The Promise of Autumn

It's been one long hot shitty summer. And now the heat bubble has finally burst and our long run of 100-degree days is all but over. In fact, highs may not even pass the mid 90s from here on out. September mornings can really be the greatest time of all to get outside and enjoy a hike and smell the world as the cooling nights bring everything back to life again. The radiant glow of the harvest-time foilage, sunflowers primping at their zenith, the blue sky shedding its summertime white-out and returning to a deeper blue. Take a deep breath and suck it all in.

The three months of June - July -August have been the most trying three months of my life. But the promise of autumn brings a change to our treatment routine. Nick goes in for his sixth treatment today - then next Wednesday an x-ray to assess his improvement. We all know he is gettting better - we can feel it.

I had an interesting exchange with author TC Boyle over the week-end regarding the ending of his latest novel. The amazing thing here is the accessibility of one of the world's most highly regarded contemporary writers:


utobya
Aug 27 2006, 07:31 AM
Lurker Group: members Posts: 14 Joined: 25-June 03 Member No.: 189

prestidigitation

Okay, many of you, perhaps even most of you, know the meaning of this word. But I didn't until, oh, about five minutes ago. Vocabulary has never been my strong suit.So, my inquiry is, does the inclusion of a word such as this one lessen or enhance the "impact" of such a climatic scene as rendered at the top of page 280? In my case I say it lessens it. Of course, it is not TCB's fault that I find myself ignorant and uninformed at such an important moment. I should add that I enjoy writers (both of fiction and songs) that help me broaden my vocabulary. But I still find it interesting as a writer myself that TCB chose to go with this word at that precise moment. I wonder if he even gave thought to the reader's potential plight? Please note that this is not a criticism but more of an observation. In fact, once I've adopted an artist as one of my favorites then I'm always very inclined to accept his or her artistic instinct as inevitable if not correct.
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TCB
Aug 27 2006, 10:33 AM
:: author :: Group: admin Posts: 51,164 Joined: 21-March 03 Member No.: 5

Dear utobya: What for one person seems a rather commonly used word may be off the radar for another. I made a joke last week in the company of a friend who has a Ph.D. in philosophy, a joke which revolved around the use of the word defenestration--to my amazement, he had never heard of it. (And so, of course, missed the joke, which then needed a wee bit of explanation.) TCB.



utobya
Aug 27 2006, 06:10 PM
Post #3
Lurker Group: members Posts: 14 Joined: 25-June 03 Member No.: 189

Thanks for your quick reply. Defenestration --- at least I've heard of it although I'd be hard-pressed to use it in a functionally believable sentence. The interesting part is that your educated friend had the balls to admit to his lack of knowledge. Most of us would of course grin and nod our heads and bullshit our way through it. Believe me, what with my fading hearing and sometimes murky wit, I've got that one down pat. I really loved the comical culmination of the Pecker's last hours north of the Mason-Dixon line. And his final answer to the question posed by Dana (a clever reversal of their roles). Nothing. He wasn't man enough to say what he really wanted: his life back.
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TCB
Aug 28 2006, 09:09 AM
Post #4
:: author :: Group: admin Posts: 51,164 Joined: 21-March 03 Member No.: 5

Dear utobya: Yes, and I love your take on the ending. If only all the reviewers had read so carefully or given it so much thought. TCB.

A Sticky Saturday Diversion

Since I've been entertaining the idea of getting involved in the art of cultivating grape vines and turning them into agreeable wine I thought it might be a good idea to take advantage of an open offer from Stableridge Winery. For $75 bucks one can experience a typical work day when a harvest comes in and hopefully learn what is actually involved in the process. Suffice to say it is indeed a sticky and loud business. And the question comes to mind at some hot and sweaty point in the middle of the afternoon as to who is taking advantage of what. Because I actually grabbed a plastic rake, ascended a ladder and helped claw over 4 tons of pinot grigio grapes, just snipped from vines that very morning by twenty hearty pickers, out of five large crates perched atop a just-acquired forklift. And I don't know what these folks would have done without that forklift and this rake-clawer. Oh, I'm sure that they would have succeeded in getting that harvest of grapes knocked down into the de-stemming machine eventually but I sure made it a quicker and less messy endeavor for somebody.

So am I a chump for paying $75 for the opportunity to help these folks? Well, maybe, but I did get a few free samples of their wine (and it is quite good) but anybody that had strolled into their Tasting Room would have received the same. And I did get a fresh turkey and cheese sandwich made with white bread (the first white bread sandwich this mouth has entertained in years) and good ol Miracle Whip. A handful of chips. Water.

