Quick news

No, it's not a new software program, but news.

I just received word that I am included in the third annual Mountain of Writers showcase hosted by the Pikes Peak Library District here in Colorado Springs. The event is usually held in April, but this year it is scheduled for March 28th.

I'm excited and have already contacted two of my publishers to make sure I have plenty of books for the event. It's an all-day event so I will make sure to have lots of ink for my new fountain pen. My section of the table will be filled with lots of books (at least six different titles) and I should have the cover and some goodies to give away for the novel coming out in July.

When I have more information, I'll post it here and on my other blogs, along with information on interviews and podcasts. I hope to have the book trailer ready by then as well. At least I know where my stimulus and refund checks will be spent this year -- and it's all tax deductible.

That is all. Disperse.

Vampires, lycans and a dose of salts

Watching movies about vampires and lycans (werewolves) just before going to sleep is perhaps not the best idea if you're planning to have sweet dreams. My dreams ended up being complex and dark and full of underworld creatures, of which I was one. Watching movies about underworld creatures before going to sleep does, however, have it's plus side -- lots of fodder for creative writing with a paranormal twist, especially when relationships between creatures and humans are involved. I may end up writing paranormal stories after all, without giving up my more human-based subjects, of course.

Needless to say, my dreams were dark, but not too dark, last night. They were so interesting I didn't want to wake up and ended up offering natal day greetings and wishes to the wrong person. Sorry about that, Wild Heart. I was so excited about the latest Torchwood news that I ended up completely off target. I meant to wish Lady Celia a very happy natal day. Oops.

And then my favorite expatriate journalist friend sent me the news that Shift Happens and it's not that far away, well within reach for most of us, especially with the viral growth of technology these days. As one of my best friends knows, the shift happens fast, especially when you're looking in the right direction.

Everything is in upheaval these days, even the climate. Snow kicking the east coast in the hind quarters and the quixotic weather imps playing havoc here in the Rocky Mountains. Even with the sky my favorite color of Colorado blue, I can feel the cold and winter seeping back to blast my weekend to ice and snow, not that I'm complaining, but it would be nice to have a more reliable season of mists and fruitlessness. I feel out of sorts and off kilter, not overtly so, but just enough to tell I'm a hair off center. Oh, well, I have plenty of work to keep my fingers busy and writing to keep my mind busy, so I shall not fret. This too will pass.

Now where are those salts?

That is all. Disperse.

There's nothing like fear

How about a little fear to start your day -- or end it? Then here's what you need.

Our planet has a temperature. It's very sick. We have to do everything we can. For instance, would [it] be ridiculous for, you know, me, the president, to take Air Force one out on its maiden flight, to take a 747 jumbo jet from Washington D.C. for an out-and-back excursion to the House Democratic caucus retreat at the Kings Mill Resort and Spa in Williamsburg, Virginia, where the 747 is parked? It would be crazy to take a 157-mile trip in a 747 jumbo jet when you've got teleconferencing there in the White House, because the Earth has a temperature and that's why America may not ever recover if we don't act now and pass $2 billion for renewable energy research or $2 billion for clean coal power plants in Illinois or $6.2 billion for a weatherization assistance program which basically is weatherstrips for underneath your door!

It just keeps getting better and better this change you can believe in.

That is all. Disperse.

What's your sin?

One of the questions to help break through writer's block today was: Which of the seven deadly sins—sloth, greed, lust, gluttony, anger, envy, and pride—are you most likely to commit? It didn't take me long to answer this one, but it took a bit of thought and a few words.

Lust, although I don't think of a healthy and active sex drive (mine is very healthy)as lust, unless you count vivid sexual dreams about the man in my life or finding him hard to resist when I see him. I haven't wallowed in a day of unbridled and unabated sex for a good long while. Who has the time? I guess that means I don't really cross into the lust territory, except maybe in my dreams.

Okay, the pile of laundry on the floor here in the bedroom could be considered slothful, but that's only because it's time to do the laundry, so sloth isn't one of the sins I commit. I just don't have a laundry hamper. My mother is still holding it hostage and I can't afford to replace it, not when there is good to buy and utilities and rent to pay. That would be wasteful.

Greed is definitely not one of my vices. Anyone who visits here would see that. I own one pair of 800-thread count Egyptian cotton sheets for my queen size bed. They're luxuriously soft and when I wash them I put them back on the bed, so no greed there. I'm not greedy when it comes to food or books or clothes or anything. I have a half loaf of bread I baked last week that will be turned into bread crumbs in the food processor and it's not even top of the line. No, greed is not one of my vices.

