The fact that the hanger has arms, legs and a head does not detract from the fact that it's still a hanger. I understand about designing for a flat two dimensional surface; I have painted portraits and people before and I was pretty good at it, but most people are not made that way, just a small segment of the population that are obviously the offspring of a wire hanger and a skeleton. What I don't understand, is if designers are such geniuses why they cannot design clothes for a three dimensional person with curves and bulges and not make them look like clowns or dressed in cast off circus tents caught in a tie-dye massacre. A true couture genius should be able to design clothes to make every body look good. That would be something to see and something I would be willing to use my hard-earned book money to buy.

No amount of artful accessorizing or draped shawls, tabards and dust jackets is going to change the fact that the clothes are awful, the patterns hideous and the selection more limited than Paris Hilton's common sense. Making a pattern bigger and painting it in neon-bright colors that come with a small generator does not make the clothing look any better. Rather, it calls attention to an otherwise gaudy and distasteful incident that causes traffic accidents and clock stoppage. It definitely won't work for me. Good thing I have a whole day to go shopping after the move so I can find something to wear to the book signing on Saturday. Or maybe I'll remind my co-authors that I am moving this week and need the weekend to pull everything together so I can go back to work on time on Monday. It's only one signing. The next appearance is in June and that will give me enough time to force myself to go to the mall if I can't find something suitable online that will arrive before the book signing. There has to be an easier way to do this, but I'm afraid I'll have to rely on the one person who has seen me through every other difficult and potentially dangerous situation -- me.

That is all. Disperse.

Harmony and memory

It's a bright morning, a little too bright after a late night, or rather an early night that turned into a late night when I suddenly woke up at 1:25 a.m. I want to finish the current book so I can write my review and focus on stem cell research (another book to review) and moving some more things today. The apartment is beginning to look a little bare without all the books. I've decided to tear down the computer and move it over to the cottage and set it up since I'm on vacation this week. It will make things a lot easier when it comes to getting close to the windows to clean them and then I can get at that section of the sun room that hasn't been dusted or vacuumed in the three years since I put the desk there. It's not practical to tear apart the computer and move the desk just to dust and vacuum once a week. It's like not moving the stove or refrigerator once a week to clean the kitchen. What I find back there should be interesting.

One thing about moving this way is that it will mean I won't have so many boxes to unpack and it won't take so long to get settled. That's one part of moving I dislike. I like the moving part and the settled part, but since I'm not Jeannie or Samantha I can't just blink or do a little magic to transport everything intact. Either would come in handy when it comes time to clean, too.

I had a short conversation this morning with an old boyfriend back in Ohio. He and I have stayed friends all these years and he keeps asking when I'll come back to Ohio, or he did until he got hooked up with some African women who trawl the International Internet waters looking for suckers willing to part with their money. He likes to play with them without giving up the cash. I guess he's become a miser in his old age.

He retired about five years ago at the ripe old age of 51. He worked for the Columbus Fire Department as an EMT and lead on the bomb squad. When we dated, we spent his days off together (he worked 24 on and 48 off) and I switched my schedule around so we would have the same three days off together. We had a lot of fun together working on and flying his planes, walking his five dogs (something I did for him when he went on vacation or was at the station), working in my yard trimming bushes and mowing the lawn and planting bushes and flowers, etc. We went to movies and dinner and had sleep overs, but mostly at his house since he couldn't leave the kids very long or they'd have the place torn down, not that you could actually tell they hadn't when you walked into the house. We also cooked together. His specialty was green bean casserole. My specialty was everything else, although he did grill meat very well.

This morning he told me one of his dogs, Major, was on a 40-foot leash and he heard this ruckus outside so he rushed outside in his boxer shorts. Major had jumped the fence and was hanging by his left hind foot. He couldn't free Major's leg so he ran back into the house, got the pliers and cut Major free only to find out that Major's right ear was shredded and bleeding like it had been chewed. It had. Skipper, finding Major in a helpless situation, shredded Major's ear. I guess they haven't figured out which one of them is the alpha dog or else Skipper doesn't like Major being the alpha dog and took advantage of the situation to savage his rival. I haven't met these dogs, but I'd say they are very different from the five Rick had when we dated. I should also mention there are now seven dogs and not five, as well as a couple of cats, at Rick's House o' Dogs. Good thing Rick is an EMT or he'd have to pay extra to get his vet to go in on a Sunday and Rick doesn't like parting with money, although his dogs are the exception to the rule. Major is in one of the many cages in Rick's house and Skipper is on the 40-foot leash outside. Neither of them are happy but they're both quiet, by all reports.

