The Fool of April

Hello world!  It is many a day since I visited this site to enlighten those in need of such aid.  Not since the Feast of the Patron Saint of the land of my ancestors have I sat to intentionally compose some words of wisdom.  The Ides of March have come and gone with not a single knife shoved in any part of my anatomy except, perhaps, the feeling of inadequacy that results from a writer not writing what they love.  As such, I offer today’s harangue.  I have been delving into the field of writing to the exclusion of all other pursuits.  I have busied myself with such activities as joining online companies that hire freelance writers, developing a portfolio presence on the World Wide Web (http://about.me/tlloydreilly), and attempting to write, primarily, articles and essays that could return some funds to this starving artist.

I closed one website and began another.  I have plunged into the social networking that all seem to deem necessary if one wishes to be a recognized author.  I have written some excruciatingly great material only to have three quarters of it sent back as rubbish.  Well not rubbish so much as the standard rhetoric detailing that the work is fine, or well written, but that it does not fit their particular “vision” and they cannot see putting any effort into the work submitted.  My personal response to the “vision” comments would be to tell them to drag their sorry asses to the Eye doctor for a set of glasses.

As my faithful readers of this blog will attest, I am not without a certain level of perspicacity where it comes to the written arts.  I tend to be somewhat pompous about my acumen, but most of you love me and, I believe, love that ostentation.  Even if you do not love my excessive use of large words or alliteration, the fact that you are reading this tells me that you do, in fact, love me.  I am aware that my prose oftentimes requires that a dictionary be kept nearby, and offer no apologies.  In that is another proof to me of the affection that is given me.  You’re still reading, aren’t you?  On the whole, I can say, unequivocally, that I am a fortunate man.

I have complaints in this life - chief among them right now is the absence of a living wage.  “Starving Artist” almost fits the bill, but not quite.  Those who know my rotund butt (well, not as rotund as it once was – weight lost after bariatric surgery creeping towards 170lbs.) can tell you that groceries are going to be in my refrigerator and pantry.  My bills stay in danger of being at the disconnect state, and my truck is about to be repossessed.  These concerns impede my level of creativity, and irritate me to no end.  With my health being decidedly not healthy, the only avenue for revenue is through writing or to live with the axiom which Tennessee Williams character, Blanch Dubois articulated, “I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.”

Hurdles in life to surpass are simply what one must do along this journey we all seem to find ourselves on.  Overemphasizing the negative denies us the ability to enjoy the true succor we all receive in one form or another.  I attribute my continued existence on the grace and mercy of a loving and merciful God.  Someone else might have a different name for it but, they aren’t writing this blog post…I am.

In my search for the just desserts of my chosen trade, I have come across many of the less savory parts of the business of writing, and have suffered the indignity of thinking and announcing that I have been engaged to be a full time writer only to find out that children working in factories in China would be making more for less work then would be required for any of these positions.  While this would seem disheartening to most, and I will admit to some depression over it, the thing to do is never give up.  Winston Churchill said this during WWII and it fits this and any situation where quitting would seem easier than to trudge over obstacles to find success.

I heard someone tell me once that if you are not working at what you love, then you need to get a different job.  In that light, I have found that there is an entire section of the writing for dollars cosmos that can and does pay appropriately for those who seek it.  Short Fiction writing can earn one a living wage, and it is what I love most to write.  Pursuant to that, I have put my efforts into that and will continue.  I have posted some short fiction for your reading pleasure on this blog, but will be increasing my word count significantly.  To get a taste of this, which contains many less big words then I spew on this blog, you can find it here:

http://shop.authorstand.com/search.aspx?searchTerms=&searchGenre=&searchAuthor=T.+Lloyd+Reilly

It felt good to write this post today.  I apologize to those who have a soft part for my ramblings here, and will try to do better.  I love all of you and will leave you with an old Irish Sentiment:

“May the Lord keep you in his hand and never close his fist too tight.”

Peace

Heard it in a Love Song

Waking up a few minutes before the alarm clock that morning, he patiently waited for the pain to stop.  He had slept the night through and the pain is what woke him up.  After many years of insomnia and restlessness, the old man just wanted to enjoy the fact that he could sleep a full night.  His sides hurt when he lay on them too long.  His back stiffened up when he lay on it, and his breathing became labored and forced when he attempted to sleep on his ample stomach.  That morning the daily struggle had an intensity to it that nearly made him weep.