Although I can be a glutton for punishment, as evidenced by my continued "discussions" with Mom, I'm not a glutton, especially when I'm in the zone and writing and forget to eat for hours on end. I do not then gobble everything in sight to make up the deficit. Further proof is how I treat the luscious and wonderful cheesecakes I bake once in a while. I do not eat the whole thing (I'd be dead by now if that was the case) and I do share with friends and neighbors. I enjoy sharing food I've made. Nope, not gluttony.

Now I do on occasion get angry, but it's not a constant thing and I don't pull people out of their cars at stop lights and beat them to a bloody pulp. People who irritate me or hurt me usually get treated one of two ways. I either explode (if the trespass is sufficiently blatant), which takes a few minutes, then I calm down and deal rationally with the trespasser, or I brush them off and ignore them. When pests don't go away and keep stalking me or nudging me, I keep ignoring them or tell them I'm done. They eventually get the message.

Envy isn't a big sin for me either. I have micro-momentary wishes for something someone I know has, but my attention span for envy is pretty short. Ooh, I wish I had that book or sweater or whatever. Did you see this article on feminism in science fiction literature? See what I mean? Short attention span. While I would like to be successful or visit other places or eat once at a fancy restaurant, the idea of envying someone else's success is not my cup of tea. I would like to do as well, or better, but I don't want what everyone else has. It wouldn't give me time to go out and get what I really would like to have -- like the KitchenAid stand mixer with all the attachments.

I am proud of my accomplishments, of my friends and family and of my country most of the time, but I don't think that's a sin. I'm not too proud to let the dishwasher do my dishes or to take out the garbage by myself. I'm not too proud to make my own beds, do my own laundry or cook my own meals. I'm not too proud (most of the time) to let someone help me when I need it or so proud I believe that the first draft of anything I write is perfect. And I am definitely not to proud to pick myself up, dust myself off and start all over again. Been there. Done that. No, pride isn't one of my vices either, at least not as I understand it.

In the context of deadly sins, I really don't have any problems. I've brushed briefly past them, especially when there are pecans, walnuts and other kinds of nuts in the house (gluttony) and entertained thoughts of tracking someone down, ripping off their clothes and having my wicked way with them (lust), but I can't say I'm a hard core sinner of the seven deadly variety. I'm more the stick my nose in a book, work hard (although reluctantly since I am not paid enough to do what I love -- yet) and write for hours on end. Real hard core sin takes work and dedication and my calendar is already full.

That is all. Disperse.

Friendship

Mom and I have had this running discussion about the meaning of friendship. She says that a friend will die for you and the only person who will die for you is your mother. Therefore, your mother is your only friend.

We discussed this again tonight. Since Dad died, Mom wants nothing more than to die. I understand that, but it makes her whole definition of a mother willingly dying for her children suspect. By her definition, she is no longer a friend to her children because if one of us was in danger of dying, she would gladly put herself in the way of the bullet or whatever death dealing instrument was coming at us to end her life. It's suicide and it's a sin, according to the way she believes, and it's also selfish. I don't think the definition of friendship includes being selfish.

Mom said no one would die for her and I said it depended on a couple of things, like whether or not I was incapacitated to the point that I have no quality of life. In that case, yeah, I'd die for her. It's selfish. It's assisted suicide. By her definition, it makes me her friend. Or not.

Despite her closed mind about many things, religion included, I do manage to get her to see things in a different light and from a different perspective sometimes. More often than not we end up arguing and I suddenly find that I have work to do or a burning need to go to the bathroom, take something off the stove or out of the oven or answer the door. I don't have call waiting (that's a post for another time) so I can't use that excuse. My views on that subject are very well known.

My definition of friendship is much less rigid and doesn't require anyone dying, especially me. A friend is someone who listens when you need to vent, tells you when you're off the track and out of your mind or just plain wrong, supports you when you need a shoulder or a helping hand, kicks you in the bum when you need it, and makes you laugh when you're being far too serious. They also show you their soft underbelly and make you feel safe enough to show yours. Friends have a secret language made up of snippets of inside jokes that no one would get but that will spark gales of laughter. Friends also don't fear getting angry and losing their temper because when their right mind returns their friend will still be there. Friends care about one another. Even though there are no vows for friends, a good friend is there for you for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, until death or the paths you travel together go in different directions. With really good friends, you pick up right where you left off no matter how many miles or years lie between.

I doubt there are any of my friends who are so sick of life or in so much pain that they'd offer their lives for mine, but in a dangerous situation you just never know. I don't need someone to die for me to know they're a friend. I know every time they make me laugh.

"And you got to talk to me."

What she said.

This one is for you, Lynn.

The Virtue of Being Moderate

The Virtue of Being Moderate

Blessed Imbolc

For me, this is the midpoint between the winter solstice and spring equinox, a celebration of the end of the long winter sleep. For Catholics, it's Candelmas and for Celts the Feast of St. Brigid. A time of light and new beginnings. It's also the birthday of my oldest best friend, Connie, who is 54 today.

