Dangerous wake

While reading my bi-monthly Total Funds for Writers this morning I came across this quote: "Same goes for your writing, your writer's voice, your presence. Everyone has opinions. Some folks gun their motors anywhere, oblivious to the hurt and destruction they leave in their wake. Some flaunt that voice more loudly in chats and on blogs. Just because there's fewer people in the room, doesn't mean damage isn't done.

Whatever you write, wherever you speak, however you wish to say your piece, take heed of the setting, the attendees, the baby ducks, docks and turtles. Because after you move on, you leave an impression. You can leave the cove intact or you can leave wreckage. Better yet, you can leave it
a better place.

Because you have a point, doesn't necessarily mean you have to make it. You'd be amazed at who watches from the bushes when you rev your engine a little too much."

She was talking about a fisherman who revved his outboard motor and raced out of the little cove near her home, leaving a dangerous wake that left destruction in its path. Writers are prone to the same thing and I am not immune. I came face to face with a dangerous wake I had left without knowing. I didn't deliberately throttle the engine to high or pop the clutch and peel out across someone's prize azaleas, but what I wrote affected someone adversely. I didn't find out about what had happened for more than two weeks but when I noticed the person's absence I asked for answers. I'm still not sure what to do about the answer since I have no idea what upset the person so much, just that she was upset, and because of one of my posts. I don't expect people to always agree with me because not everyone experiences life in the same way. To me, that is a given. But I do hope that when something I write offends or upsets someone they bring the matter to my attention and tell me how they were affected. Unfortunately, that seldom happens.

The post in this instance is one I wrote about a toxic relationship between a friend and his fiancee. That particular post was helpful to someone close to me in illustrating what he couldn't see up close and moved him to make a change in his life, a big change. He ended a toxic and abusive relationship. He said I changed his perceptions of something he had taken for granted in a relationship where he had felt trapped for so long. The choice to end his relationship was not an easy one and it has caused some problems with his friends and family, and in his relationship with his church, but he says he does not regret it. And there have been responses from other people who thanked me for opening their eyes and getting them to take a good hard look at their own relationships. But to find out that same post had upset someone in any way makes me wonder if I hadn't revved the engine and left a dangerous wake.

It took me many years to be able to speak up and speak out when something was wrong and, as a journalist, I have often been faced with the decision of whether or not to write a story that would put someone's pain and despair on display. Sometimes I chose not to write the story in deference to the person's feelings, although other journalists chose differently.

After seeing what happens to authors who take on their critics and prove themselves to be spiteful, small and oblivious to anything but their own egos and needs, I think twice when I answer a critic who makes personal attacks. I have opted instead to share the facts and leave personal commentary out of the mix so people can make their own decisions. Not all writers feel or act the same way, but what kind of world would it be if everyone were the same? In essence, I endeavor to leave a small wake, always aware that even a small pebble dropped into a pond makes waves that affects everything and touches all shores eventually, as I obviously did last month. Now I wonder what I can do to make things right even as I realize that no matter what I do or say I cannot take away anyone's distress or pain so long after the fact -- if at all -- and certainly not knowing the exact nature of their distress.

I can only think before I write and accept whatever comes with grace, even if what comes is criticism. I learn something new every day and incorporate that knowledge into who I am. For better or worse, I am a work in progress and mistakes and shortfalls are inevitable. If you have come looking for an oracle or perfection, look elsewhere; you will not find it here. What you will find is an honest heart and an open mind searching for meaning and answers.

No dealing

LadyCelia asked this morning if no one deals for themselves any more. No, no one just deals any more. They expect someone else to deal.

Case in point: My mother has griped for the past two months that she didn't have a copy of either of my recent books. She can drive all over creation shopping, but she can't get in the car and drive to the north end, which is maybe ten miles away, to go the bookstore and get the book, even though there are bookstores in her area where she shops that she can get the books. After listening to all this griping I went ahead and bought the books and sent them to her. She'll have them on Tuesday.

I told her that if she didn't feel up to going out and getting the books, she could have asked my brother or one of my two sisters to pick up the book and get her to her, but, no, they are too busy because they work. I work, too, but I work at home so it doesn't count as working, despite putting in 14-hour days. When they get off work after driving in all that traffic they just want to go home. What about weekends? Well, they're tired and have other things to do, things that take them past bookstores.

"Well, I don't like to ask them to do things for me."

And they all have computers. "You just don't understand how busy they are." No, but I understand that if they wanted something bad enough they would have it already. Gah!!!

I guess I'm the only one who knows how many bookstores in and around Columbus there are (I checked) and there are five on the west side of town that sell the books and three on the way home for Beanie, but they won't stop for five minutes and pick it up. They don't know how to pick up a phone and call the bookstore to hold it for them so they don't have to go farther than the cashier at the front of the store, get it, pay for it and walk out the door. They don't know how to use a computer to buy it online and have it sent. They don't have the time.

Mom reminded me that they all have cars. Good, then they have the means to get what they want, despite the fact that they could carpool or run all their errands at the same time instead of everyone driving their own car and adding to the traffic and pollution problems. I live 2000 miles away and I end up doing more for my mother, other than taking her to the doctor and getting monthly transfusions, than the other three do because their lives are so busy and I work at home. Carol is retired and she chooses to work because she likes the money -- and getting out of the house so she doesn't have to listen to Mom all day. It amazes me that I can still be blamed for things not getting done when I no longer live in the state because none of my siblings will take the time out of their oh-so-busy schedules to go buy or order a couple of books since Mom doesn't want to bother them.

It's a good thing I don't live there any more or there would be a sudden rash of horrendous and bloody mutilations in a certain family and I would be an orphan.

That is all. Disperse and deal.

Unavailable space

It snowed Wednesday night and yesterday I woke to a work of falling clumps of snow as the sun rose and warmed the icy blue sky to something less anemic, blooding the horizon and warming the heavy clouds until they bushed with rising heat. It would have been my grandmother's 98th birthday and even though she is gone I still remember her as the calendar tells me the day gets closer. She was on my mind yesterday, as she has been all week, but for a very different reason. She reminded me, as I looked at houses and apartments, some less appalling than others, that she had her feet firmly on the ground and was not dazzled by wealth or possessions. It isn't that she didn't have nice things or live in a tastefully furnished home, but that she did everything with economy and a comfortable space.

I went to a small clutch of brick ground floor apartments, five to a row, to check out an inexpensive apartment. It was at the edge of Old Colorado City and near to a school. It sounded idyllic. The reality was less than ideal.

I didn't see a vacant apartment at the end of the first four rows, so I looked for an apartment where someone was home, found an open door and knocked. "Come in," a female voice called. I reached for the door handle and pushed the button. "Wait, don't let the cat out. Meathead, come here. You're not getting out." Veined and gnarled hands reached out of the shadowed dimness to pick up an orange tabby. "Okay, come in." I wrenched open the door when it stuck and walked into the only clear space in the cramped room. A huge couch was wedged against the wall to my left, flanked by a massive aquarium where huge fish lolled against the glass, hovering in watery space above a cluster of divers, coral and buildings among the floating green of plastic seaweed and sea trees, light bathing them in viscid gold and diffused blue. The door scraped a worn trough of denuded wood of the coffee table that took up a good third of the room. A big screen TV flickered with images to my left as I sidled into the room, introduced myself and asked if the woman knew which of the apartment was empty and for rent. She smiled, baring rotted and broken stumps of teeth between cracked, dried lips and tossed the cat to the frayed and dented cushions of the couch. "There's always some place open. They all look pretty much the same." She turned to me and waved me toward the rest of the apartment, crammed with knick knacks, makeshift cupboards, dishes, pots and pans. "Take a look." I thanked her and sidled towards what proved to be the bedroom.