All this makes me a little nostalgic. Rick and I were always chasing after one of his dogs, but there were a lot fewer dog fights. One of his dogs like to hump everything, including a hole in the ground when Kodiak wouldn't stand still long enough, but the dogs didn't fight with each other, just with other neighborhood dogs. We mostly chased after Peanut, the little beagle escape artist who only escaped when there were rabbits or groundhogs or moles nearby, which was most of the time. For a little dog, she was strong and nearly pulled my arm out of the socket a time or two when she scented game. I learned to keep her on a short leash and hold the leashes of the other four dogs in my left hand since they weren't nearly as rambunctious.

I guess it's normal to feel nostalgic about the past even when I know it will never be the same. I know what's back there and I miss some of it, but I'd never leave Colorado for Ohio, not even for a house with a $38/month mortgage. My parents' mortgage on their $12,900 house with a double lot was more than that. I think they paid $142 a month. Don't ask me how I know; I just do. My grandparents had a four-bedroom, two-bath house and they paid $74 a month. That was a lot of money back in the 1970s when minimum wage was $1.65.

It's amazing how much I remember, like making more than minimum wage and buying my mother a pair of half-carat diamond earrings for her birthday with my wealth. Diamonds were cheaper then, too. The car payment on my 1973 Silver Vega Hatchback was $65 a month and the rent on my first apartment was $50 a month. I remember an electric bill that was about $8 for the month and it seemed like a lot, but then I could buy two weeks' worth of groceries for $30 and it didn't take much to fill the gas tank on my car since gas was 30 cents a gallon. It's more than 10x that now.

Everything changes, and not always for the better, but any change sometimes is a good thing since it shakes up the ant farm and keeps us from getting stale and entrenched in those deep ruts we make by following a routine that is only distinguished by the day of the week. For me, it's time to find a new routine and a different rhythm, one that will hopefully bring me back closer to a natural rhythm uncomplicated and unfettered by anyone else's rhythms.

I'm reminded of the sign above the door at Plato's school: music of the spheres. It's all about balance and harmony and it's not just for music. Like the rhythm of unlabored breathing, a pure and uncluttered energy. The harmonies and music of rising and setting sun and its trek across the sky, the rise and fall of light and shadow, heat and cold. The body needs those rhythms to stay in balance so the mind, like the body, can remain in balance and be productive and open to all the possibilities of living. When everything is in harmony the petty daily problems melt into nothing, receding into the background into white noise and dissonance that can be dealt with at leisure when mind and body are armored against their assault. But it's not a battle. Rather, it's a dance, sometimes a passionate tango, sometimes a sedately romantic waltz and sometimes it's a frenetic frug that vents the pent up heat and mental and emotion debris.

Even battles are dances as enemies move close, engage and whirl away to engage again or drop away, lobbing explosive invitations from a distance in time and space until ultimately battlers pair off or dive into a mosh pit of myrmidons to be trampled or emerge victorious. It's all connected, a dissonance like Beethoven's crashing chords giving way to softer lilting passages of peace after the breathless surge of clashing cymbals and throbbing drums that mark the cacophony of battle enjoined.

It's all part of the music of the spheres: asteroids careening drunkenly or deliberately drawn to the magnetic grave of the sun or one of the planets, clasped to a bosom until both are changed. Planets dancing around stars in a Highland or Virginia reel of seemingly complicated steps that are really quite simple. Birth and death and the journey in between where all is an essential part of all at the beginning, middle and always at the end, drawn like moths to a flame. Fireflies dancing on a warm summer night winking in the dusk and lighting the late night darkness until they fade with the morning light, connected by time and experience in an unending spiral dance to be forgotten in the rush of the larger pattern and sneaking out when all is silence and the mind is open to the haunting refrains of the past.