For the rest of the country, it's Groundhog Day when Punxsutawney Phil creeps out of his hole to check for his shadow. If he sees his shadow, he leaps back into his hole to sleep for another six weeks while the snow flies and winter keeps its icy grip on the world.

However you choose to celebrate this day, may your life be blessed and your hearts light and happy as you look toward the rising sun and lift your face to the sky to feel the first soft, warm caress of the coming spring on your cheek. It's a brand new day.

Monday morning

I woke to false dawn, the sky paling to blue. Now the sun creeps higher, but I'm facing away from it and can only see the world take on gold. A streamer of wispy white, its edges barely discernible from the aquamarine sky, drifts slowly past on the morning wind. Everything else is gold.

The weathered palisade fence around the back yard next door surrounds the rusted Ts of an old clothesline no one uses, the wires between broken strands of rusted wire dangling and silent. Backs and sides of buildings on either side of the alley droop and sidle next to each other as though worn and weary from holding the line while the scratching claws of a lone tree arch above the gilded roofs. It's a lonely sight, these empty-eyed buildings, dark and blind, covered in layers of dust standing in idle silence in a world where nothing moves except the wispy streamer of white across the brightening blue sky now gone from the narrow view outside this window.

Even the streets are empty. There is no sound but the mechanical creaking whir of the furnace and the rush of tepid air across my shoulders. And all the rest is silence.

Is this guy for real?

Charles Krauthammer has a valid point of view and one that the Obamessiah has yet to see. For what is he apologizing? What is he going to make right that previous presidents, both Democrat and Republican, have not already done? Is the Obamessiah for real?

That is all. Disperse.

Meet my beloved

I was lying in bed, all warm and lightly scented from a hot shower a few minutes before, snuggled down in the covers reading the third chapter of Page After Page by Heather Sellers when it hit me that for some -- like me -- writing is a lover. (It was a lovely gift from Spike's leman) Sound strange? Not at all.

I carry a paper journal and pen (new fountain pen and ink) around with me even here in the cottage. I pause movies, conversations, cooking, reading and work when something sparks and idea so I can write it down. When I start writing in my journal about my day it inevitably segues into writing about a story or figuring out motivation or plot or characters as they come to me. I think about writing all the time. I am writing all the time. I sometimes have trouble focusing on work because something will spark an idea about writing. It's just like being truly in love. I can wait to write. I stare off into the distance or go silent during phone conversations because I'm staring off into the distance chasing an idea and forget where I am. It reminds me of a scene in The Hours when Virginia Woolf is muttering to herself and completely disconnected from her sister and the people around her because she's working on her book. An idea has occurred to her and won't be denied. There are other scenes where Virginia Woolf is walking through town and talking to herself, working out a problem with the characters or the time line or the plot. It's what writers do. Writing is a lover, sometimes a demanding lover, and such a love can border on obsession -- if you're looking from the outside.

This is probably one of the things that Spike's leman meant when she talked about the touchy-feely stuff. She's not touchy feely. She's very down to earth.

When you are in love, truly and passionately, you don't have to write down in your daily schedule: Spend quality time with Lover today. You can't not. ...You find yourself not paying bills on time, not showing up for boring things, spacing out during tedious conversations. Why would you go anywhere else? ...People who are madly in love are not busy. They spend inordinate amounts of time in hotel rooms, lolling around naked, happy, content to look at the mole on their lover's neck and think about nothing at all. They get hungry, but they aren't able to plan to eat. They pulse toward food, all thorax, no head, they are fed, they go back to bed. So happy. Not on a schedule. ...There's no choice and no schedule. They are always in love, they are always doing it, they are always in writing. As in love. ...It takes a lot of trust to fall back into pleasure, to know it will always be there.

If writing isn't like that for you, if it doesn't consume your life, poke through the holes in your schedule, pop up in and take over your dreams, find its way like sand into every crevice of your life, then it's a hobby.

It can be frightening being consumed that way and there should be at least some balance -- you can't stay in bed with your writing all the time. Bills do need to be paid and jobs done if you're going to be able to afford the hotel room -- or any room -- for your lover. But in the end, having writing for a lover keeps you active and engaged and learning and growing and alive the same way a truly passionate lover does. And it is worth it.

That is all. Disperse.

Beauty & the Beast: socialist state

Once in a while I get in the mood to revisit old favorite TV shows, a very simple proposition since so many of them are now on DVD. The most recently was all three seasons of Beauty & the Beast. It was my theory that when producers refused to show an online kiss between Catherine and Vincent it sparked the desire to rectify that mistake that spawned the current overwhelming amount of paranormal romances. Here was a beast who was not too ashamed of who and what he was -- scholar, philosopher, physician and man-beast -- and didn't regret being a beast since he had the love of a beautiful and intelligent woman. There was no endless whining or brooding because he was doomed to remain outside the human community, reviled and despised, because Vincent had a vast and supportive family underneath the streets of New York City. He was loved and respected. However (you knew there was a point here somewhere), it isn't Vincent and Catherine's relationship on my mind, but the underground community.