In the middle of the afternoon, after I had proven my worth I guess, the owner did go inside and fetch a copy of a seminar document titled "Winegrowing In Oklahoma" dated October 2005 which he gave to me. Ah - now we're getting somewhere, because it would have cost money and time to attend this seminar at one of the nearby colleges. Maybe even more than $75. And I have to admit that it was eye-opening to watch the trucks back in with their glistening load. We raked those bunches of grapes down into the mouth of that raging machine that somehow magically separated stem from grape, depositing one into a refuge pile, the grapes being sucked into a clear hose that brought their sweet nectar from outside to inside and fed into a Pressing Machine, the actual device that now precludes us from removing our footwear and stomping away.

Interesting to note that no pressing at all is needed during the "first run" where 70% of the wine comes from. And this "first run" is the best wine as well. Then it's all fed into different large silver metal vats for continuous watching and adjusting (when the levels of sugar and acidity meet, that's when you've met success, or something like that). I need to learn a hell of a lot more about that part of the process. We're talking chemistry here, not my best subject, but then again, in school we were dealing with bunsen burners and boring chemicals, not wine.

So maybe it was worth the $75 if only to burst any romantic and harebrained ideas regarding the opening of a vineyard and winery. And you what, it was fun, and they were nice people. And there's nothing wrong with helping people and getting your hands sticky from time to time (although I'm still curious as to the source of one incredibly sore left calf --- must have been reaching for that last stubborn grape in the corner of the crate).

A couple of final facts: the old European variety known as viniferia grows well here in Oklahoma contradicting what I had read in a book. That is good news. Also, the owner said what the Oklahoma Wine & Grape Industry really needs is nurseries. Hmmm... something to think about.

So, after all that dirty hot work I was really ready for an ice cold... beer.

Baked Plain Finally Done

I decided to include a few other stories (or whatever you want to call them) that might not have been appropriate for different reasons. One, "Shit Happens," which was actually a post from last summer right here on this blog, is downright nasty but what the hell... I guess. And "Your Windows To My Soul," the antithesis, was not really completed to my satisfaction... but what the hell... I guess.

http://www.lulu.com/content/194052

Reading TC Boyle's "Talk Talk." I like it but it isn't knocking my socks off. But it's summer, who's wearing socks anyway?

Nick had his third treatment last week. Now we know what to expect from the chemo therapy. On the road to recovery.

Life's Greatest Lesson

If you know somebody that is down and out, lonely, maybe a little scared, give them a kind word, a pat on the back, a true smile. If someone is sick drop them a line, give them a call, fire off an e-mail of encouragement. Because it's not really what you say, what you scribble down on a piece of paper, or labor over on the computer keypad.

It's only that you did. You thought of them. You let them know, even in some small way, that they are in fact not alone. You may forget about it but they won't.

And if you say oh, I don't know what to say, I'll probably just upset them, then the truth is it's only you that may be upset. You are the one scared to call. Yes, it's true, you hate that they are going through this, but you have your own life to live and maybe in the back of your mind you know that only too soon you're day will come.

Yes. It will. But you are doing them no favor by your silence. You are only doing yourself that favor. That's the damn truth.

I know. I've been there. I damn well did it. And now I know.

Now I've learned Life's Greatest Lesson. But have I really learned it? When this is all said and done will I return to my old ways, selfish and justifying my actions, or lack thereof, by happily plodding along, ignoring all the hurt and pain that others have dropped oh so cruelly and suddenly into their laps?

I hope not. Because if you fail Life's Greatest Lesson you are a bonafide bastard. We were put on this earth to create beauty, yes, it's true, but that's an egocentric engagement. But when we're not conjuring up wonderful things we'd better be helping someone else.

There's alot of suffering in this world. A lot of hate. Fear. Looking the other way doesn't make it go away. It takes a man, two arms, two legs, and a lot of heart.

Independence Day

Another 4th of July and it's hard to be happy. I feel weighted down with worry. Like I told Lou Ann, it's okay to feel it, but you must let it flow through you. You cannot allow it to stay inside of you, accumulate, fester. Easier said than done. In an effort to make this happen I try to stick to routine, excercise, redirect at least some of my attention to other interests.

This morning I plan on running the 8K Frigid Five Miler course over at Mitch Park. The same one I ran back on that cold February morning when all appeared well in my world. There was actually a race this morning but I just couldn't get myself ready for it. The start time was 7:30 am and quite frankly I might have embarrassed myself with my lack of energy. I need to start training a little more if I want to participate.

I finished Ron McLarty's "Memory Of Running" back in April. This wasn't some great literary achievement but I enjoyed it quite a bit. It had the most important of literary traits: heart! Another cross-country bike story and I totally dug that.