This is mine

In my search for a new place to live I happened across a site that sold the addresses of house in pre-foreclosure. I couldn't afford the $200 fee to get the address and a knowledgeable gentleman with lots of experience in real estate and foreclosures told me it didn't sound kosher to him either. The problem is that I fell in love with pictures of the house and I had two clues: the house was in pre-foreclosure and the street number. I don't know what street it is on but I know it's here in town and the general area. I was resigned to not getting the house, even though it is within my budget. So I kept looking at apartments, and that's when I found the cottage I'm moving into. I'll post pictures later this weekend.

When I talked to one of the landlords, who had just bought a new property in foreclosure, and since I'm a bold and unashamed kind of person, I asked him how one would go about finding a house in pre-foreclosure. He gave me some tips and a web site. Yesterday, while downloading and uploading, I checked some of the other links on the site he gave me and I found a house with the right address. It was close by. My heart raced. My pulse sped up and I could hardly sit still. But I couldn't go look at it until I finished working. I went over there after I finished work, and after cashing the check from Chicken Soup that finally arrived yesterday, although it was dated 04/05/08, and found the house. It wasn't the right one. So I had a steak dinner and came home to watch a little of the third season of X-Files, read a little of the latest review book and went to bed still wearing my jacket because the temperature had plunged from a balmy 57 to brisk 30 even before the sun went down. It's a little frosty this morning, too, but not unbearably so.

I pulled up the pictures I saved of the house and checked the number again. I have a very long list of houses to go through this morning before I get dressed, pack up some things, go to the grocery store, get some gas and begin moving the small things into the cottage this morning. I had the address a little bit wrong, but a little means a lot when you're scrolling through thousands of houses in pre- and foreclosure. I've fallen in love with the house and I am determined to find it and buy it before it can come onto the market. The landlord who's apartment I didn't choose said he would be glad to help me get the house and that they do it all the time. I'm going to save money with the move and all of that, after I pay off my remaining debts, is going into the bank to save for this house, and I will have it. Are you curious yet?

This doesn't mean I'm going to give up the dream of a secluded cabin higher up in the mountains, but there's no law that says I cannot have both places, a cabin in the mountains for summer and weekends in the spring, autumn and winter and a house in the city. I do need both.

The house of my dreams










Now can you see why? I know a lot about that house. It has a two-car garage, three bedrooms and two baths, a Jacuzzi garden tub and glass block stand alone shower, brushed metal zero-degree refrigerator, kitchen island, brand new brushed metal appliances, utility room with washer and dryer, walk in pantry with floor-to-ceiling shelves, atrium, private tiled patio and a fireplace, among other things. The moment I saw the house I knew it was where I would live. Some things you just know. And I'll find it.

That is all. Disperse.

Trade-offs

There are lilac bushes next to the new house and a planter at the front of the house and along the side from the deck to the back of the house. The side planter is full of low growing evergreens and there's some kind of climbing plant in the front planter. I can't tell what it is because there are just bare branches now.

I went over to the house and unlocked the door with my keys after I picked them up. The place is mine now. I walked through it, checked all the doors and cabinets and it's bigger and smaller than I thought. The bedroom that will be my office has a big closet with a shelf for files and books and there's a built-in floor-to-ceiling bookcase just inside the door. The utility closet is big enough for the washer and dryer and there are hookups. The bathroom is bigger, too, and I have decided to get a hemp shower curtain. I have to measure my bed to see which way it will fit in the master bedroom. It's small, really small, but I'll work it out even if I have to sell my bed and get something smaller. I'll work it out. The refrigerator is smaller than here but it's perfect for the house and fits in with everything else and I can't wait to start using the gas stove and the dishwasher. I want to find out how I can work in some other means of electricity and heat with something like passive solar to cut down on costs, but that will come later. I also want to find a screen for the entry (what people call a mud room nowadays) to camouflage the open closet area. And I think I'm going to buy a grill for the deck so I can BBQ outside once in a while. I can also grill vegetables and smoke meat and vegetables for freezing and canning and meals.