Here is community existing below New York City, living in and expanding the tunnels of the sewer, drainage and subway access tunnels (through which no sewer or water runs, so why they exist is a mystery) and the natural caverns beneath the isle of Manhattan. There is no doubt the inhabitants of this idyllic underground world work hard to make their world habitable, but they grow no food (underground = no sunlight = no plant growth but lots of tubers and mushrooms) and generate no electricity. There are no animals to provide fat to make candles and yet there are candles everywhere. (Maybe they render the fat of their dead since they cremate them with drip trays beneath the funeral pyre to catch the sizzling juices. After all, as Frank Herbert wrote about the Fremens' tradition of rendering the dead for their water, the dead don't need it any more.) And yet they have a good variety of food and books and clothing and furniture and chemicals and medicines and everything they need to continue living in their underground paradise. They don't steal it, as Mouse is frequently chastised by Father for doing. They live on the charity of helpers above ground, most of whom are poor.

In a way, Vincent's world is a socialist state. Everything is shared. Everyone works for the common good. Everyone underground depends on the working people above ground to give them everything they need to live and they provide nothing in return, except for sanctuary and housing for those who can no longer afford to live above ground. Unlike mushrooms, many of those who move underground do not flourish and return above ground to continue their poverty level subsistence. Like mushrooms, the people in Vincent's world -- as wonderful and generous and peaceful as they are -- are parasites. Yes, they build and expand their world, but they do it with the resources that come from the working poor -- and admittedly some very rich and powerful people with access to money and resources -- and really give nothing back, but an annual party called Winterfest. Each of their above ground helpers gets a candle all their own and a seat at the feast table and the underground dwellers share music and dancing with them. It must be enough or they wouldn't keep doing it -- would they?

The denizens of Vincent's underground world have fled society's ills and created a perfect world where envy and hatred and prejudice and intolerance no longer exist, a world that cannot exist without help from the very society they have fled. Instead of finding some mountain fastness or barren land to make bloom, they moved underground and accept charity. It's not really charity though. Vincent's world, as beautiful and peaceful as it is, is a feudal society and they the feudal lords taking the first fruits and a cut of the earnings and resources of those who live a much less idyllic life, many living in abandoned buildings or cold water flats in crumbling buildings ever on the verge of being knocked down to make room for high rise apartment buildings and marble edifices for big business. In the meantime, the denizens below NYC's streets are free to pursue their dreams and passions: music, art, technology, philosophy, literature, etc. At least Paracelsus, evil as he was, mined the caverns for gold and grew hallucinogenic mushrooms with addictive qualities to satisfy the most determined drug addict to make money. At least he made a product and sold it for what the market would bear like any good capitalist. He was productive.

In the end, it makes me wonder who was evil: Paracelsus because he created and sold addictive drugs while supporting himself and his followers without outside help or Father who lived off the generosity and tribute of their helpers. At first glance, I'd say Paracelsus was evil because he sold addictive drugs, but then again his customers bought his product of their own free choice and Paracelsus never claimed the drugs were without their dangerous side effects.

Okay, that's a very simplistic comparison. Of course, Paracelsus was evil for providing dangerous pharmaceuticals and preying on the poor weak souls who sought escape in oblivion, but is he any less wrong than Father who lives off tribute from his helpers? Sometimes the lines between good and evil are difficult to define and nearly impossible to see. A smile and a bit of literature or poetry or philosophy are not fair payment for tribute from people who have barely enough for themselves.

That is all. Disperse.

A new kind of book club

An author contacted me, as many do, to review her book. I have cut way back on reviewing books for free since I am working more on my own books and get a constant stream of books from my boss at Authorlink (for which I am handsomely paid). She said that she understood people couldn't afford a hardback book in these difficult financial times and would be happy if libraries bought the book and they borrowed it from the library. I understand this kind of thinking and it's very unselfish, but it's not realistic.

As nice as it would be for authors to be able to afford to keep writing without having a full time or part time job or full and part time jobs, it doesn't work that way. If people really want something, they will find a way to get it. And here comes my idea.

There are groups that club together to buy and read a book to discuss, so why not groups willing to pool their money to buy a few copies of hardback books they can share out? A group of five or ten women could easily afford two or three hardback books by giving up that morning donut, thus saving their waistline and putting more books into the public eye. It might even catch on, spawning book sharing clubs all over the country that would have the effect of getting the book more attention and putting a few dollars into the hard working author's pocket.