Just finished Philip Roth's "EveryMan". Now this gentleman can write and I got through it despite the fact that it was without question the most depressing novel I have ever read. In fact, given this dark June it was maybe a miracle I even stuck with it. I had the notion to toss it. But last weekend I just got in the right mood and finished it off. Felt like I needed to read it. And be done with it.

TC Boyle's new book "Talk Talk" will be released this week. Now that's something I plan on sinking my teeth into.

Well... I guess "Baked Plain" is finally finished. I took some photos for the cover the other day, none of which I will use so I need to get out there and find a more suitable locale (one with caked red dirt brimming up to the horizon). The above picture is one of the rejects. So - is the sun rising or is it setting?

Thank God the June of 2006 is over (and yes, the above sun is setting, but the one shining over Nick is rising and smiling). Feel it... but let it pass through.

Pet Sounds Scan

Nick went in for a PET Scan yesterday. Had to lay still for an hour while the machine painstakingly scanned his entire body from head to toe. That takes a while when you're six foot three. He told me that he sang the entire Pet Sounds album while he lay absolutely still there. Even the instrumentals. I thought that was funny.

Today... another surgery to place the port and perform a bone marrow biopsy. Treatment will begin soon but we're contemplating a 2nd opinion. So much to do. So much to consider. At this point I'm leaning towards sticking with Dr. Hampton as long as the condition is a low-grade level 2 or maybe 3 with a very good prognosis. Anything beyond that and we'll probably be heading to Omaha for that 2nd opinion.

5:09 in the morning. Damn I'm tired.

The sun is gonna shine again. Even brighter and warmer than before.

My Chicxulub

In TC Boyle's latest collection of short stories there is one story called "Chicxulub." It vividly and painfully shows how tragedy is potentially always out there somewhere, lurking on the edge of our solar system, loitering down the street, if not today, then maybe tomorrow. Or maybe not.

Chicxulub is a present-day crater located in Mexico created one ordinary day many many moons ago. It's a doomsday rock hurtling itself into our earth, a species destroyer, and it could come again. No warning and little anyone can do about it.

Boyle weaves this idea along with the story of a mother and father facing the potential loss of their daughter in a pedestrian-car accident. It came out of nowhere on an ordinary Friday night and it would change their lives forever. The phone rings like it has a thousand times before but this time there is a voice on the other end delivering some information that is totally unacceptable. No warning and nothing that can be done now to change this fact.

My Chicxulib arrived on a normal Saturday night in early June. Our son came to us late that night worried about a lump below his right collarbone. Surely this was nothing. For us it had always been nothing. Just a quick surge of worry just as quickly assuaged by a comforting word from the doctor.

But no this time.

So the darkest week of my life concluded tonight. A week filled with x-rays, cat scans, biopsies, blood tests and so many tears. And althought there is so much more to come, more tests, more surgery, many months of treatment, I have finally allowed myself to feel a sense of relief. Hope has always been there and the prognosis appears excellent. Still, the dread and fear hover somewhere out there like a big dumb rock wobbling between earth and mars. But I know in my heart all will be right. No - we did not get the big one this time. This meteorite burned up in the atmosphere and maybe a handful of pebbles dotted the surface. And they hit hard and they dug deep. But we will survive, grow stronger, and in the end be better people.

They say it's a test of faith. And if you have none to begin with then it's a test of lack of faith (okay, so I'm somewhere inbetween. But I've always believed in a benevolent and creative force that only wants us to learn and be happy. I've always believed in love. Everything else is noise). Until you've faced something like this, and believe me, when it's your child you are indeed facing it, you really don't know what true faith is. I'm learning.

All The Children Won't Sing

I woke up this morning and started jotting down some ideas for this next story. And it's a good idea and in a strange way I'm compelled to write it but I won't. Because all the while something was gnawing away at me and I realized that I don't want to forever ruin this song for me and especially for anyone else. So, at least for now, I need to let it go.

But here's what I wrote so far. Harmless fragments, really, but maybe you can decipher where I was heading with this piece and, therefore, understand why maybe its not such a good idea to continue:


All The Children Sing


We were all children once. Think of that.
Even that ugly little bastard that runs around here with those crazed eyes that never look at me. Surely there was a time when even he smiled and played happily with the other children. You know, innately pleased as hell to just be alive.


You know what? That ugly little bastard probably shot out of his mother’s womb ready to kill Americans. Does the hatred really run that deep? Is it in their genes by now?