After my quick and idyllic trek to the new place to mark my territory, I came back here and the landlady accosted me in the hall. It has become a habit with her that she rushes out of her apartment to catch me in the hall either coming or going and one of the reasons why I feel like a prisoner here sometimes. It wasn't always this way and my manner of handling it has been to run errands at odd hours or when she's gone. She said she didn't want to leave things as they were (that's obvious) and that she wanted to part on good terms, and I don't have a problem with that, but she wanted all the details of where I'm moving and how much I'm paying and why no one called her for a reference. I told her it was less than what I pay here and it's a house. Since the deal is signed and I have the keys, and the money has been paid, I felt it was time to tell her where I'm moving. We had a short discussion and rehashed the same disagreement and I said thank you and goodbye and came upstairs.

While I checked my email I heard her car start and saw her drive down the street. She turned onto Pikes Peak, the street I'll be living on as of next week, and went east towards the house. I have a feeling she went to check out the house. She either didn't believe me or she's just being nosy, probably the latter.

As I sat in my office and watched the afternoon brighten and clear and the snow clouds break up, I looked around at the mountains, the tree next door filling with dark pink blossoms and a baby squirrel in the squirrel porn tree snacking on buds and new pale yellow-green leaves. The sun room with its wealth of light and warmth and the views of the mountains and the neighborhood is why I've stayed so long. I put up with Nel's moods and noise and the landlady's prying and questions because of that view. I'm reluctant to leave it. Even now, as I sit here writing with the sun glinting off the windows, I feel a little sad and then I see the laundry piled in the corner because I can't use the washer and dryer when I need them, or when it's convenient for me, and the cool dim living room where I can't open the windows at night to breathe the cold fresh air because the landlady sees and calls up to tell me to shut them, and the bathroom that should be filled with light and fresh air but the landlady has warned me about leaving the windows open and listens to me on the phone or climbs up the ladder to "check the gutters" when the blinds are open to listen in and see what she can see and I realize what I love most about this place, this haven, is not worth the hassles.

The landlady is a good-hearted person and she's generous and shares food when she makes five-quart pots of soup or a big fruit cobbler, but more and more it seems a cover, a trade-off. It is beginning to seem like she is nice so she can pry into my life and what's going on in my home. I have seen her go into Nel's apartment and close the windows when Nel's at work because she didn't like having them open when she has the furnace on, and I understand the need to save on heating bills, except there is no working thermostat up here in my apartment or Nel's and she controls the heat; it's all determined by her thermostat. Nel and I have space heaters to compensate for the lack of heat control. The landlady goes into Nel's apartment at other times when she isn't home to check because she hears a sound. She's done it here, too, and I was home when she walked in the door and looked around. I guess she thought I was gone, but her excuse is that she heard something fall. I locked the doors after that and changed the locks when that didn't stop her. She demanded a key, which I had to give her. I can tell when someone has been in my apartment when I've been gone and it's one of the reasons I don't leave here very often, unless she is out, because I don't like having someone go through my things. And yet she's a nice person and I do like her. It's like any relationship, you learn to live with each other's quirks and idiosyncrasies.

I'm sure she isn't comfortable with me either. I keep to myself and I don't like to sit and drink a bottle or two of wine every night. I'm quiet and a bit of a hermit sometimes and I work at odd hours, compared to her and Nel. I don't play the television or radio loudly and I keep to myself most of the time because I'm usually working or writing or researching. I'm not a social butterfly, although I can be, but I have to make a living and further my writing career.

As much as I'm going to miss the light and the mountains and the neighborhood outside the sun room windows, I'm going to enjoy the privacy and not having someone prying into my life and walking into my home whenever they feel the need. The landlady and I can be friends from a distance. It might even improve our relationship. I don't know if she was always this way or became this way after Marius moved in and changed the energy around here, but I know the place feels different. Even my ghost, George, has been quiet lately. I feel his presence less and less as though he's retreating into some forgotten corner. I don't know if it's because of my silence or because he's not happy with me leaving. He's close by and I feel him like a protective warmth, wrapping me in the scent of rain-washed pine, when the landlady is lurking outside the door or outside under my windows when I'm talking on the phone with the windows open, warning me to be careful. It's a little disconcerting sometimes. I didn't know ghosts could be so moody and watchful, but I guess they would be since they have nothing in their own existence to engage their interest.