How about it? What do the rest of you writers think?

A woman speaks...

...and we should all pay attention because she was making sense before the election. This should have been more widely circulated and it should continue to be circulated every time we step into the voting booth.


Opinion
Column
Publication Date: 10/21/08



Each presidential candidate is giving his rendition of the changes he wants for America.

Here are a few that I believe all Americans want.

# Limit Congress from serving more than two terms. That is all that presidents are allowed.

# Stop Congress from voting for their own raises. How did that ever get started?

# Stop paying for lawmakers' high-priced insurance premiums. After all, they are only part-time employees. They might pass some law changes on the insurance companies, if they had to find one.

# Stop paying lawmakers their full salary after serving just one term, or at retirement. We need to get rid of that pension plan; they've let other companies get rid of theirs. You were lucky to get 40 to 50 percent of your salary after working somewhere for 35 years, but they get 100 percent.

# Make Congress pay into the Social Security system. They make laws for it. If they spent some of their own money, they might be interested in making it solvent.

# Stop handing out aid to illegal aliens. If we did, then Medicaid and the food stamp program would have enough money to aid the aged and the poor.

# Secure our borders.

# Stop allowing babies born to illegal aliens in the United States automatic U.S. citizenship.

# Stop the abuse of our benevolent welfare system. We feed children free meals three times a day until they are 17. Churches give away good, clean clothes. Companies buy and donate school supplies. Emergency rooms provide health care at taxpayer expense and the food stamp program is buying food at home. What are parents doing for their children?

# Have a computer program that cross checks Social Security numbers with fingerprints to stop fraud on many fronts. Use it on voter registration, too.

# Stop bailing out mortgage companies and banks that give loans to people who cannot afford them.

# Stop companies from paying CEOs and other executives outrageous salaries and bonuses while doing away with workers' pensions.

# Stop all unnecessary spending so we will have the money for our nation's security, and to help needy and elderly Americans.

# Stop permitting anyone to have a photo with their face covered on driver's licenses.

Whoever wins the presidency will not be able to make these changes.

Only members of Congress can do this, as they are the lawmakers.

I don't believe Congress is interested in changing anything, do you?

Norma White of Amarillo is a retired network engineer for Southwestern Bell.

That is all. Disperse.

Off to the publishers

Today was a very productive day. I wrote two long synopses for the books being published this fall and did a little more writing, rewriting and editing before sending the finals off to the publisher today. They are still swamped but the hard part is over -- putting finishing touches on the novels. I still have the editor to work with but I'm anxious to get moving on the next novel. Still can't decide if it will be the post-apocalyptic novel or something altogether different about obsession and control or a time travel novel that will most likely end up as a serial novel. It's a long story and I won't put the details here since the stories are still embryonic at this stage.

Sometimes I forget how much I enjoy writing until I get into it and the hours race by. If I watched the sun while I was in the zone, I'm sure I'd see it rise and speed across the sky just like in the movies, but my nose is too close to the grindstone. I have found that I enjoy making notes and working out plot and character points in longhand. Anyone who gets hold of my journals will be utterly confused. Day to day thoughts veer off into ruminations about books and stories and notes I keep on books I'm reading or wish to read. I go with the flow, letting the current take me where it will, but I'd definitely like to follow up the publication of three novels this year with at least two more novels next year, including the usual short story and anthology publications, especially since the hard part is over and I've broken through with the first publisher.

I told Beanie today that I'm halfway through the beautiful journal she gave me as a Xmas gift and that she should have included a couple of refills. She said I wasn't worth spending that much money on, so I shall have to spend my hard earned money to stock up on refills. I don't know if its writing with a fountain pen (I've gone through three ink cartridges) in the beautiful journal that has spurred this writing marathon or if it's something more akin to being excited about writing again, but I'm definitely not going to look this gift horse in the mouth -- so to speak.

I've also been reading new authors -- new to me, not new young authors. I called Spike's leman the other day to tell her that I was wrong about Harlan Ellison -- his writing, not his poisonous personality (or lack thereof). While I still don't consider him a genius, I am impressed and quite taking with his literary abilities. His stories are wonderful. Good thing I look at reviews that pan books in which I'm interested before buying a book. The reviews about Angry Candy, a collection of short stories, were quite vitriolic in some cases and that sold me. I'm glad I did because I am really enjoying what I've read so far and reluctantly put the book aside to get down to the business of writing. Some of the stories sparked ideas for stories of my own -- not duplicates of his situations. The imagery sparked ideas for completely different stories. That's what is so magical about reading other authors, even the bad ones. I can't help but be inspired.