A bell in your head will ring…

...and ring… and ring… and ring. When did it first start? Oh, in February of ’99, around Valentines Day as I recall. The ringing in my ears. Tinnitus the doctors called it. And at first it was terrifying, it was changing my life, ending it perhaps, or at least my way of life that I had grown accustomed to for almost forty years. Mainly, a silent one, at least when I so chose. But not now. Never again said one of the doctors, that son-of-a-bitch. I wept as I drove away from his office that afternoon. But what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, you somehow learn to adjust, and sooner than you might think you’ve pushed it to the back of your mind and once again you’re back to where you were. That's life baby... that's living!

And what causes that constant buzz. A sound very much like that electric hum right after you turn off a television. White noise. They say it’s caused by hearing loss and your brain has to compensate for that tiny void of sound. Lost decibels or whatever. But how dumb must our human brains truly be to compensate with that constant ugly buzz. Why not the sound of birds singing or the low tasteful moaning of a woman experiencing orgasm?

Stress makes it worse. And now my ears are humming and if I think about it and listen then I get overwhelmed by the rushing of this electric river.

All The Children Sing

April 18th... yet another birthday.

Been sick for a week but just started the anitbiotics yesterday. Feel better already.

So I don my daquiri ice button-down shirt for the occasion once more. I wear it every April 18th. Very cheery, very spring-ish, and is a reference to days of yore when I always wanted the sweet sorbet for my birthday. Somewhere Mama Jane should be smiling.

And April is also Hermit Of Mink Hollow month. This Todd R album came out in April of 1978 just as I was preparing to graduate from high school. Listening to it often brings me back to the feeling in my heart of so long ago, especially this time of year. It's a coming-of-age opus book-ended with two incredible existentialist musical delights. First - All The Children Sing - a three minute whirlwind of an album opener and the closer - Fade Away - a beautiful spiritual ending.

I just listened to All The Children Sing three times in a row. If a man had only written that one song then that would be enough. It says it all and does so in a magnificent holy manner.

With the completion of This Moth, That Flame I had intended on resuming work on The Lost Child... but now I have a new bee in my bonnet.

I have this idea for a new story, a story that borrows a title from a song by Todd R. And it incorporates an idea I've had bouncing around in my head for a few months now. And it's dark and scary and most people wouldn't want to read it. And yet it must be addressed. But no matter what it's springtime, a time for rebirth and promise, and the sun shines for all.

You and I will stay
and watch it all ---- fade away.

Damn This Blasted Wind!

Absurd ---- that's the only word that can describe these winter winds we've encountered this year. The weather's changing folks and it don't look pretty.

At least the wind gave me an idea for a just completed short story: The Next Cinderella. Pretty much writ, molded and spanked into life.

Also finished a piece for Baked Plain titled This Moth, That Flame. Now I only need to complete Your Windows To My Soul and the thing will be done in time for summer -- praise the lord!

Now Playing On Silver Moon Radio: Marriage Made In Heaven by Jules Shear, Todd R's first encounter with Elliott Easton way back in 1982 when he produced Shear's Watchdog album. That record includes the original version of All Through The Night, the song that Cyndi Lauper had a hit with, and also one of my all-time favorite tunes Standing Still.

"Hey - We Didn't Get Kirby's Autograph!"

Let's face it - how could you not love the name? Kirby. Puckett. Kirby Puckett. So it started there, with the catchy americana name, and then you saw the omnipresent smile attached to that bowling ball of a body. Then you loved him. And boy could he hit.

Kirby Puckett died yesterday at only 45, the result of a stroke he suffered the day before. I read a report where another former Twins great, Tony Oliva, had recently become concerned about Kirby's growing weight probelm. I suppose that says it all.

Kirby died far too young and his playing days ended far too soon. Perhaps the latter is part of the reason for the former as his playing career was cut short by injury and physical problems. I don't think Kirby ever really got over the abrupt ending of this career. Twelve years in the major leagues is a hell of a deal but Kirby might have played at least another five. He was an All-Star in 1995 and by the end of the next season it was all over.

Trouble followed. Kirby was hired by ABC to do color commentary for the Little League World Series and I recall that he struggled to get into the flow of the broadcast. It was not smooth and everybody knew it and I wasn't surprised when Kirby wasn't asked back the following year. In retrospect maybe it was unfair to toss him into that role that quickly without adequate training. I remember feeling sorry for him.

And then the real trouble followed: reports of spousal abuse and alledgedly groping a woman in a bar. It was shocking and disturbing news. The image of Kirby the pac-man with the big smile and sparkling eyes, the kids's cartoon character jetting around with bat and glove, got hammered. And in the back of my mind I wondered if this was all connected to the frustration and lonliness he felt from losing his way in life. Not that this is an excuse for anything but I still couldn't help but wonder. Again, I felt sorry for him. Here was the man who had brought me so much joy over the years, a contemporary really, and now he was floundering, a center fielder without a center field. He was caught in a rain delay that would never end.