Posters of nubile blondes covered the walls above the massively ornate waterbed wedged between dresser, a bookcase filled with bongs, knick knacks and magazines, mirrored dresser and armoir. A open door revealed a bathroom where tub and toilet looked like a single piece next to bland cupboard above craftsman drawers with little room left to open them against the ancient sink growing from the wall. The landlord told me the apartment was about 600 square feet but it felt more like 300 and nearly ever inch was packed with a wealth of new electronics and massive furniture that would have been less conspicuous in a 2000-square-foot home. The only new thing in the apartment, other than the occupants' possessions, was a Corian counter atop a worn wooden box shaped wall that cleaved the living room from the narrow galley kitchen, barely camouflaged beneath a coat of dingy thin white paint. I touched its smooth surface. "Bud made that. He's a carpenter." She pointed to the fussy Jacobean paper border that perched beneath the water-stained ceiling and framed every cupboard door. "He did that, too. Doesn't it look nice?" I nodded and smiled. "So, the landlord lets you do what you want?" She brayed suddenly, throwing her head back until I saw every blackened and broken tooth stub in her mouth. "We did it, didn't we?"

The door opened and she looked around for the cat. "Don't let the cat out." A broken shell of what was once a biker, lumbered into the room. He smiled at me with teeth as blackened and shattered as the woman's as he drifted toward the refrigerator, opened the door and took out a beer. The woman explained why I was there and he shrugged as he tilted the open bottle into his mouth and sucked down a cold stream of Budweiser. A gold skull dangled from a creased and flabby earlobe.

I thanked the woman for showing me around, offered my hand and asked her name. "Carrie." I shook her hand limp, dry hand. "Thank you, Carrie, for your hospitality." I walked toward the door, scooped up the feather-light cat in one hand and offered him to Carrie who rushed to take him and clasp him to her sunken chest. I shook hands with Bud and thanked him, complimenting his Corian counter. His thick-fingered hand was warm and rough but firm. I shut the door behind me and mounted the new wooden stairs that squatted above a pitted cement wall to the parking lot in back. I drove down the alley and back toward home. I wouldn't call the landlord back and fill out an application. The place was too small for my meager possessions and there'd be no room for my computer and desk.

Sounds

It's a strange sound, a pained groan, from deep inside the house, rasping and grating, such a strange sound against the first chirps and bird song trickling through the open window. There's a hint of flatulence on the end of the groan as if exhaling, or exuding, something more than pain, a buzzing groan that lingers in the pipes like a nearly spent metallic fly caught in a narrow stricture unable to get free.

It started an hour ago and comes without warning, held like a submerged breath between tightly clamped lips clawing for the surface until the lungs, burning with need, force the lips open and... There it is again. A dog barks. A door scrapes and slams. Feet clomp down the stairs. The front door opens and the feet thump across the porch. The sky pales to a washed out midnight blue while cars and trucks whoosh past on the dry pavement.

Here it comes again, that buzzing, groaning cry, almost human and yet deeper, darker, more nightmarish. It's incongruous among the waking sounds of the neighborhood and the house, ominous and strange, a sinister invitation. Should I wait for the sun to investigate or check it out now? Would the sun even protect me, banish the danger or reveal something more horrifying and strange, dangerous, ravenous, ancient?

I'll go check.

There must be an alpha dog

When I first got online many years ago, back in the infancy of the Internet, I faithfully forwarded all emails that warned of viruses and offered free money for forwarding, etc. I was a newbie. I didn't know any better . . . that is until someone blasted me for forwarding a hoax and sent me a link to Snopes and pointed to other debunking sites. (I felt like Mulder being pushed into a cold shower by Scully.) Since that time I check up any stories I receive before forwarding them. Yesterday, a dear friend sent me an email about a "cogent and powerful essay on the threat of Islam". I read it last night. I checked it out this morning. It's not quite a hoax, but there is a history behind it. If you haven't read it yet, please take the time to do so because it does make valid points and it is on the whole right.

The essay is actually a letter written by a retired lawyer to his four sons on May 19, 2004, but when Dr. Vernon Chong, USAF retired, read it he forwarded it with his own notes, which I have appended to the bottom of the letter, along with some information about Dr. Chong. Dr. Chong then became associated with the letter and the first paragraph was lost, a paragraph in my estimation that makes a difference in how you view the information. It is written from the point of view of a man who has seen and been a part of history. Dr. Vernon Chong is very real and so is the letter and the arguments contained in its words.

Before I point you to the letter I want to add a little history of my own. Many years ago I dated a man who had the true gift of sight. Everything he told me upon first meeting me has come true and I worry that if what he saw does not change the rest of his visions will also come true. According to him, this is the century when everything changes and America as we know it will cease to exist. He saw the United States become the United States of Islam. After reading this letter, I wonder if he wasn't right and we are on the path to the fall of the American empire.

* * * *

Dear Tom, Kevin, Kirby and Ted,

As your father, I believe I owe it to you to share some thoughts on the present world situation. We have over the years discussed a lot of important things, like going to college, jobs and so forth. But this really takes precedence over any of those discussions. I hope this might give you a longer term perspective that fewer and fewer of my generation are left to speak to. To be sure you understand that this is not politically flavored, I will tell you that since Franklin D. Roosevelt, who led us through pre and WWII (1933 - 1945) up to and including our present President, I have without exception, supported our presidents on all matters of international conflict. This would include just naming a few in addition to President Roosevelt - WWII: President Truman - Korean War 1950; President Kennedy Bay of Pigs (1961); President Kennedy - Vietnam (1961); eight presidents (5 Republican & 4 Democrat) during the cold war (1945 - 1991); President Clinton's strikes on Bosnia (1995) and on Iraq (1998). So be sure you read this as completely non-political or otherwise you will miss the point.

To get out of a difficulty, one usually must go through it. Our country is now facing the most serious threat to its existence, as we know it, that we have faced in your lifetime and mine (which includes WWII). The deadly seriousness is greatly compounded by the fact that there are very few of us who think we can possibly lose this war and even fewer who realize what losing really means. First, let's examine a few basics:

1. When did the threat to us start?

Many will say September 11, 2001. The answer, as far as the United States is concerned, is 1979, 22 years prior to September 2001, with the following attacks on us:

* Iran Embassy Hostages, 1979;
* Beirut , Lebanon Embassy 1983;
* Beirut, Lebanon Marine Barracks 1983;
* Lockerbie , Scotland Pan-Am flight to New York 1988;
* First New York World Trade Center attack 1993;
* Dhahran , Saudi Arabia Khobar Towers Military complex 1996;
* Nairobi , Kenya US Embassy 1998;
* Dares Salaam , Tanzania US Embassy 1998;
* Aden , Yemen USS Cole 2000;
* New York World Trade Center 2001;
* Pentagon 2001.

Note: during the period from 1981 to 2001 there were 7,581 terrorist attacks worldwide.)

2. Why were we attacked?

Envy, of our position, our success, and our freedoms. The attacks happened during the administrations of Presidents Carter, Reagan, Bush 1, Clinton and Bush 2. We cannot fault either the Republicans or Democrats, as there were no provocations by any of the presidents or their immediate predecessor, President Ford.

3. Who were the attackers? In each case, the attacks on the US were carried out by Muslims.

4. What is the Muslim population of the World? 25%.

5. Isn't the Muslim Religion peacefully? Hopefully, but that is
really not material. There is no doubt that the predominately Christian population of Germany was peaceful, but under the dictatorial
leadership of Hitler (who was also Christian), that made no difference. You either went along with the administration or you were eliminated. There were 5 to 6 million Christians killed by the Nazis for political reasons (including 7,000 Polish priests).

Thus, almost the same number of Christians was killed by the Nazis as the six million holocaust Jews who were killed by them, and we seldom hear of anything other than the Jewish atrocities. Although Hitler kept the world focused on the Jews, he had no hesitancy in killing anyone who got in the way of his extermination of the Jews or of taking over, the world - German, Christian, or any others.

Same with the Muslim terrorists. They focus the world on the US, but kill all in the way -- their own people or the Spanish, British, French or anyone else. The point here is that, just like the peaceful Germans were of no protection to anyone from the Nazis, no matter how many peaceful Muslims there may be, they are no protection for us from the terrorist Muslim leaders and what they are fanatically bent on doing-- by their own pronouncements killing all of us "infidels." I don’t blame the peaceful Muslims. What would you do if the choice was to remain silent or be killed?