However, I still have not encountered the whining and venom the reviewers mentioned with regard to this book, but I still have hope I shall. Even if it's not there, I am glad to have dived into the literary currents with Ellison. As I told Spike's leman though, I still don't get why Connie Willis is considered such a good writer. I'm always left feeling like I've sat down to a banquet and been served one small and rather empty hors d'ouevres.

Well, I'm off to read a review book (I got three new ones) before I give up the light and plunge gratefully into Morpheus's arms. I think I'll just do a little research on Atlas and Hercules before I settle down for a long winter's nap.

That is all. Disperse.

In the rockets' red glare...

As Israel prepares for a unilateral cease fire demanded by Egypt's Hosni Mubarak, it occurs to me that the world, in its rush to judgment of Israel, has missed the point of Operation Cast Lead in Gaza. It's not about their humane treatment of Palestinians or the way they have conducted themselves by warning civilians of incoming fire, but about war. How many countries in the world would stand by silently without resorting to return fire if another country fired over 6000 rockets at them? It didn't take one rocket on 9/11 for the American people to demand we go to war. It took four planes, one of which failed to reach its target because the passengers decided to take the plane down rather than be turned into a bomb in the midst of another American city.

How can the United Nations and the other countries in this world, including the United States, stand by and demand unilateral surrender when Israel is the injured party? How many of the heads of these countries would tolerate even one child's death or one town's destruction, let along the systematic destruction and death of hundreds over the course of eight years?

The Arab countries that oppose Israel and call "foul" because Israel is fighting back claim that Israel is perpetrating another Holocaust, even though those same countries have publicly stated there was no Holocaust. Little by little, Israel has given up more and more of its land to satisfy the Arabs and the Palestinians in a bid for peace, but there is no peace for Israel and there will be none until the world renounces its hatred of the Jews and gives the Palestinians what they should have had in the first place -- a home in the vast stretches of Arabian lands away from Israel.

Israel is a small country, about the size of Connecticut, and it has been partitioned again and again, pulling back farther and farther from desert lands it turned into a paradise of modernity that bloomed, only to hand over more and more of their territory to the Palestinians to watch it die and turn back into desert. Infrastructure is destroyed and there is no prosperity. It's like building a palace and having to turn it over to people who trash it and turn it into a pig sty.

In Arab hands before the establishment of the state of Israel, the land was a vast desert. The cities were barely above mud hut villages and there was no infrastructure to speak of. When the Jews were granted the land in the wake of World War II, the land bloomed. Cities rose. Roads were built and maintained. Power, heat and water were always available and the facilities maintained. Hundreds of years of Arab occupation had not brought such prosperity and modernity. In less than a decade, Israel became a garden spot that supported and maintained its people and provided wealth the Israeli people shared open handedly with the world in times of famine and destruction and war.

And now the United Nations and the rest of the world demand that Israel turn its cheek once again and pull back from Gaza without demanding Hamas stop firing rockets into Israeli lands. Wake up, people! This isn't about whether or not Israel is right or wrong; it is about the destruction -- once again -- of the Jewish people and the Jewish state.

Ask yourself these questions. Would you tolerate rockets being fired at you for eight years without retaliation? Would you tolerate the death of your children and the destruction of the homes and cities you had built? Would you allow the U.N. or any other country to dictate the terms of your surrender in the face of ongoing attacks? How can you stand by and allow our government, Israel's ally, to continue to turn a blind eye and demand Israel give up more of its small territory?

King Obama

If anything should scare the American people, it's this. Clinton tried it. Eisenhower wanted it and so did Reagan. Clinton's still trying it by using a different tactic, the right of divine inheritance, by trying to get Hillary into the White House. What's next? Chelsea as president after her mother and her children after her?

In Philadelphia when Obama began his triumphal train ride to Washington, D.C., he disappointed hundreds of people who had flown from all over the country to see him. They hadn't paid enough money or knocked on enough doors to get him elected and so they waited in the freezing cold just to catch a glimpse of the back of his head, a hand, anything that they could hold close in memory of the moment when their messiah began his journey to the holy city. I wouldn't be surprised if the people of Washington laid palm fronds in the path of his limousine to welcome him to the feast.

Meanwhile, back in the real world, Obama's eligibility to be president under the terms of the Constitution rage on three fronts. One has to wonder why Obama hasn't satisfied his detractors by producing evidence, as did John McCain when his eligibility was challenged. Instead, Obama has blocked discovery of his past at every turn. Could Obama be the reincarnation of Richard Nixon who, to hide the truth, erased several minutes of White House tapes or is he simply hiding the truth for some other reason? It's a simple question requiring a simple answer: Are you eligible under the U.S. Constitution to be president?

That is all. Disperse.

One expensive train ride

Mike Levine, a retired American journalist (and good friend) who now lives in a kibbutz in Israel, tried to post his letter to President-elect Barack Hussein Obama on his website, but as unable to do so since there was no tab he could use. He sent his letter to friends and I am sharing it with you, along with the newspaper article about Obama's triumphal entry into Washington D.C. It's too bad a slave won't be standing behind him holding a laurel wreath reminding him he is just a man.