I've been a Minnesota Twins fan my entire life and I have passed that along to my sons. Despite the fact that they are both older now the truth is Kirby meant a lot to them and his passing hurts. All families have little catch-phrases that resound with them forever and mean absolutely nothing to a stranger but I can't help but mention one now. Some time around 1993 we were walking back to the car after watching the Twins play the Texas Rangers. This was back when the Rangers were still playing at the old crappy stadium in Arlington. Benjamin turns to my dad and me and says, "hey, we didn't get Kirby's autograph" (which I had told him we would try to do) with as much earnestness as any six year old could muster, as if we should all just turn around and somehow go back and get Kirby's autograph. We all cracked up and we still do to this day whenever that phrase is uttered.

I hope Kirby found some peace over these last years of his life. The obituary stated that he had a fiance and I'll take that as a good sign. Well, this is the end and I suppose I should write something like hey Kirby, "rest in peace" which is better I guess than "not resting in peace" or "resting in turmoil." But somehow I just can't escape the image of a loud rustling within a corn field and the sudden appearance of the unmistakable image of one Kirby Puckett, pounding his glove with his fist as he trots onto his very own field of dreams, head tilted slightly back and with that eternal smile spreading across his face.

The Frigid Five Miler

Well - I did it again. I suppose it's become akin to some twisted addiction, this need to partake in these running races every month or so. And the more extreme the conditions the more challenging and, in the end, the more damn fun it all is.

But this was the first time that I had waited until the absolute last minute to decide. All week long I had doubted that I'd run it, had not submitted an online registration form, and had kept an eye on the dire weather forecast understanding that my left leg (the one with the blood circulation problem) was just now recovering from a week-long ache caused by unknown forces.

But the locale was just down the street at Mitch Park so I figured it wouldn't hurt to mosey on over there and check out the course, the turn-out, and the conditions. And of course I went prepared to run.

Since the wind was once again galing and the wind chill was eleven measley degrees being prepared meant this: thermal underwear (both top and bottom) / white t-shirt / long-sleeve thick shirt / gloves / beanie cap / sun glasses. Oh yes, I was ready to partake.

With ten minutes until race time I decided to just frickin' do it. I quickly filled out the form and wrote the Edmond Running Club a check for $22 bucks, pinned my number on my chest as my anticipation mounted, grabbed my cool new shirt, and headed to the starting line.

The wind from the northwest shot arrows of icicles through us as we all grinned and loosened up. I was pumped. I am not crazy --- just a little stupid. And not very fast.

Muffled Pop (I could barely hear the starting gun through my cap) and off we go! After about ten minutes of running I forgot the cold. Thank God for the gloves though. I saw one guy running with his hands down his pants.

I am indelibly familiar with Mitch Park having walked and run through its paved trails maybe a hundred times over the last decade. So the paths were known but the route they chose quite unique. In my bed that night after the race I went over and over the route in my head, trying to relive the run, trying to recall how I felt at each juncture, and I'm not sure if that is a healthy endeavor or not. My legs ached as I laid there attempting to relive every pounding stride.

Anyway, at about the three mile mark somehow a damn pebble found its way into my right shoe. Now how in the hell can that happen? After having my shoe laces untie during the previous race (and adding proably 20 seconds to my time) I told myself to forget it, let it stay in there, but with each step I felt its tiny piercing stab so I thought, okay, don't stop, but with each step try to manuever the little fella to the front of the shoe where I knew adequate open space could be found. And it worked as the pebble dislodged and moved further up the shoe and at some point I forgot about it and could feel icy cold all over again.

Did I mention the cramps? I felt them almost immediately because I had not eaten since I didn't think I was really going to be running. Funny how cramps move around. They show up in the upper right portion of your stomach, then work themselves out there but then suddenly reappear in your lower left. Then your lower right. Damn the pebble! And then they reappear smack dab in the middle. Suddenly an angry gust of wind and you realize your nose is running.

I passed this one guy at the 3 1/2 mile mark or so and that must have rankled him as he immediately passed me right back. He was a younger, thinner guy and I guess the sight of me blowing by him in my overstuffed outfit and with all my huffing and puffing must have lit a fire under his scrawny ass.

At the 4 mile mark I was holding my own, not passing anyone, yet not being passed either, when behind me I heard a strange rhythm appoaching me. I turned and saw this woman gaining on me --- and speedwalking. That's right. I was passed by a speedwalker. I know that's supposed to hurt but on this day I had other things hurting besides my pride. I let it go and watched her slink past and move away.