6. So who are we at war with?

There is no way we can honestly respond that it is anyone other than the Muslim terrorists. Trying to be politically correct and avoid verbalizing this conclusion can well be fatal. There is no way to win if you don't clearly recognize and articulate who you are fighting.

So with that background, now to the two major questions:

1. Can we lose this war?

2. What does losing really mean?

If we are to win, we must clearly answer these two pivotal questions:

We can definitely lose this war and, as anomalous as it may sound, the major reason we can lose is that so many of us simply do not fathom the answer to the second question - What does walking away from Iraq and losing mean?

It would appear that a great many of us think that losing the war means hanging our heads, bringing the troops home, and going on about our business, like post-Vietnam. This is as far from the truth as one can get.

What losing really means is:

We would no longer be the premier country in the world. The attacks will not subside, but, rather, will steadily increase. Remember, they want us dead, not just quiet. If they had just wanted us quiet, they would not have produced an increasing series of attacks against us over the past 18 years. The plan was, clearly, for terrorists to attack us until we were neutered and submissive to them.


We would, of course, have no future support from other nations, for
fear of reprisals and for the reason that they would see; we are impotent and cannot help them...

They will pick off the other non-Muslim nations, one at a time. It will be increasingly easier for them. They already hold Spain hostage. It doesn't matter whether it was right or wrong for Spain to withdraw its troops from Iraq. Spain did it because the Muslim terrorists bombed their train and told them to withdraw the troops. Anything else they want Spain to do will be done. Spain is finished.

The next will probably be France . Our one hope with France is that they might see the light and realize that if we don't win, they are finished, too, in that they can't resist the Muslim terrorists without us. However, it may already be too late for France. France is already20%Muslim and fading fast.
Without t our support, Great Britain will go, also. Recently, I read that there are more mosques in England than churches.

If we lose the war, our production, income, exports, and way of life will all vanish as we know it. After losing, who would trade or deal with us if they were threatened by the Muslims? If we can't stop the Muslim terrorists, how could anyone else?

The radical Muslims fully know what is riding on this war, and therefore are completely committed to winning, at any cost. We'd better know it, too, and be likewise committed to winning at any cost.

Why do I go on at such lengths about the results of losing? Simple. Until we recognize the costs of losing, we cannot unite and really put100% of our thoughts and efforts into winning. And it is going to take that 100% effort to win.

So, how can we lose the war?

Again, the answer is simple. We can lose the war by "imploding.” That is, defeating ourselves by refusing to recognize the enemy and their purpose and failing to dig in and lend full support to the war effort. If we are united, there is no way that we can lose. If we continue to be divided, there is no way that we can win.

Let me give you a few examples of how we simply don't comprehend the life and death seriousness of this situation:

President Bush selects Norman Mineta as Secretary of Transportation.
Although all of the terrorist attacks were committed by Muslim men between 17 and 40 years of age, Secretary Mineta refuses to allow profiling. Does that sound like we are taking this thing seriously? This is war! For the duration, we are going to have to give up some of the civil rights to which we have become accustomed. We had better be prepared to lose some of our civil rights temporarily or we will most certainly lose all of them permanently.

And don't worry that it is a slippery slope. We gave up plenty of civil rights during WWII, and immediately restored them after the victory... and, in fact, added many more since that time.

Do I blame President Bush or President Clinton before him?

No, I blame us for blithely assuming we can maintain all of our Political Correctness and all of our civil rights during this conflict and have a clean, lawful, honorable war. None of those words apply to war. Get them out of your head.

Some have gone so far in their criticism of the war and/or the Administration that it almost seems they would literally like to see us lose.

I think some actually do. I hasten to add that this isn't because they are disloyal. It is because they just don't recognize what losing means. Nevertheless, that conduct gives the impression to the enemy that we are divided and weakening. It concerns our friends and it does great damage to our cause.

Of more recent vintage, the uproar fueled by the politicians and media regarding the treatment of some prisoners of war perhaps exemplifies best what I am saying. We have recently had an issue involving the treatment of a few Muslim prisoners of war, by a small group of our military police... These are the type prisoners who just a few months ago were throwing their own people off buildings, cutting off their hands, cutting out their tongues, and otherwise murdering their own just for disagreeing with Saddam Hussein.

And, just a few years ago, these same type prisoners chemically killed 400,000 of their own people for the same reason. They are also the same type of enemy fighters who recently were burning Americans and dragging their charred corpses through the streets of Iraq. And, still more recently, the same type of enemy that was and is providing videos to all news sources internationally of the beheading of American prisoners they held.

Compare this with some of our press and politicians, who for several days have thought and talked about nothing else but the "humiliating" of some Muslim prisoners -- not burning them, not dragging their charred corpses through the streets, not beheading them, but "humiliating" them.

Can they be for real?

The politicians and pundits have even talked of impeachment of the Secretary of Defense. If this doesn't show the complete lack of comprehension and understanding of the seriousness of the enemy we are fighting, the life and death struggle we are in, and the disastrous results of losing this war, nothing can.

To bring our country to a virtual political standstill over this prisoner issue makes us look like Nero playing his fiddle as Rome burned -- totally oblivious to what is going on in the real world. Neither we, nor any other country, can survive this internal strife. Again, I say, this does not mean that some of our politicians or media people are disloyal. It simply means that they are absolutely oblivious to the magnitude of the situation we are in and into which the Muslim terrorists have been pushing us for many years.

These people are a serious and dangerous liability to the war effort. We must take note of who they are and get them out of office. Remember, the Muslim terrorists stated goal is to kill all infidels. That translates into ALL non-Muslims -- not just in the United States, but throughout the world. We are the last bastion of defense.

We have been criticized for many years as being 'arrogant.' That charge is valid. We are arrogant in that we believe that we are so good, powerful, and smart that we can win the hearts and minds of all those who attack us, and that, with both hands tied behind our back, we can defeat anything bad in the world. We can't!

If we don't recognize this, our nation, as we know it, will not survive, and no other free country in the world will survive if we are defeated.


And, finally, name any Muslim countries throughout the world that allow freedom of speech, freedom of thought, freedom of religion, freedom of the press, equal rights for anyone -- let alone everyone, equal status or any status for women, or that have been productive lately in one single way that contributes to the good of the world.

This has been a long way of saying that we must be united on this war or we will be equated in the history books to the self- inflicted fall of the Roman Empire. If, that is, the Muslim leaders will allow history books to be written or read.

If we don't win this war right now, keep a close eye on how the
Muslims take over France in the next 5 years or less. They will continue to increase the Muslim population of France and continue to encroach, little by little, on the established French traditions.

The French will be fighting among themselves over what should or should not be done, which will continue to weaken them and keep them from any united resolve. Doesn't that sound eerily familiar?

Democracies don't have their freedoms taken away from them by some external military force. Instead, they give their freedoms away, politically correct piece by politically correct piece.

And they are giving those freedoms away to those who have shown, worldwide, that they abhor freedom and will not apply it to you or even to themselves, once they are in power.

Muslims have universally shown that when they have taken over, they then start brutally killing each other over who the few will be controlling the masses.

What is happening in Iraq is a good example. Will we ever stop hearing from the politically correct about the "peaceful Muslims?"

I close on a hopeful note by repeating what I said before: If we are united, there is no way that we can lose. I hope now, that after the election, the factions in our country will begin to focus on the critical situation we are in, and will unite to save our country. It is your future we are talking about. Do whatever you can to preserve it. I reiterate: our national election is under way.

*** After reading the above, we all must do this, not only for ourselves, but for our children, our grandchildren, our country, and our world. Whether Democrat or Republican, conservative or liberal ... and that includes the Politicians and media of our country and the free world.