An open letter to Barack Hussein Obama
from Mike Levine
.
I meant for this letter to be sent directly to Obama, but surprise, surprise, when I went on to his website the only way you could contact him was if you selected one of the subjects they listed. Well, I had my own subject called, "The Obama Train Drain", and there was no general category under which I could write to him, so here I am. Who knows, maybe someone will be able to figure a way to get this to him.

Obama has rented a plush Pullman coach made in 1930 fitted with every modern luxury known to man, just like fancy multi-million dollar yachts. Of course, he'll need to pay for the use of a locomotive and other cars for his hanger-ons to ride in.

He is replicating Lincoln's train ride to his inauguration from Philadelphia to Washington, DC. However, there are a few differences

Lincoln invited all who wished to see him in Philadelphia, and 30,000 showed up, a gigantic crowd in those days. Obama will not let the ordinary citizens near him in Philadelphia. Only his special 'backers', read big contributors.

Obama wants to be thought of as 'Lincolnesque', something he will never accomplish, no matter how good his PR writers are, and no matter how many train trips he takes. The only similarities between the humble Lincoln and the narcissistic Obama is that both are tall and thin!

Obama has made a big issue of the economy; how horrible it is, and how much sacrifice it will take by all of us to right the ship of state. He is about to begin spending more than a trillion dollars of our tax money, thanks to a captive Congress. Unfortunately, he doesn't act as if 'all of us' includes him! A true statesman leads by example. He does not ask us to do anything he would not do.

He does not send his children to an elitist, extremely expensive, mostly white private school instead of enrolling them in a public school like most of the rest of us.

He does not have 20 expensive inaugural balls when one or two would be more than sufficient, thereby saving untold millions. And it matters not at all who is paying for them. It is perception that matters. Those untold millions could be used to help ease the economic pain for thousands.

He does not whitewash and defend his choice for Treasury Secretary when it turns out the guy's been cheating on his taxes for years, and put him in charge of the IRS!!

A little humility, a bit of frugality would have done much to tell America and the world that we will have a president who shuns extravagance and waste, who walks across the street to his inauguration instead of riding like a potentate in his private train. That our next president is really a man of the people, not a would-be king!

Now that is change you can believe in. Yes, you can!

That is all. Disperse.

There's bad and then there's...

A friend emailed me a link with the title, If you ever think about giving up. I checked out the link and was amazed and touched, but nothing touched me so much as watching the end of the video. Go watch and then come back.

What do you think?

Makes me feel like my problems, as insurmountable and awful as they are to me at the time, are trivial in comparison, but it's not about comparison. It's the old line about being given lemons and making lemonade -- although I prefer to make hummus or avgolemono. I like to mix things up.

The way I believe, each of us choose the lessons we want to learn in this incarnation (life) and he chose to make lemonade. Once upon a less enlightened time, I couldn't understand why me. Why did everything happen to me? To be sure, a lot has happened to me during my lifetime, but nothing I haven't been able to overcome after a brief period of questions, whining and bone shaking fear. I need those moments to utter and complete breakdown before I gird my loins and leap back into the fray, and sometimes the moments happen after I've been through the fire and have a moment to stop and think, What did I just do? before the panicked realization sinks in that I could have been seriously injured or dead. And yet, like Timex...

I have not become so enlightened that adversity makes me say, "Yay, another chance to grow and overcome adversity!" I've paid my dues -- most of them, anyway -- and I'm entitled to some time off before the next round of interesting times comes around, and they will come around. I've no doubt of that. One thing I don't do any more is go looking for trouble. There is no sense looking for something that will find me no matter what I do or where I hide. Instead, I enjoy what I have right this moment and the next moment and the next and thank whatever powers in the Universe guides my fate and watches over me every time I get stupid that I am allowed to continue living and working and writing and enjoying another moment of life.

That doesn't mean I don't plan for the future, but I know without a doubt that the future is not guaranteed to come, that I only have this moment. Whatever forces shaped the me I am right now weren't gentle, but they were necessary to create me at this moment. As a friend recently reminded me, there is no going back and there is no sense dwelling on what could've been. I've mourned the lost chances and absent friends, but one thing I do know is that if something is meant to happen and I've missed the chance, the Universe will bring it back around again and give me a swift kick in the hindquarters to move me in the right direction. Until that happens -- and it has happened -- I am thankful for this beautiful sunny morning with the Colorado blue sky above and a glittering expanse of fiery sun struck diamonds on mounds of fluffy white outside the windows while I am safe and warm inside my comfortable cottage sipping green tea with rose hips and writing on my laptop.