My legs were heavy at this point. I could not really move them any faster but at least I could keep them moving. The crazy thoughts that enter your head. You want to finish strong, but then again, simply finishing appears like a fine goal. No it's not. You must improve your time. Don't let someone pass you near the finish line.

Finally the route turned toward the northwest as I knew it had to. To the Finish Line. Straight into the worst gusts of the entire run. Simply incredible. And as I drew nearer I heard yet another sound of pitter-patter behind me. A tall woman in her thirties, an older dude with a gray beard in his fifties. They were actually gunning for me. I had become their goal -- their challenge. To beat me to the finish. Now the gal was slim and looked like a runner so as a gentleman I had no real problem with allowing her to pass. But the guy. It rankled me. So as the sob caught me I attempted to accelerate but it just wasn't there. I gassed it for about fifteen yards and so did he and then I retreated as the bastard sprinted on. My legs were dead.

I crossed the finish line at just over 53 minutes. That's not fast. But considering my last-minute decision, no food, cramps and that blasted pebble I guess it's okay.

And yep -- I had fun! Let's play two!

Footnote: the Creek Classic arrives in three weeks. In the interim I will work on some speed training and finish my workouts in a strong way. I will NOT be passed like that again!

Mid-January Musings

JUST READ: "Riding With The Blue Moth," a triumphant account of Bill Hancock's cross country bike ride as he battled the incessant blue moth of grief. Hancock lost his son Will in the tragic Oklahoma State basketball team plane crash in January of 2001. In a quest for relief from the constant despair and in need perhaps of a challenge to redirect his life he rode on bicycle from southern California to Georgia during the summer of that very year. An inspiring testament to the love of family and the lessons that can always be learned even in the darkest of times, Hancock's horrible loss is turned into a positive experience for the rest of us. Maybe that is one of the true divine acts of life - to rise above personal setback and offer good to those wishing to receive it. I must say that the events of that gloomy Saturday resonate personally inside me as I had undeniable premonitions and weird signs from earlier in the day. Although I feel compelled to admit it I do not feel comfortable in elaborating further in this format. Suffice it to say that in some small way I do feel a connection to Hancock and greatly admire his grace and humanity.

READING NOW: Finishing up the "Best Short Stories Of 2005" collection. At this point "Death Defier" by Tom Bissell is my favorite but I still have 5 or 6 stories to read yet.

READING NEXT: Anne Rice's "Christ Out Of Egypt."

JUST SAW: "Munich" and "Brokeback Mountain." "Munich" is an incredible cinematic statement regarding the state of world affairs. The bottom line, of course, is that Revenge is an empty proposition because the cursed delineation of who-did-what-to-who-first winds way back to the Big Bang. So if anyone is to blame it's the damned creator who obviously has gotta go! In the meantime, it takes a Real Man willing to sacrafice to stop the insanity right here and now and you gotta question the availability of such a human being. "Brokeback Mountain" strikes me more as a story of Regret than blatant homosexual wanderlust. Something that we can all relate to regardless of the context provided by the film. Regret full of unhappiness, restlessness, speculating on what might have been. Regret full of despair as your life glides by and you never actually got on it for the ride. Remember this: Revenge is empty but Regret is full.

JUST FINISHED WRITING: The Ruminator. Actually, a first draft, I'm not sure that I'm satisfied with it and that's because I'm not sure exactly what I want to say with it. I'll come back to it soon.

WILL START EDITING & EXPANDING: The Lost Child. Whew! There is alot of work to be done here. Some scrapping, a little weeding, some molding, and without question a bunch of new growth. Haven't touched it since the end of NaNoWriMo. The time has come.

JUST RECENTLY STARTED: a new story about a young woman coming home from the west coast for the holidays. Lots of familial turmoil and issues. Plus the family farm goes up in flames (see Oklahoma Burning). No title yet.

Monk's Mood

I woke up yesterday morning from a long winter's nap and found myself smack dab in the middle of Monk's Mood. I knew it by the beat in my head and the tapping of my foot. The funky mood of monk. So there I was, light of mind and empty of soul, and it found me waiting and willing to be filled with it. And it felt strange, like Halloween in April, and in the beginning I felt calm, serene, a little forlorn perhaps, and then there was something more bubbling up from my tummy. I'm free brother - that was it - a sense of freedom, cut loose, set free from worldly pain and the hurt, I was released, a golden balloon tossed into the wind and rising upward toward outer space, toward the edge of the galaxy. And beyond that, the final leap, the eternal pool of bliss.