This place was obviously temporary and that's all right. I'm used to temporary. I know the house is temporary because my house is still waiting for me. If my mother has anything to say about it, my house will be back in Ohio. She read me the list of houses for sale in the neighborhood where I lived as a teenager. Beautiful old Victorian and Craftsman homes listed for under $20,000 with payments below $100. I recognize some of the houses she mentioned and I couldn't believe what she told me. Now is the time to buy real estate. At those rates, I could buy five houses and still pay less than I pay for rent right now, maybe even ten houses. She would like me to come back and live there, especially now since her remaining kidney is failing and she has decided to refuse dialysis and a transplant. I told her since she was so ready to die, this was a good time to do it. Her insurance, even split four ways, will be more than enough to set my siblings and I up for life as real estate moguls. She laughed. Carol wouldn't laugh though if she heard us; she takes a very dim view of joking about death and dying. Mom has her faults but she at least has a sense of humor about mortality. It's another dysfunctional relationship where I've learned to work around the difficulties and find a common ground.

I'm sure I'll have to find some common ground even with the new landlord who told me yesterday he drives by the house every day on his way to and from work. He lives on the west side, too, and has for thirty years. Somehow, driving by the house isn't quite the same as living in the same house and I doubt he'll walk in and go through my things when I'm not home or tell me to close the windows or listen to my conversations when the windows are open or freeze me in the winter and roast me the rest of the time because I will control the heat. I know he won't count how many times I flush the toilets or take a shower or run water to wash the dishes either. I won't be able to see the mountains unless I go outside, and there will be no more squirrel porn tree to watch when I should be working and no trees budding with leaves and blossoms. But there will be lilac just outside the door and space for an herb garden in the front planter. There will eventually be a grill of my own to barbecue, smoke and cook meat and vegetables. There will be space for a table and chairs and a breakfast bar with stools next to a gas stove with a real broiler underneath and plenty of windows to open to bring in the fresh air and the scent of plants and flowers. It will be enough for now and I'll have the time to find what I really want, a home of my own in just the right spot with land for kitchen and herb gardens, flowers and trees with plenty of space and wildlife, and no neighbors right next to me without any breathing room. I have time. In the meantime, there's work and writing, peace and privacy, and memories and photos of the view outside the sun room windows. It's trade-off, but isn't that what most of life is about?

That is all. Disperse.

Falling down on the job

I've been up for hours, about two of them (I went to bed late), and I feel productive and energized. I'm not sure why unless it has to do with the week being half over and moving much closer to getting the keys to the house and actually moving. Or it could be that my brain was activated earlier than usual this morning when I had to respond to a query about editing a trilogy and realized I hadn't updated my writing resume in a long time. I'm caught up now but I'm also a little disappointed that I cannot add all the books that are coming out this year. It would definitely add enough lines to create another page. I'm up to five now, and that doesn't even include all the reviews I've written over the past several years (200+), most of which have been written in the past two years. I do, nevertheless, realize I've fallen down on the job a bit, and not just about updating my resume and organizing references from writers with whom I've worked.

It's a bit of a shock to realize that I can't add the articles and editorials I've written for the ham club newsletter over the past three years because no one sees them outside of the world of ham radio, especially in the rather narrow world of ham radio in Colorado Springs, or the pieces I've written for local newsletters and throw-aways, and that I can't include the posts I write nearly every day in my different blogs. There are quite a few. I'm writing a lot but not the kinds of things I can use on my resume, even if you count the articles I write at Helium. I need to change my focus or at least change my writing focus.