Building on a solid foundation

A little music, a filling brunch of boiled egg and a cinnamon roll (homemade, of course) and a pot of green tea and I feel almost human again. I found a 10 x 10 stoneware pan and yesterday baked some cinnamon rolls, iced them and had one this morning. They turned out really good, not too sweet with a soft crumb and a light vanilla glaze. In a word, perfect. The urge to bake is on me and I'm contemplating an Italian olive oil bread but the kitchen has to warm up more first or the dough won't rise sufficiently. That's where turning on the oven comes in and kills two birds with one stone by getting the oven ready for the bread and warming the room.

It's a quiet Sunday and I have taken my time reading the news, checking emails and catching up on writing. The sun shines in a pewter sky, moderating the heavy gray curtain of horizon to sky clouds bearing down from the mountains and promising more snow, hiding the hoary white rise of Pikes Peak. Whether my placid mood is due to impending snow or the slow Sunday pace isn't important, at least not as important as an essay I read by an author on Glimmer Train website about learning from the masters, something I have been contemplating for some time.

As a fledgling artist, I was set to copy the Masters, examining and learning to duplicate their brush work and layering and compounding of color. It is the way artists have learned for millennia. Musicians are taught scales, then taught how the Masters created their own work and set loose to improvise on everything they have internalized. Writers are taught rules and theory, but starting from a Master's work, beginning with the words and construction of plot and characterization, texture and theme isn't quite kosher. Oh, there are some teachers who encourage finding inspiration and experience in great works of literature, past and present, but then writers are told that such copying is beneath them, derivative, cheating and will stunt their growth as a writer, their voice lost in the process. Not true.

While da Vinci and Michelangelo's influence is obvious in Raphael's early work, there is a distinct departure in his more mature work. Each generation of artist learns from the ones who have gone before and then emerge with their own distinctive style. The same is true for writers.

While on a whaling voyage Melville meticulously copied every word of a novel by Hawthorne, getting angry if anyone touched his work or bothered him while he copied. The day he finished copying the novel he gathered all the papers so carefully written and tossed them overboard. Shocked, the sailors asked why he did that and Melville replied that he had learned what he needed to know. Melville also studied James Fenimore Cooper and other contemporary writers, going back to the types of books that he wanted to write.

Modern day writers would do well to emulate their predecessors. Start with an author's work you admire. Take one of their stories or novels and begin by copying what you read, letting the words, characters and plots carry you to a different world. At some point, your own voice will emerge along with your creative instincts with the sure hand of the Master on yours. Dissect and outline novels in every genre to find out how a writer created the effects that made his book so successful. Break down descriptive passages, minutely examine the gestures and dialogue that make characters breathe, leaving no word or phrase untouched. Most of all, read, read, read. Read widely. Read with an eye on construction and method, theme and texture. Pay attention to what arouses your senses, makes your heart beat faster, chills your blood and inflames your passions then go back and dissect them, lay the bones bare and then sit down and write the same scenes. What would you change? How would you get from point A to point B? The trail is blazed, go off the path and find your own way through the wilderness. It's not cheating; it's common sense, a time tested method to help build the sensibilities and tools needed to become a good masterful writer.

There is no sense in reinventing the wheel. Use the wheel to invent something new and different, something uniquely your own.

Blood and gold

My favorite Luddite had surgery yesterday and came through it with flying colors, a bit of vomiting, lots of blood and two splints up his nose. He said he wasn't in much pain but he was still full of anesthesia and drugs so he didn't really know what he was saying. He knows this morning though and I'm sure he'll reach for his Vicodin before the day is out. I'm glad he got through the surgery all right and that the surgeon didn't find more than he expected, but I knew he would. He wouldn't dare tank on me now.

At any rate, today is a new day and the kids are back at school across the street. They didn't come back from winter break until yesterday and I missed it because I was still down for the count after having not slept the night before. This morning I was up and at it early and smiling as I listened to the clamor of kids grumbling and jostling while responding to the bells that tell them it's time to get back to the business of learning. There are no bells to tell me it's time to get back to the business of earning a living, but I don't need reminding that the utilities, phone and rent need to be paid.

I slept pretty well last night, but something called me from my dreams to instant waking. A yellow sodium vapor light a block away shines into the bedroom window and I've learned to sleep with it winking and glaring at me in the darkness of night, but last night a new light shone through the window, one I am not used to ignoring. The full silver face of the moon blazed in through the slatted blinds and shone on my face. That was what woke me. It was a perfect moon hanging directly above the street light, a silver twin to the gold, and it felt magical. It took a while to go back to sleep, but when I did happy dreams welcomed me. When I woke again at eight, the moon was down and the streetlight dimmer while the buildings and sky were touched with bloody gold, and I felt rested and ready for another day.