Please forward this to any you feels may want, or NEED to read it. Our "leaders" in Congress ought to read it, too. There are those who find fault with our country, but it is obvious to anyone who truly thinks through this, that we must UNITED

Lastly, I wish to add: at the risk of offending, I sincerely think that anyone who rejects this as just another political rant, or doubts the seriousness of this issue, or just deletes it without sending it on, is part of the problem. Let's quit laughing at and forwarding the jokes and cartoons [that] denigrate and ridicule our leaders in this war against terror. They are trying to protect the interests and well being of the US and its citizens. Best we support them.


Dr. Vernon Chong is, without a doubt, the most articulate and convincing writer I have read regarding the War in Iraq If you have any doubts, please open your mind to his essay and give it a fair evaluation. It’s also eerily applicable to other current issues, such as Iran 'nuclear program, immigration, NAFTA's impact on American jobs, trade deficits, etc. I had no idea who Dr. Chong is, or the source of these thoughts, so when I received them, I almost deleted them, as well written as they are. But then I did a Google search on the Doctor and found him to be a retired Air Force surgeon and past commander of Wilford Hall Medical Center in San Antonio." Dr. Vernon Chong, Major General, USAF, Retired

* * * *

While I am not an alarmist, there are several good points made in the letter, points that we should not fail to carefully examine. Someone has to be the alpha dog. In my opinion, it is better if the alpha dog cares for the rights of others and for the preservation of their lives. Right now that is the U.S. If we fail to protect ourselves and the world, we may end up living right where my friend saw us . . . in the United States of Islam.

That is all. Disperse.

Before the cock crows

There's something wonderfully peaceful about 4 a.m. when it's dark and the house is silent. I'm the only one awake -- or at least the only one I can hear for a change. There are no televisions blaring or loud voices just outside the windows or coming through the walls and floors. It's still and silent. It's a magical time when I'm just waking up and the thoughts are quietly creeping out of their dream state. It's a creative time for me and when I do some of my best work. It wasn't always this way. I believed mornings were best seen from a distance, preferably after 10 a.m. I still see mornings from a distance, but it's before and not behind the sun.

Beanie just asked me why I was up so early. She's at work, but she's also two hours ahead of me. I told her it was because I woke up.

It's cold right now, as it usually is in the mornings during winter, fall and early spring. The heat is off again after being on all day yesterday and the early part of the night while I sweated and felt uncomfortable. There is no happy medium when someone else is in charge of the heat. It's one thing I won't miss. I feel like diving back under the covers where it's still warm and cozy but not to sleep, rather to lie in the dark and listen for the first notes of bird song that herald the paling horizon and the sun rising from it's molten copper bed.

Free Money

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That is all. Disperse.

Cold and altered states

It's another frigid morning and outside it looks like there is a rime of frost and ice on everything, but the sun is just coming up and the sky is cold steel that will take a while to warm. I'm cold, but it's warm here in bed. Too bad I can't type with my hands underneath the covers where my body heat can keep my fingernails pink instead of the bluish-purple they are now.

For the first time on Facebook I had a decent opponent in Scrabble. We played three games in a little over 90 minutes, which is a new first. Most of the people say they want a fast game and then come online long enough to make one play on each of the 253 games they're currently playing. Yeah, that's my idea of fast. I won two of the games this morning, but I couldn't get decent tiles. I either got all consonants or all vowels and neither are conducive to winning when your opponent gets three bingos. I lost by 20 points, which is pretty good considering the crap I had to work with and his good luck. Scrabble is as much about luck as it is about skill and strategy, but then aren't most things?

I'm nearly finished with one of the books Authorlink sent me to review and it is surprisingly good, despite a very slow and ponderous start, and I learned something. I have heard of salvia divinorum (Diviner's Sage) and its psychoactive component, salvinorin, the only naturally occurring substance that creates a visionary state. I've not been one for drugs: tried cocaine once and indulged in a little herbal high a few times over the years. Cocaine made my nose run and I decided it was cheaper to move back to Ohio, and I did. I was late getting into the whole herbal smoking thing because I don't smoke (never did) and not a fan of being high. I prefer to be able to control my mental and physical functions and not be disconnected, which is why when I have had surgery I eschewed Percocet, Percodan and other opiates for Tylenol #3. It's also why I won't drink until I'm drunk, but rather start drinking water when my ears feel warm; I don't like that disconnected, head floating off my shoulders and having to walk like I'm made of fragile porcelain and might shatter into a million pieces if I walk too briskly -- or at all. Still, the salvia could be interesting, especially with regard to its effects on creativity and being able to tune out the white noise that short circuits, or at least diminishes, creative brain functions, like leaching off most of the energy with minutiae. Who knows? I might even visit a past life or two if the fiction isn't merely fiction, as my recent research verifies. Then again . . . maybe not. I don't want to end up in Altered States.

That is all. Disperse.

This dog won't hunt

If this isn't profiteering and racketeering, I don't know what is.

It used to be that companies were happy with a share of the pie without wanting the whole pie, the plate, all the ingredients and whatever is in your mouth, too. The story broke in Writers Weekly and has even been picked up by Publishers Weekly and hit the American Society of Journalists and Authors (ASJA), of which I am a member of longstanding.

Basically, what's happening is that Amazon wants to boost business for it's Print-On-Demand (POD) company, BookSurge, and Amazon is doing this by requiring all small independent and POD publishers to use BookSurge if their books are going to be sold at Amazon. Sounds like the old protection racket to me. The punishment for not signing the contract is having the buy button taken off their page so books can only be bought by secondhand sellers. In addition, Amazon takes a 48% bite out of the pie, which takes money out of the publishers' pockets, and thus out of authors' pockets, and imposes a 55% discount. By my way of calculating, that's more than the whole pie. Of course, technically, and mathematically, it is 55% of the remaining 52%, but that leaves very little for the author who is trying to make a living. The only one who is getting rich is Amazon.

It's not enough that Amazon gets books before they are released to the public or that they discount heavily to start with, but now Amazon also wants to get into POD publishing and take the food -- and money -- off everyone's tables. Sounds a lot like Bill Gates who has turned software into a single use system so that if you get a new computer you have to buy a new program to install and can't use the one you've already bought, or you buy a computer with his software already loaded (bundled) on a brand new computer and you have about 90 days to either buy the program or not be able to use it again. No wonder more and more people are turning to freeware operating systems like Linux and away from the RAM and space hogging Windows. You can only hog so much of the pie and ingredients before people start fighting back, and this is one time that people aren't going to sit still for this.

Amazon has angered authors and alienated publishers, and it's never a good idea to get Angela Hoy, also an independent POD publisher and owner/operator of Booklocker, angry. Even the Authors Guild is on Amazon's tail and looking into litigation. Amazon did a good thing by giving space to POD books and small presses, even with the discount, to give authors a foothold in the market denied them by other big chain bookstores like Barnes & Noble, Waldenbooks and Borders, but now it begins to look like a trail of crumbs leading to the witch's gingerbread house and right into the oven. I guess when some people, like Jeff Bezos, owner and mastermind of Amazon, get rich they get gluttonous and want to be even richer, but maybe it's about immortality because you certainly couldn't spend two hundred million dollars in one lifetime; you're going to need several. Really, who needs that much money?

Bottom line: Amazon is heading into racketeering and profiteering by way of the protection racket and it may end up regretting that decision, especially since BookSurge isn't equipped to handle printing a book that is worth buying, even at a deeply discounted price. Consumers have been sold books with pages missing or upside down and coming unglued and cover art that isn't worth the deeply discounted price (blurred, upside down or just plain damaged). It's no wonder BookSurge is in financial trouble and daddy Amazon has to bail it out. If BookSurge had been a quality publisher in the first place there'd be no need for Amazon's move to funnel business its way. BookSurge isn't Chrysler and there is no Lee Iacocca at the helm, so even more business when they can't handle the business they have now isn't going to help; it's going to hurt and readers and authors are going to suffer for it.

