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

This Is Halloween

Only 5 Trick Or Treaters tonight.

That's five as in 1, 2, 3, 4, & 5.

I could count em on one hand.

Honestly.

Well, actually that's how many times the door bell rang. There were 2 or 3 at the door each time so I suppose we're safely into double figures.

But still... my jack-o-lantern frowns as its candle sadly burns out and the goodie bowl remains more than half-filled.

Don't know whether to blame the damp weather from earlier in the day (although the evening turned out to be a magical autumn delight) or all those bossy puritans and their sway over public sentiment. Maybe it was just the luck of the draw.

One thing for certain. There remains way too much candy for this poor satanist!

So that was Halloween.

The Lost Child

Looks like I'm gonna go with The Lost Child after all. I've had that one in the back of my mind for a long time and besides, CH seems more like one of those sordidTCB short stories.

So it all begins at midnight November 1st. The Lost Child. Here goes nothing.

Real Monsters

2005 has been the Year Of The Hurricane. Unprecedented quantity, unprecedented quality. Life changing (and ending) events for so many. Tragedies that will resonate for years.

And please consider the stigma forever attached to the names:

Katrina
Rita
Ophelia

My poor brother Andrew... can a south Floridian ever meet him without some preconceived association? They want nothing to do with the poor chap.

So maybe the time has come to lift this unnessecary burden off the unlucky few and name these natural storms after the monsters that they truly are. Like Frankenstein 2005 or maybe The Eternal Swirling Fog. Or the Cycloptic Piledriver. It Came From Barbados. The Were - is my - wolf, my car, my house? Or my personal favorite, That Great Big Asshole In The Sky.

Cerebral Hemorrhoid

I'm signed up for the National Novel Writing Month deal beginning November 1st. You're supposed to write 170 pages or about 50,000 words in thirty days. So that breaks down to just over 1500 words a day. I ought to be able to handle that.

It's all about quantity over quality. Don't worry about how good your novel is... just write! Not a bad idea at all, especially in order to help create a better writing work ethic.

I had planned on writing a story called The Lost Child. A story of one inter-generational family dealing with both Vietnam and Iraq. I've got some good ideas about it.

But then just the other day as I was picking up my laundry the title Cerebral Hemorrhoid popped into my head... my brain must be skewed by the TC Boyle collection I'm currently reading.

So I'm not sure which way I'll go just yet. CH might be easier, just spew whatever comes out with no predetermined direction. Yeah... that's the ticket!

Iraq-nam Part 1

When he found his God
He lost his soul.

George Bush made some tough decisions three years back. At the time I assumed that administration insiders had considered all possible scenarios: Best Case, Worst Case, Most Likely. Incredibly it now appears that they either did not consider the present state of affairs as a possible Worst Case scenario or did not formulate an essential Exit Strategy for this situation.

His choices have clearly not worked out.

He is not a bad man. Not evil nor is he stupid. But he has worked himself into a horribly tight corner and a stubborn belief that it is the right course (maybe just as stubborn as his silly belief that if you don't accept Jesus as your one and only saviour then you're destined for eternal hell) is subjecting our troops to empty sacrafice. Because not one thousand of their ignorant and violent insurgents is worth even one of our sons, daughters, fathers or mothers.

Not a one.

The righteous occupation of Iraq has degraded into the wallowing regret of Vietnam. Not even a generation removed and the lessons left unlearned and rotting in a rice paddie field just south of Thaun Yen.

The bottom line is you can't expect others to sacrafice if you are not willing to sacrafice yourself. So it's time for the Bush girls to don the camoflauge gear and join the troops. Tell them to bring plenty of their own sunscreen and flak jackets.

Boston

We recently returned from a family trip to Boston. Despite the fact that our journey got off to a dreadful start with plane delays and that my head did not touch pillow until 1:59 am on the day - night - morning? of our arrival, all in all we really had a great time. I hate thinking of myself as a tourist, much more preferring the label "traveller" as explained quite clearly in Bowles' "Sheltering Sky" (the one main idea I picked up from that book), yet the whole time I was there I really felt like a lowly dadgum tourist. Riding the crowded trolleys, stopped on side street corners reviewing the map for the 11th time that afternoon, ordering clam chowder with a decidedly Okie twang while the waitress smirks just a little... I'm sure you get the picture. In the end I was a stranger in a strange land. So be it.

I paid a shitload for crappy seats to watch a game at Fenway Park (the included picture should give you some idea as to our deep right field position). Which I wouldn't have done if Nick and Ben had not been there and it had just been Lou Ann and me. But they were there so there was no way I was going to let them down. Boy, those folks love their Red Sox, it felt like a college football crowd with the loud chants and everyone sitting on the edge of their seats on every pitch, and I couldn't help but be impressed by that. But the fact remains Manny Ramirez is a flat-out bum and the idea that the Sox fans turn a blind eye to that blatant truth kind of turns me off. Anything to beat the Yankees I guess.

I could spend a whole day just hanging out on the Boston Common. Walking a little, enjoying the sunshine and people watching, finding a peaceful spot on a park bench with a fresh view and just vegetating for a spell. What a wonderful place.

We walked The Freedom Trail and hung out at Faneuil Hall. I drank Sam Adams beer (a small nugget of trivia we heard was that the picture on the label is not that of the ever-abstinent Sam Adams at all but in fact that of a more rowdy Paul Revere). Saw all the sights or at least most of them. I think my favorite part of the trip was our trek to Little Italy and the Paul Revere House and the Old North Church. I have somewhat of a strange attachment to ol' Paul as I was born on the day of his "The British Are Coming!" ride, which is April 18th. What's more, when I was younger and thinner many people have commented on the fact that I resembled the man. So we have often joked that of course I am his reincarnated soul but I am sad to now report the existence of no real odd rememberances when I entered his abode. All the same I enjoyed the visit not to mention the cannoli at Mike's Bakery.

I should say that I found the Bostonians to be a friendly bunch except for that waitress at The Bean Town Tavern. I ask you, Is it too much to ask for more water? Anyway, we later discussed the fact that we did not observe many obese people in Boston as compared to down here. Just one of those funny observations that hit you out of the blue. The reasons for that are not clear but I suspect it's a combination of a more active and informed populace, hereditary genetics, and cultural habits.

I look forward to returning to New England soon. Good folks and an incredible vibe to the city. But Manny is still a bum.

Hot As Hell & Highpointin'!

It's one of those summers... hot hot hot! The pool has been getting daily useage and the AC units are maxed out. And yet still I sweat.

I'm sweating now.

On Wednesday, the 20th of July, Nick, Ben, and I got a wild hair and journeyed to the Arkansas Ozarks and trekked to the top of Mount Magazine. Well, it wasn't much of a trek as we drove up the lion's share of the way and then found the Signal Hill trailhead. From there it took us about an hour to complete the round trip. It was a pleasant richly foliated hike with insects buzzing about as we trudged through the woods up towards a clearing on the plateau-like peak. Not much of a view from there but a very nice resting spot all the same.

So two down... forty-eight more to go. I may not make them all but it's something to shoot for. Who knows, maybe I can snag MA when we head to Boston next month.

For more information: HighPointers

Oh... and as for The Ruminator. True to its name its writer continues to ruminate. Not completed and I haven't really even looked at it in a month. Maybe I'll get a blast of energytivity and complete it in one fell swoop. However, I have worked a little on Baked Plain. That is where my attention must go right now as I need to finish it asap!