            His dreams had been wonderful that night.  Love and friendships in the real world always seemed so much better in the Land of Nod.  He could spend time with this girl or that girl and soak up the wonder of beauty and love.  His buddies and he would always have kick-ass times chasing women and riding motorcycles.  He could see the end of the rainbow in his dreams, he could actually find the pot of gold sitting there right next to the leprechaun that squabbled and fussed with him before losing the treasure to the usurper from the realm of the real.  Vast adventures were commonplace when he accomplished Rapid Eye Movement in the midst of his slumber.

            Given that, the real pain he felt that morning, and any morning for that matter, came when the physical pain obliterated the nostalgia of the night’s sub cranial ambrosia.  Thinking that, he laughed, through the anguish of his physical condition, at the freaking wordiness of the thought.  How had it happened that he used that kind of vocabulary in his everyday thought and action?  Did he not come from a simple existence where words simply conveyed information?  He continued to ruminate on this while the throbbing subsided.  It worked every morning.  He would simply think about something else besides the pain until the pain condensed itself to an acceptable level.  Try as he might, that morning his venture into subliminal deception would not work. The pain increased, as he lay motionless.  The day before had seen him helping a friend to move.  Lifting the furniture and boxes, against doctors’ orders, created this morning’s angst.  He had not been able to turn his friend down.  He began loathing the pain as the tears began.  Unable to prevent the weeping, he let it happen.  He did not regret the action of helping his friend, but he did resent his body for its weakness and betrayal. 

            Momentary respite when the alarm went off and the ridiculous noise of the morning deejays blasted him out of his ruminations.  The volume blared louder than usual.  He remembered that he had turned it up to listen to music the night before while he sat at his desk and worked.  The nonsense interrupted his anguish temporarily, and the song that followed ended it.  An old song from a simpler time drifted into his ears from an old band of a country nature. Back in the day, as the kids say, this band was a part of a musical genre call “Country Rock.”  The album this song came off had always been on his list of “Desert Island” records.  That is, if you found yourself on a deserted island with no hope of rescue, what five albums would you want to have with you, but it could only be just five.  Those records would be the only music you would ever listen to for the rest of your life.

            Listening to the song blasting out of the radio reminded him of the reason this particular group of ballads would be with him for eternity.  Her name was Angel.  Back in the miracle days, she had captured his entire being.  Long black hair and a face of Semitic demeanor still came to him every day.  She drifted into his life when he rode with the Club.  Not a period that elicited many good thoughts.  His past was the reason he hurt so much today.  He rode with a motorcycle gang that lived a brutal and desperate lifestyle.  Many a night saw him in some emergency room being patched back together after a battle in some saloon or grog shop.  Fast and mean was the order of the day, and he embraced that way of life with vehemence and devotion to the Code.  The Code being that the patch on the back of his cutoff jean coat meant everything and the rest of life proved inconsequential to the honoring of his oath to the Code.  His fidelity to that convention always had him hurt or sore.  One night, sitting in a rock club listening to this very song, he met her.  She walked across the dance floor and stood next to him, rubbing her ample bosom against his arm.  She just smiled, and told him that she wanted to buy him a beer.

At first, it seemed as if she was just another distraction, just something to fill the time between this thing and the next.  Women had always just been a way to kill time while he waited for the next task the club set him to.  He had a definite skill at some things of an administrative nature, and an anger grown from abuse as a child.  The club used him to direct some of the harsher parts of their business.  Not what you could call a Fortune 500 type of institution, the club nevertheless prospered from the delivery of service and materials related to human vice.  Some might call it organized crime, but they just thought of it as entrepreneurship.  That is, after the old man told them what the word “entrepreneurship” meant.  

The girl never once acted right.  At least, that is, right by the old man’s standards.  “Acting right” meant shutting her mouth and doing what she was told.  A simple task, he thought, but one she never once delivered.  He brought her home on his bike that night, and she slept on the couch.  When he told her she would have to pay her way, she went to the kitchen and came back to the couch with a butcher knife.  Drunk and high as he was that night, the old man simply went to bed.

The next morning he woke to the smell of coffee, eggs, and bacon.  She stood in the kitchen wearing a tube top and a pair of panties.  She smiled and told him to sit down.  As she set a cup of coffee in front of him, she kissed his forehead and went about cooking the rest of the meal.  After, she told him to join her in the shower.  Another disappointment in that the only thing they did was wash.  As soon as she finished, she toweled off, put on one of his t-shirt, and went about collecting his laundry and cleaning the house.  He returned to the kitchen for another cup of coffee.  While he sat there, she came in and taking him by the hand, led him to a chair under the tree in the backyard.  She began brushing his elbow length hair.  She told him that fresh air would help his hair to dry.  It felt like heaven.