Amazon says the reason for the move isn't to make a profit (and I have swamp land in the Arizona-Sonora desert to sell you) but to help the environment and give consumers a faster turnaround time in getting their books and cut down on fuel costs for delivery trucks. Hah!! and HAH!!! (this needs more quotes) HAH HAH!!!!! NO. I don't think the environment is going to be helped by consumers sending their defective products back to BookSurge to be redone and it certainly isn't going to be a very fast turnaround time when you have to send the book back more than once. If Amazon was interested in the environment, they wouldn't send a single small paper back book in a great big box full of advertising and air-filled plastic pillows or a half ton of Styrofoam packing peanuts. In the words of my hillbilly uncle, "That dog won't hunt."

Stay tuned. If Amazon doesn't back off, Jeff Bezos is likely to be looking down at a lot of red on his bottom line when consumers flock to Barnes & Noble and Books-A-Million for their online purchases, especially since Borders has teamed with Amazon.

That is all. Disperse.

Squirrel porn tree and mountains

Trade-offs

Just great! The space heater is dying. No wonder it's so freezing cold in here. Don't need to keep the wine in the fridge since it's cold enough outside the fridge. I could probably even freeze meat and vegetables it's so cold. I guess the landlady decided it was spring enough to turn off the furnace, but then she has a space heater that works and Nel has two.

Instead of reading last night or writing in the journal I huddled under the covers and tried to sleep, but that's a little hard to do. I can see every exhaled breath. I may have to turn on the oven, open the door and let that heat the apartment. There's a thermostat on the wall in the living room and the temperature gauge works but it's not attached to anything. The landlady controls the heat and for the past three years it has been either hot as Hades or Ragnarök in here, which is why I had the space heater. I didn't realize the space heater was dying until this morning. I have turned it on and forgot about it for three years and it has never failed me, gotten a bit too toasty but never failed . . . until now. When did balls of brown smelly excrement begin to roll uphill?

Don't get me wrong. I have loved living here, not because of the petty little problems or the occasional bad moods and nasty attitudes of Nel and the landlady, when I usually keep to myself and hide in a book or at the computer with my ear phones on, but because of the view and the sunshine streaming through all the windows, and the view. It's still a big sprawling one-bedroom apartment with baby-poop colored trim, indoor-outdoor carpeting everywhere in shades of blueberry streaked excrement, uneven floors like miniature roller coasters, heat controlled by the landlord who is only interested in her own comfort and not the comfort of those living upstairs, a narrow, steep and poky stairway with not enough light, a toilet that doesn't always flush away the excrement and TP, broken stove burner and oven that is not self-cleaning despite the lever and instructions printed on it that say it is, and a laundry room that can only be reached by the person in this apartment by going down two flights of stairs, out onto the porch, around the house and into a back door that must be scheduled six months in advance because everyone else (landlady and Nel) already have their schedules that must not be changed. For me, the attraction has always been the sun room with its view of trees and the neighborhood and the mountains where all the animals and birds cavorted and perched for my own private amusement and awe. That's what I'll miss, not the stairs or the laundry situation or the baby-pooped trim everywhere I look, but the views. I certainly won't miss the Russian roulette with the heat or having to use a space heater to keep warm on cold days and nights, although the cold living room was nice on sweltering August nights when I wanted to watch a movie. In a way, it's a Zen thing, finding peace and contentment in the midst of turmoil and iffy conditions.

I will also miss the exchange of food and Pastor the long-haired German Shepherd (pastor alemán in Spanish and his name) who was always excited to see me and be petted. I realize it was a selfish thing on his part and it was all about him, but petting and playing with him gave me such pleasure. I guess that's what it's all about -- pleasure. Dogs and cats, and indeed any affectionate animal, are selfish. They want to be loved and petted and cuddled and fed and kept safe and they're not shy about demanding it either. We respond with smiles and affection without question -- at least those of us with souls and feeling hearts. The pleasure they give is outweighed by their selfish need to live comfortably and be loved. They don't spin or weave or grow food, and they could live on their own off humanity's scraps or off the bounty of nature, killing and grazing to keep themselves fed, but instead we support them all their lives, even into their thirties for some pets, and we don't complain (too much) about it. They don't grow up and move away. We don't see them as co-dependent because they are completely dependent.

We don't make them do chores, although some people are mean enough to expect tricks in exchange for treats, or expect them to pick up the garbage they have strewn all over the nice clean kitchen or bathroom floor. Pets lie around and sleep most of the time, or play with their toys long past the time when any child doing so would be considered either mentally deficient, brain-damaged or slacking. We take them for walks for their health when in reality they are accompanying us for our health. They get enough exercise romping in the yard with their toys or jumping the fence for a midnight romp with their buddies or having wild animal sex at 2 a.m. on the back fence where everyone can hear them. They break the rules and we forgive them. They trash the house and we take the blame and clean it up; we shouldn't have left them alone for so long. We put them in cages and order them around when we're feeling pissy and they still curl up on our laps and show their affection after a short period of the silent treatment. They're always excited to see us, but who wouldn't be excited to see the person who feeds, sometimes clothes (and it's criminal what people make their pets wear), waters and takes such good care of them, and never expects them to contribute anything but their presence and affection? They are the animal kingdom version of a trophy wife. See? they say. This person is responsible and caring and willing to share their home with a selfish, self-centered, eating and sleeping machine, and they even clean up the poop so we don't have to. Are you beginning to get the idea that pets own us instead of us owning them?

Yes, living here has been a lot like having a pet: a fair amount of trouble for a good amount of pleasure. It's the same everywhere. No matter how great the apartment or cabin or house, there is always something not quite right or downright awful that I accept in exchange for a roof over my head. Come to think of it, I am probably more tolerant of landlords and neighbors and conditions than I am with my own family because I know when I get angry or irritated with them and tell them so they can't kick me out of my home. They are pretty much stuck with me, and what's worse, I am stuck with them.

Well, at least when I move and have the laundry room on my floor (I should write about the time I bought a washer and dryer (apartment-sized) and had to send it back because the landlady wouldn't allow it in my apartment where I pay rent) and control of the heat -- and air conditioning -- in my own apartment, and I don't have to pay utilities. And I don't have to change my phone number. There are fewer windows and no views of the mountains and no squirrel porn tree outside the window in my office that causes me to waste so much time laughing and smiling and watching in sheer delight when I should be working, but there are other amenities and features that will make it easier to fit into a new rhythm and situation. There will be a few expenses, like rugs for the hardwood and tiled floors, and a work island for the kitchen, bookcases and a new desk, but I won't lack for closet space or room and I'll even have a separate refrigerator for wine and freezer overflow, to make up for losing my view. I might even get more work done without the view, like Stephen King with his drawn shades and desk against a wall away from the temptation of the windows, and I'll get more exercise because I'll have to get up and go outside for a walk to see the mountains and restore my soul. It's a trade-off, but what in life isn't?

That is all. Disperse.

Sodden Thursday

The air coming through the window went from briskly cool to icy as the sky darkened and rain and sleet pelted down. At least it was raining, great drops of rain that sploshed and splatted against the window, but the best was yet to come. Thick black clouds crowded closer and the sky lit with jagged forks and tridents of light just before the sky cracked open and boomed: lightning and thunder, the first of the year. Spring is definitely here, even though right now it's icy and slick and the ground is heavy with wet sleet and snow. Not event this late wet snow has daunted the buds on the trees and bushes or the flowers stabbing green spears and brightly colored heads through the steaming ground. Spring will not be delayed.

Now is the time to get out the white shoes and hats, not back during Easter, which is the accepted opening of the season of wearing white. This is spring. This is the season of singing birds, romping squirrels and returning life. Cold as it is this morning as the space heater labors to put the heat back into the room while I huddle under the covers fully dressed, my fingers tingling with cold, I know it won't last. It will snow again today and tomorrow, but it won't last. Spring has a good hold on us now and it won't let go. It will not retreat. Winter will just have to give way until the rest of the seasons have their time.

The garbage trucks are out wheezing, clanging and banging, stopping to gorge and move on. They will circle the neighborhood like vultures, clearing up the detritus and debris before leaving to circle another section of the city. It's Thursday, so they're here banging ice-covered bins and cans against the gaping maw to dislodge the frozen contents into the void and take it somewhere else to dump. I'll bet their hands are colder than mine.