And the beat in my head led me to the clearing in my brain and I saw it, I caught a fleeting glimpse of it, the King of Lights, drifting in that pool of bliss, I knew it all, for damn sure. Like an invisible wire, a radiowave, connecting my brain to my heart, the electric soul, I hummed with the coming knowledge, I sniffed the divine reflection, I tasted the sweet truth.

I was filled with it. All.

And with the snap of the mystic's fingers I fell out of it, fell back into my self, the slap of the baby's butt and the first new breath, immediately longing for another surprise descension of the ever-evasive Monk's Mood.

Bowl Predictions

COTTON: a fast track is just what T-Tech wants. Bama has a great defense but it's hard to prepare for the Red Raider offense. Texas Tech 31 - Alabama 20.

OUTBACK: Just a hunch here - Floirda 33 - Iowa 16.

GATOR: Less than a hunch here - Virginia Tech 27 - Louisville 26.

CAPITAL ONE: Auburn is still burning over last year's snub (and I don't blame them). Auburn 34 - Wisconsin 10.

FIESTA: Notre Dame is for real and where has Ted Ginn Junior gone??? Irish 30 - Ohio State 17.

SUGAR: home field advantage for a strong Georgia squad. Georgia 24 - West Virginia 14.

ORANGE: Florida State showed some life in their last game and I'm thinking it might just carry through. Still, Jo Pa finds a way in a thrilling overtime affair. Let's hope both head coaches took their heart medicine. Penn State 43 - Florida State 40 (Two Overtimes).

ROSE: Damned if I do, damned if I don't. Sooner fans are in a quandry over this one. It's like choosing between the messy affair of walking the plank into shark-infested waters or the quick and clean chop of the guillotine. Another SC victory and championship puts them into plain reach of the Sooner's beloved 47-game winning streak and establishes them as one of the greatest college football dynasties of all time. But a national championship for our arch rival and recruiting nemesis Texas? Well you know what, the Longhorns have earned it. They've been damn good for two or three years now and I believe it is indeed their time. Plus they will benefit from Oklahoma's poor showing a year ago. SC simply can't be that good again on this night. Texas 30 - USC 24.

There you have it. As for me, like my main man Socrates, I would just go with the poison and sit back, relax and enjoy it.

Oklahoma Burning

Well, I completed the 8K run yesterday. And yes, I made it the whole way only stopping momentarily to knock down some H20 at the half-way Turn-Around-Point, but no, I didn't have much fun. The first half of the race took us along the northern edge of the Oklahoma River and straight into a gale that nearly reached 60 frickin' mile-per-hour gusts at times. I spent the entire first half of the race leaning into it and holding onto my cap while I clenched my teeth in an effort to keep the grit out which proved useless as I had dirt in my mouth and, despite the sunglasses, stinging my eyes and I can only speculate what other unknown crevices.

My time was abysmal. But I wasn't last. And I did finish. And boy do my legs ever ache.

The real story of New Years Day 2006 was the wildfires buring throughout Oklahoma. When my run had started at 2:30 pm the skies were still blue. By the end of the race they had turned brown with dust and smoke and visibility was nil. In fact, we were not allowed to enter the tent for post-race black-eyed peas and cornbread and I assume this had something to do with the potential of a tent blow-over.

Driving home along the Broadway Extension there is a point where one ascends and usually has a great view of the northwest OKC skyline. But not today. I call Lou Ann to inform her of my finish and yep, I'm still alive, and she tells me of the fire burning along Memorial & Penn. By the time I reach Edmond I can see the black smoke pouring from a place only a mile to the west of me and the smell of smoke easily permeates my car. I'm thinking that we're all caught up in a modern-day lesson, a regrettable opportunity to understand what it feels like to be stuck in some raging Dust Bowl, and the winds blow while Oklahoma burns.

Just Another Day or A New Beginning?

Time keeps marching on, which is fine, as long as I keep marching along with it.

Speaking of marching, I'm heading down to Bricktown this afternoon for the annual New Year's Day "Run For Your Life" 8K. I ran the 8K Turkey Trot on Thanksgiving and surprisingly made it the whole way without stopping. It was a cold morning as a brisk wind whipped across Lake Hefner but half way through the trot it felt perfect. No, my time wasn't great, but that wasn't the goal. For that first race the goal was simply to finish and have fun and it felt grreat to accomplish both. Then on the 3rd of December I did the 5K Downtown In December run which actually seemed harder on me, probably due to the more pervasive chill and the uphill finish. Today's course begins at the Sonic headquarters in Bricktown and from all indications then moves to the Oklahoma River trails. Here is the catch - yes, it continues to be unseasonably warm, we're talking mid 70s, yet wind gusts expect to reach up to 50 mph! I can only hope for some wind breaks out there but in all honesty I don't expect much if the course runs along the river. Could get interesting out there. Again, the goal, to finish and... have fun?