Okay, quit the smiling and celebrating. It doesn't mean I'll stop writing here. I need somewhere to gather my thoughts and try out ideas and words where not too many people venture or read. It's like sending my work out to an uncaring public that will, more often than not, glance past my articles and stories and never comment even to those closest to them. I don't write for the comments. They're nice, but they're not my main raison d’être . I write for the one or two people who might gain in some small way by seeing that someone else has been where they're headed or have arrived. It helps to know you're not alone. That's what writing has been for me ever since I stopped worrying about who might be reading my diaries and journals. Aside from fame and fortune (HA!) and the eternal gratitude of the Nobel and Pulitzer prize committee judges, to name a few, I suspect most writers write because it connects them with others and gives them a witness to their lives. Money and prizes are nice, very nice sometimes, and fame is a heady draught that has turned (and inflated) many a head, but when you get down to it, writing is about connections, a cry in the wilderness carried on puckish winds to . . . someone.

Unfortunately, that doesn't mean anything with regard to keeping records, and I have fallen down on the job -- at least temporarily. It's not January, but I resolve to get back into the habit of recording sales and publications as soon as they occur. Someone might be looking.

That is all. Disperse.

Quick shot

If you're in the first wave of people with direct deposit looking for your economic stimulus check to be directly deposited, and you read or heard the government was sending them out as of yesterday, don't hold your breath. You won't receive the letter about your money until next week and you probably won't see the deposit in your account until Friday. I know because I've been looking and, after two days of disappointment, I decided to call the IRS directly. The person I spoke with, operator #1903236, was quite polite but also quite stupid. I told her I knew I was in the first wave. I told her I knew the amount I was getting and that it should be deposited on Friday. I also told her that I read about the early deposit of money and if I could expect to see the deposit before Friday. She parroted everything I said without giving me any new information, repeating, "You can expect your direct deposit on Friday."

"Yes, but that's not the question I asked. I asked whether or not my money would be deposited earlier and how they determined who would get the money before Friday since President Bush stated the money was being deposited as of yesterday."

"You can expect your direct deposit on Friday."

"You didn't answer my question."

"You can expect your direct deposit on Friday."

For that, I listened to Dance of the Sugarplum Fairy" for 15 minutes. Resistance is futile and so is talking to a government automaton.

ADDENDUM: In case you missed the fine print, the economic stimulus package has a proviso in the fine print where most high colonics reside. This money is a loan. The government is robbing Peter to pay Paul, but Paul has to pay the government back out of next year's refund. That's it in a nutshell. This money is next year's refund in advance and we get to pay taxes on it, too, unlike a normal refund.

That is all. Disperse.

Weekend follies

I spent the weekend in bed, mostly, and I wasn't alone. The weekend was an orgy of food, men, women, cultural discussions and electronics. There were also games and exchanges of ideas. My guests are still in bed with me now but soon will have to move so I can get up and get moving for another week of work before my vacation next week, which will be another week of work getting ready for the move. Yes, it's almost here. Even with the hot bed of activity here this weekend I managed to get a lot done, like the ham club newsletter.

One brand new ham demanded I send him the edited version of his article, which is something I usually do not do. I edit. I publish. You read. That's the way it works. I thought I'd be nice for a change (it's always good to try something new) and sent him the edited version. He added another paragraph to clarify things, which was more of the same and not very clarifying, and then asked me to change his photograph because he was recovering from the super flu in the previous photo. I didn't see much difference, other than a bigger and more detailed shot of his head. I explained that by the time he sent the photo I had already sent the file to the printer and he'd have to be satisfied with seeing his head shot only on the web PDF version. He didn't respond to that email. I don't expect he will.

One regular columnist sent in his article and said, "Try to get my callsign right this time." I emailed back that I would do my best without telling him that I cut and paste and edit but I don't write the articles and that the error in his callsign happened because he sent it that way. I did resent his tone, but didn't blast him the way I initially intended since I'm not going to have to deal with him or any of the rest of them much longer. I have two issues to go before I step down as editor and they still haven't found someone to take my place, which is a shame since I won't stay until they find one. I know how that game works and I'm not falling for it. This morning, after much deliberation, I sent off the PDF version to be emailed and uploaded to the web site. I'm done, except for picking up the printed copy of the newsletter, printing labels, putting on said labels when newsletter is picked up, attaching mailing disks and stamps and putting the rubber banded issue into the mailbox. At least I'm getting it done two weeks early this month.