I got word from two local co-authors on one of my books that we're nearly ready to hit the bookstores, cafes and libraries to begin the personal appearances that will take over a big hunk of my free time and weekends for the next year. At least I don't have to sit alone on display with the books. That's something. But right now I've spent some time with my paper journal and now I've dashed off a few words here, so it's time to get up, get breakfast and get to work to earn a few more dollars (very few, I can assure you) and fill my day with something other than books and reading and the infinite pleasure of writing something new or editing something not so new.

That is all. Disperse.

Indiana Jones Returns

The event I've waited for since Sean Connery and Harrison Ford took their last adventure is a new movie. It's here.



That is all. Disperse.

Good, bad, good, bad, new and old and new

I'm in a good news-bad news state of mind this morning. I got the apartment. Good news. I'm moving from my home. Bad news. I'll feel less constrained about doing some of the things I couldn't do here. Good news. Now I'll have to do them. Bad news. It has a washer and dryer that is easily accessible. Good news. The new apartment is a bit smaller. Bad news. I could go on like this for a very long time. The bottom line is that in four weeks I will be living somewhere else. My phone number will be the same but everything else will be different. I'll have to get used to another way of doing things, but most of what I do will soon slide into the old rhythm and I'll settle in as I have settled in before, the difference being that instead of wanting to stay there for a very long time I'll only stay there until I can save enough money to buy my own place.

I have often thought that owning a home is no different in the end than renting when it comes to cost. Even when the home is paid for there are always more expenses: roofs, painting, repairs, property taxes, lawns to mow, seed and wage war with crab grass, etc. There is a long and expensive list of things that go along with owning a home that the renter never has to face. But renting has its downside because just when you get comfortable you can be thrown out, asked to leave or feel you can no longer tolerate the escalating idiosyncrasies or dysfunctions and have to find somewhere else to fit in. I do know people who have rented the same place for decades but they found the perfect situation -- for them -- or were living in a situation where it didn't matter, like renting a house where the owners live in another state, preferably clear across the country.

I just found my scissors. Now maybe I'll find some of my barrettes and other things that have disappeared over the past three years. Okay, nonsequitor.

No situation is without its downside. It's like many things in my life. I like having a regular paycheck but am really tired of the 9-5 grind (in my case 6-2 or 8a-10p). I loved living here and considered it home, but I hated the lack of privacy, frequent intrusions, finding a day or time that I could do my laundry that fit into my schedule instead of everyone else's, etc. I have a laptop to write on -- and I do write on it -- but I prefer a pen and journal for the tactile feel of putting down words that will stand the test of time instead of being dependent on a technology that may not be around for another hundred years, at least not in this form.

When I got my first computer, an IBM PS-2, I was ecstatic. I wrote every chance I got, began keeping my journal on the computer and downloading it to big floppy disks. I still have a big bag of 5.25 disks and no computer to use them in; mine was stolen with several years of my life captured inside and unreachable now. Conversely, I have a box full of journals of different sizes, shapes and colors that have withstood twenty years of moving about and traveling. Even when I left them back in storage in Ohio, they followed me. Mom and Dad brought them to me several years ago. I took them back into storage and my parents brought them to me again. I keep them with me now, and I have added to them.

Yesterday, I bought a new journal, having filled the last line on the last page of the old one a few weeks ago. I was stunned when I saw it with it's lilac suede cover and beautiful empty white pages with a price tag of under $10. How could I resist? I didn't. Now my books are safe. I have a tendency to write in whatever is handy when I get a thought or when something I'm reading strikes a spark and takes me in a different direction. Notes in the margins and empty back pages and inside covers are filled with my hasty cramped scrawl when I don't have a journal handy. Usually, the last thing I do at night (unless I go to bed early) is write in a journal, laying my thoughts to rest so I can sleep peacefully. When I became a daytime wage slave, and after I moved in here, I began writing first thing in the morning when I awoke in that deep dark before dawn, waking and stretching my mind for the rigors of the day ahead. As the weather warms, I'll take the journal with me to the park or for a walk and sit down on a convenient bench to let the thoughts spill out like Moses striking the rock for water in the desert, except I won't be denied the promised land for my actions. Instead, I will find the promised land between those blank pages.

Most writers are daunted by the blank page, and to some extent a blank virtual page affects me the same way, but give me a pen or pencil and a notebook, legal pad or journal and I am in heaven, filling page after page with thoughts captured from my overactive imagination and pulled from the rushing byways and highways of sparking neurons and synapses that can't wait to fill the page. I don't have to force the first step before the need, the urge to write takes over in a journal the way I do with the virtual page. Once I'm there, I'm writing and some actually useful and coherent thoughts make it to the page. With a paper journal, everything becomes clear and the old rhythms ingrained in me since childhood take over and I am flying over page after page until I am energized to begin another day or relaxed enough to fall into Morpheus's arms. Such is the magic that touches me with a blank page and a pen full of ink or a long pencil and sharpener at hand. (I prefer ink because it doesn't fade as quickly as pencil.) So, among the soon to be unfamiliar is the familiar chore of packing and getting ready to move and the comfort of a new paper journal to fill.

And life goes on.

A little science and wonder

This is my latest editorial for the ham club newsletter, Ø-Beat (zero beat for non-hams):

Ever since I was a child, rainbows have fascinated me. I was awed by the arcing bridge of colors floating up in the sky like a promise of adventure, but I had no idea that not all those varicolored bridges are rainbows. Some of them are circumzenithal arcs (CZA). Now, say that three times fast. They’re also called ice halos and can be best seen when the sun is low on the horizon. It looks like an upside-down rainbow with the center of the bow like a cup beneath the sun and the red arc always on the outside.

In science class, I learned that the prismatic effect of sunlight through raindrops is what creates rainbows. In my recent searched through the Internet I discovered that sunlight reflected through ice crystals floating through high clouds produces just the right conditions for CZAs. With all the snow we’ve been getting lately I wonder that I haven’t seen a CZA yet, but maybe I’m not looking at the sky at the right time. But the magic and color show doesn’t stop with CZAs. There’s more.


Ever hear of sundogs? I didn’t until I stumbled across a picture of the Mongolian CZA. Sundogs are those bright circular spots, solar halos, that looks like miniature suns but are a sort of mirror effect from the same icy cirrus or cirrostratus clouds drifting through the cold gray sky. In my opinion, it’s just one more reason to love winter – besides the cold.

And then there are circular rainbows, that most elusive and rarest of sights. Several years ago as I came out of Radio Shack, I saw a circular rainbow hovering in the rainy gray sky. It was a perfect halo of light and color and I couldn’t stop staring. I stopped people on the sidewalk and pointed to the sky like Chicken Little, except I wasn’t trying to convince anyone the sky was falling. People moved away from me like I was a lunatic, but I kept my eyes on that rainbow even after I got into my car to drive back to work, following that rainbow all the way across the west side of Columbus, Ohio. I pulled into the parking lot at work and shared my news to the whole office. Most of my co-workers shook their heads and went back to work. The rest followed me outside to see . . . nothing. The rain gathered strength and pelted us with icy drops and I stood there alone looking up into the sky, hoping for a glimpse of that circle of brilliant color.

The physics of how and why rainbows exist doesn’t lessen the magic for me, rather I appreciate rainbows more and now I know when and where to look for circular rainbows, circumzenithal arcs and sundogs. I know what the combination of weather and the sun can do, as not only a feast for the eyes and the soul, but also how it affects propagation and radio waves and our ability to reach out across town or across the world and hear voices.

The sun has gone through some changes since last month, putting on a bit of a show. The Solar and Heliospheric Observatory (SOHO) reported, “…a solar prominence gracefully [rising] up above the surface[. It] spun around a little, formed an arc, and eventually dissipated along magnetic field lines over a two-day period (March 22-23, 2008). Powerful magnetic forces that emerge from below the Sun's surface generate these prominences. The charged plasma spins along these magnetic lines, revealing them in extreme UV light. Sometimes these prominences erupt and break away from the Sun - this one seem[ed] to elongate and disappear.”