This past week I received five copies of Baked Plain, the book of short stories I tentatively completed a ways back. It's actually just a test run as I wanted to see if I could get a book properly self-published through the Lulu web site and also was curious to see how my words looked in a formally published format. Well, not so bad, its kinda fun to have your very own literary creation in hand, but I've already found a few things that I'd change with the next run. And I would also like to add two more stories to the collection (Your Windows To My Soul & This Moth, That Flame). So later this year I will attempt to complete those two stories, edit the initial stories, and then add a more relevant cover (included is a photo of the test run edition).

For Aunt Maredith: Christmas In Medicine Park

On Friday, November 18th, 2005, my Aunt Maredith passed away. Since I was in the midst of NaNoWriMo at the time, I decided to write about a memory I had of her and incorporate it into The Lost Child. Below is that memory (unfortunately the above pic is from a polar opposite summer day with Lou Ann posing out front. But at least this gives you a glimpse of the actual dwelling and you can see the outside ladder and the rooftop. Trust me - that December night was magical):


December 20th, 1994 – Christmas In Medicine Park

The old cobblestone house sat on a raised piece of land just above the main road and facing the fresh spring creek for which the little village was named. In the old days the place had been a popular resort and throes of people came from all over the region to relax in the natural waters which the local Indians had long favored as a healing source of vitality and improved health. Over time the founders left the area one by one and in recent years the village had fallen into disrepair with dilapidated buildings scattered all about and discarded trash bouncing along the streets.

But Bobby’s aunt had just returned from California to reclaim the old cobblestone house that her grandfather had built when he first helped establish Medicine Park and things were looking up. The creek had been cleaned of debris and a new sense of pride was surging right along with the revitalized spring waters. The arrival of Bobby’s aunt was a key development in this renewal as she brought with her the tradition of her family’s past involvement along with her very own unique energy. She was heartily welcomed by all those already there and committed to the great task of making Medicine Park the equal of its name.

Maredith had been living there for a few months and was excited to invite the entire extended family to a sort of Christmas housewarming in the old cobblestone home. This would be Bobby’s first visit to the dwelling and he was eager and a little curious to see what the place looked like. As with most of the original homes in Medicine Park, the house was built with native cobblestone and plaster. You entered through a front porch that had some time ago been enclosed, and once inside the living area you were immediately struck by the uniqueness of the structure. Of course it was all the original work inside, with a concrete floor and an old cobblestone fireplace. There was a very tight spiral staircase that twisted around itself and on up to the second floor. From there you could step outside onto a patio and then take an outside metal ladder that led to a flat roof and a vantage point that offered the most direct and clear vision to the heavens from this man's earth.

On that clear cold night just days before Christmas Bobby climbed up that ladder and stayed a while. As the smoke from the fire trickled up past him he gazed at the stars, the moon, the foggy strip of the milky way, and looked out beyond the denuded trees and saw the Christmas lights from the faraway homes shining upon the still creek. All was quiet. All was peaceful. Bobby could see that the Indians had been right, as usual. This was a holy place, a place for spiritual awakening and the nurturing of the body and soul. A place where you might meditate surrounded by the tranquility of the Wichita Mountains and the canyons and the lakes. He whispered a few words, a prayer really, and suddenly realized that he was starting to believe in God again, a fresh true faith growing from the shattered remains of an old false faith. A meaningful hard-earned faith. One that could last.

He stood at the edge of the roof and unzipped his trousers. Nature was calling and nature was beautiful and not to be ignored. There was no one else around, no movement outside and below, so he figured why not? He faced the back of the house and under the glow of a silvery moon he let go, a christening of sorts he reckoned, and he felt relief by its release.

A few minutes later he returned below to the party and told his aunt, “You know, I really like this place. In fact, I love it!”

She turned to him with warm glowing eyes and said in her big gorgeous voice, “Oh you do, do you?” and then she laughed and said, “it’s wonderful to have your official endorsement, but I might have to do something about that leak from the roof, don’t you think?” Then she smiled, winked, and walked away into the magic of the December night.

NaNoWriMo --- FINISHED!

50,000 words.

A lot of shitty sentences.

A few good ideas.

I'll come back to it in a month or so and start re-shaping.

The Lost Child is finally found!

Half Way There

November 15th ---- Half way there.

I'm on pace with 25,000 words and they're flowing rather freely.

A LINK to my NaNoWriMo page.

http://www.nanowrimo.org/userinfo.php?uid=79939