You probably wonder how I worked in all those men and women while I futzed with the newsletter. Well, I'll tell you. In between downloading and watching Moonlight, Doctor Who and a few episodes of Firefly, which I adore, I plunged into a house of secrets and lies in Victorian England during the time Scotland Yard and the police were trying to decide whether to use dactylography or anthropometry as the tool of choice in discovering and unmasking recidivists. Well, I had to use the words eventually and this is as good a place as any.

Dactylography is fingerprinting and anthropometry is measuring a person from head to toe because supposedly a person's measurements, including distance of eyes, size of nose and ears, lips, fingers, etc., is unique to each individual. The French police during this time period had a department dedicated to anthropometry and were very successful in detecting career, or repeat, criminals (recidivists). The big argument between using fingerprinting versus body measurements is that it was easier to retrieve the data from measuring and nearly impossible to catalogue and quickly retrieve fingerprints data. I guess they hadn't heard of the computer and visual recognition scanning, but they are both rather backward countries. Anthropometry was the tool of choice in England for eight years before fingerprinting became the detection source in 1901. I was particularly impressed that the author managed to find an even more compelling story to weave in and around this bit of scientific trivia. I'll write and send my review later today and then you can read all about it.

That's one of the best things about reviewing books, being introduced to all sorts of writers and stories that I wouldn't have been drawn to in the first place. It has certainly broadened my horizons, although there are quite a few clinkers out there, and one or two near clinkers, like the book about a fiction class. I'm still not sure how to review that one because it is as much a fiction class as it is a story and I'm not sure I'd have paid cold hard cash to be taught by the protagonist. She's a whiny, self involved shrew that at times makes me want to punch her in the nose and I'm not even related to her. However, the fiction class was basic but interesting and helpful. More about that later.

Then I dove into the Indian Mahabharat told from a woman's point of view, for a change. So far, it's fascinating and I find the mythology very different from anything I've read so far. I always wanted to read the Mahabharata and now I can, although I'm still holding off on Mose Tolliver, folk artist. I need to get that one done this week.

In between writing, editing, dozing, watching a little TV on the laptop and reading, I also found out that I can connect my laptop to the TV to watch my shows. There are only three right now, which amounts to about 2.25 hours per week of time that I could be writing but choose to fritter away laughing and sighing over antics and hot guys with and without fangs. As a middle class American, it should be no surprise that in these times of stress and economic uncertainty I would cling to guys with guns, like Malcolm Reynolds, captain of the Firefly class ship Serenity. Go figure.

As for my staying in bed over the weekend, I confess I have a problem. When I sit too long, like the hours I spend chained in my chair at the work computer typing operative reports, my feet and legs swell and the best thing I've found to relieve the pressure is keeping my feet up over the weekend and getting some rest. The swelling is a result of pressure edema, which is a result of my backside turning to lead and forcing all the fluids from my brain and blood to pool in my trapped hips, thighs, calves, ankles and feet after sitting for 10-14 hours a day. I do get up to empty my bladder fairly frequently and get more water to drink so it, too, can pool in the tissues in my lower extremities, but it's a job and it pays every two weeks, so if I have to spend a weekend in bed reading, writing and editing, then that's what I'll do. It's severe punishment, but I've had worse -- and liked it almost as much.

Now it's Monday morning, 5:39 a.m. to be exact, and the birds are rioting outside. The midnight blue sky is lightening just a bit between the budding and leaved branches of the trees and the glittering gems of the lights across town are beginning to look less bright and twinkly. I could turn off the light, close up the laptop and slip back under the covers for another hour or two or I could dive back into Indian mythology for a while. Then again, I could drag my lazy butt out of bed and take it to the shower and get ready for another grueling day of operative reports, punctuated by a trip to the new landlord's office to pay the first month's rent ahead of time and see if he won't let me begin moving a few things in early, and maybe have lunch at Coal Mine Dragon for some soft noodles and shrimp or scallops and vegetables with a side of jasmine tea and fresh orange. Then again, Nel's taking a shower next door and I'm averse to having my warm shower go cold on me right when I get to the good parts. Choices, choices.