According to K7RA, the combination of a nearly two-week run of sunspots and the spring season make for very good HF conditions. Sunspot activity peaked March 26-29 and has dropped back to zero, but don’t despair. We have had a slow start, but sunspot activity is following the predicted pattern and will increase to a phenomenal high in 2011. You don’t have to wait that long to benefit from the sun’s effect on our skies. There are always sundogs, circumzenithal arcs and circular rainbows. Check out the web version of the Ø-Beat and feast your eyes.

And there is more news on the spring horizon, and I don’t mean the fact that if you look outside spring is getting ready to bust out all around us.

If you haven’t been checking the PPRAA reflector, you may have missed the news of recent changes. Jim Harris ABØUK has retired from the scene and all club activities and Ken Sheehan KGØADV has stepped down as Vice President, both due to health concerns. Jim received the PPRAA Lifetime Achievement Award last year for all his hard work and for his exceptional volunteer contributions over the years, setting an example for those who will follow him and try to fill his shoes. Ken distinguished himself early as an avid proponent of the PPRAA, urging members to get involved. Jim and Ken’s input leave a void.

One thing you won’t see on the reflector is the news that on April 23rd Jess Miley KØTAA, a long time fixture in the Colorado Springs amateur radio community as a technician and business owner, celebrates his 80th birthday.

The last bit of news is my own. After 2-1/2 years of editing this newsletter, I have decided to step down and let someone else run the show. I had originally intended to stick around until the end of the year but my schedule is filling up with personal appearances, readings and interviews for two of the eight books coming out this year that include my stories. The first two, Cup of Comfort for Single Mothers and Chicken Soup for the Adopted Soul, are already available online and in the bookstores. The books are collections of stories from more than fifty other writers, like me, who share a little piece of their lives and experiences. I have agreed to pop in every occasionally with a column, so I will be gone but hopefully not completely forgotten.

During my time as editor, I have made some changes to the newsletter, and hopefully to the way you think of and feel about the PPRAA. I have hounded, begged, cajoled and blackmailed some of you to get articles to fill these pages. If you doubt me, talk to Shel Radin KFØUR or Steve Williams KØSRW about how tenacious I can be in pursuit of content to fill the newsletter. Of course, as editor, I couldn’t just accept their words without adding a bit of spit and polish to make them shine. Admittedly, I didn’t have to use a lot of spot or polish, but I did feel I needed to earn the title of editor by actually editing.

My last column as editor (I can hear the celebrations and corks popping already) will appear in the July issue of this newsletter. By then I look forward to meeting the new editor and offering him my assistance to make the transition easier. Whoever the editor is, I do hope you will give him the same attention and assistance you have given me over the past 2+ years.

Being editor of this newsletter has been an experience I won't soon forget. It has given me a chance to display my ignorance of electronics with a smile and to get to know some of you better. I will continue as a member of the PPRAA and the VE team, but will watch quietly (most of the time) from the sidelines while the rest of you take up the torch and keep it burning while you run with it. Without you, nothing continues and I would hate to see the Ø-Beat go the way of the Mountain Amateur Radio Club’s newsletter and be consigned to oblivion. Editing the newsletter takes a considerable amount of time and effort, but it is worth it because this newsletter, and all the amateur radio club newsletters like it, keeps us connected and reminds us that things are not so different anywhere else in the country, or in the world. We are all licensed amateur radio operators who work hard when it’s needed, volunteer when we can and keep people communicating in times of trouble and disaster. We are the silent minority who, out of curiosity and a love of science and adventure, stride out into the world and push the boundaries of technology, and I am proud to be one of you.

73 as always…
Jackie Cornwell ACØCA
Editor
PPRAA Ø-Beat

Because Spikes Leman reminded me

Reading this morning reminded me of something that happened many, many years ago back when I was married to X-2. It seems strange to think back how many years ago this was since I don't think about it, but seventeen years is a very long time indeed. Anyway, back to the story.

Nick was drunk (no big surprise there) and he called and left a message on our answering machine. It was a rambling, curse- and obscenity-filled rant with no particular theme other than I wasn't there to answer the phone when he called. He had forgotten I had gone to play bingo with a friend, as I did most Friday nights, and then was going to a late supper with a couple we knew. I came home, saw the light blinking on the answering machine and listened to the filth coming out of it with my mouth open, something I didn't realize until the message ended. It wasn't that I wasn't familiar with drunk Nick but that he would leave such a message at all when he seldom called. This time he had forgotten something at home and wanted to know where it was even though he was out trawling the titty and drinking bars for another debauched evening or a one night stand. Evidently, that night he didn't get lucky -- or rather the women did get lucky because they didn't get talked into sex with him, but I digress.

I saved the message. The next morning when Nick woke up he checked the messages on the machine and heard himself spewing filth. He was shocked and then he got angry that some dumb jackass had dared to call our home and leave such a message. I asked him to listen to the message again and he did. While he listened, his face getting redder and redder, I calmly asked if he recognized the voice. He didn't . . . at first. "It does sound familiar," he said. "It should," I said. "It's you." At that point his face got so red I thought he was going to explode. He listened again and then all the blood drained from his face and his fisted hands went slack, his jaw dropped, and he dropped into the chair like all the bones had just gone as soft as his head. "It's me."

Later that day, after he was gone, I took the cassette out of the machine and stashed it with some of my things so I could retrieve it whenever he got into drinking mode and started being abusive again.

I ran across a cassette a couple of months ago and put it in the player and listened. It was the same cassette from our old answering machine with Nick's filth spewing out at me. I smiled, not because I was nostalgic for the old days but because somehow, some way that cassette, out of all the things I have owned over the years, has survived, and survived longer than my marriage.

With all the technology available, I wonder why people don't think about taping their parents, children, grandparents, spouses, girlfriends, boyfriends, bosses, etc. when they become verbally abusive and letting them listen when they are calmer or at least less abusive. During one of those expansive moments when they are in the Prince/ss Charming phase of the cycle to make up for the Edward Hyde phase of the cycle, turn the tape, MP3, etc. on and let them listen. I'll bet they don't recognize themselves and are shocked that anyone would say such things, and I'll also bet it will be a hard, cold slap in the face with a big, reeking, wet sponge (like the one filled with Betadine they slapped between my legs and onto the pulsing warmth of my nether regions when I was about to give birth to my first child) and they might, just might be willing to see things in a different light. Or not. It might be safer to booby trap the replay so you are at least in the presence of Guido and Vito or an officer of the law or military squadron with weapons before you do. But at least give them a taste of the foul air they have been polluting your environs with for so long.

It didn't change Nick much, but it did change him. He was the kind of person who created a fantasy world in which he lived and the normal laws of physics and science and decency do not exist, except as he created them, and changed them without notice. He found out that my complaining wasn't just the usual bitchiness he attributed to PMS, which I have never had, but was valid. His own shock that someone would speak that way (and probably that he thought I had a lover who was audacious enough to get drunk and leave such a message -- I didn't) and leave proof made him see himself in a little different light. The light wasn't pink or rose-colored but it was clearly Technicolor.

That is all. Disperse.

Some rain

Why is it people don't tell you when they don't like someone right off the bat?

I talked to Mom last night and she said, though she only met my landlady once she didn't like her, thought she was hard. I asked Beanie what she thought this morning and she said she thought the landlady was hard, too, but probably all right.

There's a certain reluctance to be honest about how we view people and voice our first impressions. I can see how people would think the landlady is hard; she is at times. But she can also be incredibly generous and nice. She is also a horrid gossip and two-faced, but who doesn't have their flaws? She does make me uncomfortable when she rails on and on about Nel across the hall and telling me how much Nel drinks and smokes pot, and how she's such a negative person who duped her about her animals, but she won't say these things to Nel's face. She told me at the end of last year she was going to raise Nel's rent to see if she couldn't force her and her animals out (a cat and an iguana), but then when the time came she said she decided not to raise the rent.