That is how, ultimately, he changed.  This strange girl moved in and gradually eased him out of the lifestyle of an outlaw biker.  Not an easy task, but she patiently waited while he slowly left the lifestyle behind.  It happened over a period of time.  Several times, he’d come home beat to hell and in need of a doctor.  He refused the emergency room, and she taught herself how to minister to his injuries. One time, he came home with a bullet in him that required a trip to the hospital.  She sat with him in intensive care, and when he came home, she went to the clubhouse to inform the other members of his tribe that the old man was retired.  She lay his patch down, respectfully, and announced that if any of them came to see the old man, they would die.  She never described how that might happen, but the hardened bikers in the club believed her for some reason.  They never tried to see him again.

He lay in bed laughing to himself as he thought of what the scene might have looked like.  Every bit of 5’0” the girl never spoke a mean word.  To think that his compadres would be warned off by this slip of a girl made him laugh at the stupidity of the lifestyle, and the stupidity of being a part of such insanity. When he healed enough to go back to work, she brought him an application to drive a truck for a rock quarry.  He looked at it, and at the look in her eyes, and filled it out. 

He got the job, and never looked back. His life got simpler, but not much less dangerous.  He wrecked his bike that next spring and had to lay up in a cast for near half a year.  Losing his job made her have to go out to work.  She went to work in a nursing home, and then to school to be a Registered Nurse.  He remembered the day she got her nursing license; she took him home and made love to him for the first time.  She told him to go back to school and he did. He became a schoolteacher, and loved every minute of the twenty-five years he taught.  He taught reading, and astronomy.  When he retired, his students gave him a plaque for being the kindest most loving teacher in the universe.  Certainly this was a far cry from the angry, violent, man that rode motorcycles too fast, and treated women as if they were property.  

          

She told him to marry her, and he did.  She told him to get her pregnant, and he did.  She told him to love her no matter what, and he did.  She told him many things, and he did them all. 

The reverie worked.  He slowly began to feel better.  He arose from his bed and looked out the window at the rising sun.  It would be a good day to sit under the tree.  She would like that.  He had to make her some breakfast first.  He would wait to brush her hair until they got outside.  She liked the fresh air.

Póg mo thóin is Éireannach mé!

“Oh but don’t you know? Every Irishman is his own King!” The Fighting O'Flynn (Universal-Internatlanal), 1949 

There is an event that I wish to regale you with, a tale of the greatest great boon to humanity – that of being proudly able to announce that I am a true representative of the greatest species in history…the Irish. Equally adroit with a saber, a rapier, a shillelagh, or a kiss, the Irish have a special place in our world. On this, the day after the supposed feast of St Patrick I find it apropos to dispel the rumors that abound each March 17th. I am, as is said, “As Irish as Paddy’s Pig.” I am of proud Irish-American heritage with a rich family history which, I am also proud to say, I am most aware of and revel in.

 My family history can be positively traced back to the Battle of Clontarf in 1014 where the progenitor of my clan (the Ó Raghallaigh ) gave his life standing shoulder to shoulder with the great Ard Rí na hÉireann, Brian Bóruma mac Cennétig (Brian Boru). Prior to that, the plot thickens and gets sketchy with a mixture of fact girdled with legend. Much of this period is not certain except in this Irishman’s heart. My family’s founding dates to the reign of Conn Cétchathach (Conn of the Hundred Battles) circa 116-161 AD. 

 This coincides with the rule of Marcus Aurelius of Rome. The Roman’s never conquered Ireland and it has been said that this was due to a perception that there was no economic value to Éirinn. The prevaricator in me with Bard like talents prefers to think that the Roman’s had better sense then to mess with Ireland. They had no desire to have their posterior end’s booted for the first time in history. It must have been similar to the sentiment the English had on 9 July 1921(yes you are correct; I am not a great fan of the English).

 Having given my bona fides on the topic, I would like to expand on what it is to be Irish and how annoying it is to go to certain restaurants every March 17th and be offered Corned Beef and Cabbage (an American construct) to be washed down with perfectly good beer that has suffered the indignity of being doused with green food dye. A travesty if ever there was one. Envisioned are my progenitors mimicking gyroscopes within the confines of their eternal resting places. 