That is all. Disperse.

One thousand to one

It's quiet right now, except for the space heater coming on to take the chill off the room. The birds chirp, singing up the sun, and outside the light is an ethereal luminous blue like a full moon on snow. My nose runs and I'm running out of tissue, but the running should stop soon now that I'm up and moving around. The gem lights in the distance fade slowly as it lightens outside and suddenly the birds quit singing, hushed as the sun wells up in the distance. All is silence except for the ticking of my fingers on the laptop keyboard and the soft hum of the fan. Now the heat comes on after being off all night. It never made sense to me to leave the heat off during the night when the nights are so cold, but that will change soon.

Lines and dialogue chase around in my mind as I search for the right combination for a story I need to finish by 11 a.m. It's still wispy in places, darting out of sight as I near to catch them and string them together. The idea's still not clear, but coming closer, clearer, brighter. After chasing around in my dreams all night the story should be a lot easier to catch in the light, but it is shy of the light, playing coy and hard to get. Maybe if I focus on this post it will think I've forgotten it and will leap out at me, fully dressed and ready to speak, because I'm not paying attention so I can grab it by the vowels and consonants, commas, periods and quotes and coax it into the light, or at least onto the page.

After a short discussion with about Great Literature and the Great American Novel and how serious writers look down on genre writers, I am reminded of conversations I had with Andre. She was shunned and slighted early in her career for being just a YA writer. Although she already had more than 100 published books to her credit, she was still just a YA writer. Never mind that she was never just anything or that, although her characters were young, her stories transcended labels; she was just a YA writer.

From where did all this snobbery and arrogance come? The classics didn't become classics in their day but the stories they told have withstood the test of time. Edgar Allen Poe's tales are still literature despite being what would now be considered genre. Does that diminish what he wrote or the characters and stories that are instantly recognizable: the raven, Lenore, The Tell-Tale Heart or Fortunato? Homer wrote down stories that had been told for centuries about Odysseus and the Trojan War, Achilles, Paris and Hector. They too were genre stories, tales of adventure, magic, love and folly. Michael Montaigne wrote about every day things, domestic trials and joys, random thoughts, society and passing thoughts he caught and wrestled to the page, little moments of life in simple language. Guy de Maupassant did the same and so did O'Henry and Twain.

These stories aren't great literature because they're laden with beautiful (and sometimes tortuous) language but because they resonate with the human experience. The words are basic and uncluttered and so are the descriptions but few can forget them; that's what makes Great Literature. It's not about high flown language or over wrought similes and clichéd metaphors; it's about telling a story that touches the reader in some way with truth or emotion or fancy or laughter. It's the kind of literature that leaves you feeling as though you have traveled somewhere and met people that will always remain shadow companions. It's the kind of literature that makes you want to return over and over again, stories that are familiar and yet just a little changed because you are changed by life and experience. It's Heidi and Harry Potter, Arabella and Aragorn, Red Chief and Tom Sawyer and Carrie and Christine Daae.

Don't get me wrong. I like great literature, and sometimes I even understand it, but I love genre stories because they are so much easier to relate to. Dostoevsky simply wrote stories about dysfunctional families and poverty and guilt. Henry Miller's wife, June, lamented that she thought she had sold herself to another Dostoevsky and thought Miller's work was lousy, not even as good as Anais Nin's stories, but Nin isn't remember as much for her stories as for her diaries, the simple, every day recounting of what she did and thought and felt. That, too, is literature, great literature, and so is Henry Miller.

It isn't the minute examination of a May fly moment that has no beginning, middle or end, but the books and stories that sprawl or quickly sear, chronicles of fact and fantasy, that make literature. The guilty secret of writers of great literature is that their favorite books are often genre. Laugh at J. K. Rowling's facile sentence construction and simple language or Stephen King's fantastic horror and flights of fancy, but at the end of the day it's about how many people remember the characters. It's the difference between selling one bottle of perfume for a thousand dollars versus selling a thousand bottles of perfume at one dollar.

That is all. Disperse.