The landlady has her moods, just like everyone else, but she is inconsistent about some things and she's always in everyone's business. I have to admit that I really don't like the way she keeps track of my comings and goings (and when I'm not coming and going) or how often I go to the bathroom because it feels like I'm being watched all the time. The fact that she is watching all the time probably has a lot to do with that. She pries into my mail and comes out into the hall whenever I get a pizza or Oriental food delivered or bring the groceries home from the store. It's not that she wants to share but that she just can't resist knowing what I'm doing and what I've bought. Yeah, it's annoying. Sometimes I feel like I'm under siege, but into every life a little rain -- and gods above we need the rain.

I've lived here almost three years and I love the apartment, but when you rent can you live happily ever after with a landlord or nosy neighbors watching your every move? Is it time to move on and find something else? This is the longest I've lived anywhere since I moved out on my own, but most of that was due to being married to the military and doing a good bit of traveling on my own after I got divorced.

Anyway, I looked at the ads on Craigslist.com and found one apartment right off the bat. I called the landlord, Joe, and it turns out he's retired and he and his wife are snowbirds who want a more mature renter for their garden apartment with washer, dryer, microwave, garage and big back yard in a quiet neighborhood a couple miles from here. I'll be farther away from Old Colorado City and the squirrel porn tree, but I'll have things there that I don't have here -- like a laundry room I don't have to schedule a month in advance or walk down the stairs and around the house to use. I just have to open the door to the laundry room and walk through. A garage would be nice, too, but the best things about the apartment are that it's cheaper, has a gas stove (I hate electric stoves) and free cable and high speed Internet. That means I could get rid of my DSL line and be able to cook without having to worry about the pans boiling dry because even on warm the electric stove is too hot to just simmer the food. I'd have a much bigger kitchen and a dining room (something I lack here) and the landlord who lives upstairs would be gone to Florida or Arizona for six months of the year, not to mention having the ground floor and being able to walk outside the door to get the mail without the landlord stopping me and asking what I got or nosing into my groceries when I come home because I won't have to walk past their door. The way the landlord talked about the yard with its privacy and pine trees and beds of flowers (instead of the rocks and boulders that currently pass for a yard here) and sitting outside writing on my laptop in the shade on a sunny day made it sound so relaxing and pleasant. I don't mind that it doesn't have a bathtub and has only a big glassed-in shower and the air conditioning would definitely be a plus.

I'm going to see the apartment this afternoon and if I like the place and the landlord likes me I may be moving next month. I've already checked the rates for movers and having someone in to clean the apartment after I've moved out and it's definitely doable even though it means I'll have to work like a dog even more for the next four weeks, but maybe it is time to move on and find somewhere with fewer downsides and more amenities that will save me about $300 a month. I could use the $300 to buy clothes or put away for a fun vacation or just blow on books and computer parts. You just never know.

Into every life a little rain must fall, but it's good for the flowers and trees and animals, and it's certainly good for me.

Legend dies

No actor is more recognizable than Charlton Heston and a few moments ago I was stunned to read he had just died. Charlton Heston was a friend and we shared experiences and letters over several years when I worked on his biobibliography. I have collected and been given many of Heston's memories in individual cels from some of his movies as well as memorabilia from his own collection and those of his friends. I treasure the gift of his friendship and his insights. He made an impression on me when I was a child. He was a complex and private man who stood up to be counted for his beliefs, whether or not they cost him personally. He will be missed.

Out of my dreams...

...and into the hush.

It’s one of those mornings when vivid dreams, a breath of warm spring air, birds twittering and squirrels romping in the trees combine to send the urges screaming hot and needy through my veins. The whores are moaning like they have not moaned in a while. Nerves burn to be stroked and flesh aches to be caressed and Eros taunts me at the edge of thought turning everything to throbbing pink and red until the simplest and most innocent thoughts taken on carnal implications. Some portion of this torments on waking every morning and can be quickly and easily dealt with, but this morning there is no relief, and I twist and burn on the spit of desire, a hungry void deep inside that will not be fobbed off with work or a quick, wet fumble. The void needs to be filled with something substantial: the slap of sweaty flesh against flesh, the tingling stroke of roughened skin along soft, silky folds, the yeasty scent of swelling need and the insistent primal cry of triumphant satiation.

Tired, banal and deeply rutted roads

Do you ever look at something and misread it or put it together in a way that just comes out wrong, like being partially deaf and not hearing well?

Once my mother called and asked me what M-I-S-L-E-D meant. She pronounced it MI-ZEL'D. I told her it was MIS-LED. That finally made sense. WHOREPRESENTS becomes WHORE PRESENTS instead of WHO REPRESENTS, a web site about who represents what artist, writer, poet, actor, etc. This morning, ANGELICLOVE became ANGELI CLOVE and that didn't make sense. It's really ANGELIC LOVE. Sometimes connections misfire or your mind takes you on a different path and you come out at the wrong end. It happens with other things than just words.

When I was a teenager working at McDonald's I made a little mistake that kept co-workers chortling for a couple weeks. It was grade card time and each child got a free cheeseburger for being on the honor roll. A girl came up with her grade card, all smiles and dimples, and motioned me closer. "Can I get a cheeseburger without the cheese?" I told her yes and made a grill order on a cheeseburger without the cheese. It didn't occur to me at that moment that I had just asked for a hamburger and there were already a bunch under the lamps. Oops.

Sometimes the mistake occurs because your mind is on another track, like making a grill order when anything on the usual fare is changed. It's the truck stuck in the tunnel surrounded by police and firemen and engineers who can't see what a little girl can see -- all you need to do is let a little air out of the tires. We get stuck in a mindset or a way of doing things that is so ingrained or dominates our mental pathways we can't see what's really happening or how to change gears. Being able to change gears or go against the grain or think outside of the box (or into it in the case of the cat) is the essence of genius. That's what successful authors, playwrights and creative people do, even if the creativity is building a new electronic circuit out of found parts or throwing together an impromptu stew or hash.

Writers are especially susceptible to the mind rut. Some writers get so comfortable with a certain topic or way of writing and they end up redoing the same old thing, rewriting the same story or article over and over and over. Spread it out over enough periodicals and books and most people don't notice because they haven't read your articles before. There are, of course, different ways of saying the same thing and can be very creative, but, like lying, the product becomes parody, heavy with layers of exaggeration and schmaltz designed to play on the emotions. It's why liars always get caught; they don't know when to stop embellishing, telling the same story over and over and over until everyone has heard it and begins to see the changes, subtle at first and then more outrageous and blatant. So, too, with writing, which is always my main concern.

I've fallen prey to reworking an old idea when I didn't think I had any because the act of facing the blank page is too much to bear. Where do I start this time? How many characters can I come up with? How many times can I write "roiling river" or "lambent gaze" without emptying the contents of my intestines onto the keyboard? It's too easy to fall into that trap, to keep reworking an idea until it's threadbare and worn and you can't wring tears or smiles from the readers -- or yourself -- any more. The writing becomes stilted, a worn bromide, and goes from bad to worse. I can think of several writers who fall into this category, which is why I no longer read them. Some are still cranking out the same out story with different hair/eye colors and jobs, but still the same old-same old. Those writers have blind, sycophantic fans and friends who would applaud if they published their grocery list. Other writers finally gave up and went in a completely new direction, repudiating everything written before, as though fleeing a particularly bloody and vicious crime scene, and those writers, no matter how successful their new venture, end up denying the gift that made them good writers in the first place. Their only refuge is in faction, or what is currently known as creative nonfiction, and it is very creative.

So, where does all this lead us? I hope it leads to a good creative spring cleaning, throwing out what doesn't work and hanging on to what does and building on it. We all need to let the air out of the tires when we get stuck or simply step back, sit down and take a look from a different angle, tackle what has frightened us before and take a less well marked and traveled path. In other words, it's time to shake up the ant farm and clear out the cobwebs to get a fresh perspective and a deep, mind cleansing breath of fresh air. It's spring after all.

That is all. Disperse.