Let us begin with the saint the day is named for…Patrick (or more correctly Pádraig). A historical figure of English or Scottish descent he was captured by Irish brigand/pirates and forced to herd sheep for six years. While sitting on a hillside watching the herd, he had a vision that there was a different life for him. He stood up, threw down his shepherd accoutrements and walked 200 miles where he found a ship that got him out of Ireland. He came back a number of years later with the divine purpose (again from a vision) to convert Ireland from paganism to Christianity. He, as the legend states, drove the snakes from Ireland. In fact, any snakes in Ireland had already disappeared during the Ice Age; (http://nationalzoo.si.edu/Animals/ReptilesAmphibians/NewsEvents
/irelandsnakes.cfm)

 "One of the famous legends, of course, is that Patrick drove all the snakes out of Ireland," says Irish historian Harold Calvert. "The legend about the driving of the snakes may, in fact, really symbolize the driving out of evil," 

There is nothing in any literature that legitimatizes the practice of getting commode hugging drunk on his feast day. St. Patrick's Day in Ireland has almost always been a principally religious festival. Until the 1970s, pubs were required by law to close on March 17. Given this fact, I believe the sainted gentleman himself would have preferred it if all went to church and praised God instead of trying to glorify a simple priest for doing what his faith told him to do. That faith was humble and eloquent, as stated in his second prayer: 

Christ be with me,
Christ within me,
Christ behind me, 
Christ before me,
Christ beside me, 
Christ to win me, 
Christ to comfort and restore me, 
Christ beneath me, 
Christ above me, 
Christ in quiet, 
Christ in danger, 
Christ in hearts of all that love me, 
Christ in mouth of friend and stranger

So much of what we know about the Feast of St. Pádraig is shrouded in folklore and mystery. We are a race that holds their Seanchaí in special esteem. The rich history of the Emerald Isle is much more a thing of beauty then the obligatory display of drunkenness and sloth that the feast has become. The vision of Patrick standing on a hill beside a fire, in defiance of a pagan king’s command speaks to me more than the Chicago River running green. The legend that tells of that same pagan king converting to Christianity is a lesson in perseverance, humility, and hope. I like that Patrick taught about Christ and not emerald barley and hops, or the liquid foundation of John Jameson’s family legacy.

Curse me for an anarchist. Berate the traitorous ramblings of a man who no longer drinks of the grain. Accuse me of vile disrespect for my ancestors. Rebuke me for the intolerance I display. Reprimand me for killing then spirit of the day. But for God and Pádraig’s sake, love me because I am Irish! I normally close with a wish for peace for all my readers, today I will leave you with a blessing:

  “Go gcoinní Dia i mbois a láimhe thú, agus nár dhúna sé a dhorn go teann choíche.”

Bazinga!

Howard: Try telling him it's a non-optional social convention.
Penny: What?
Howard: Just do it!
Penny: *To Sheldon* It's a non-optional social convention.
Sheldon: Ah, fair enough.
Howard: He came with a manual.

Okay, it’s time for some mirth. There is a situation in my life that would appear to some, as a situation in need of correcting. Short of engaging in a full blown intervention, those who know and love me have shown sympathy, compassion, and exasperation. This display of interest would make my heart grow if it wasn’t for the reality of the situation. They all wish they were me.

The issue I am writing of is a full blown, got to have it every day, addiction. Given my long tenure in the gift and miracle that is recovery from mind altering, mood changing substances; this would be distressing if not for the substance that has become my drug of choice. What is this evil you may ask? Surely the big guy can deal with it. It is the most absurd thing I have ever found myself admitting. I am here today on this page to announce, for all time, that I am addicted to what this scribe formerly considered mind numbing trash…a situation comedy.

I have resisted this part of the universe of television for close to two decades. I found them to be mindless examples of how mindless people act. I’ve launched slur upon slur at the television when they came on, and I distinctly recall vowing to never watch such tripe. At least, that is, until they brought back the right kind of mindless entertainment. I have shown fidelity to this principle in my life and thought myself happy, joyous, and free. Then I met Dr. Sheldon Cooper.

For those who maintain fealty to my former stance, which adamantly disparages the social relevance of the medium (situation comedies), the culprit is “The Big Bang Theory.” It is a surprisingly delightful thirty minutes of mirth, hilarity, amusement, and, discerning thought. While the subject matter is not unlike other examples of the world within the world of television, it has subtle differences and a message more perceptive then what is offered in other thirty-minute-miracles offered to amuse. The premise is, a group of young science-based savants working at a prestigious research university sometimes ill-fated attempts at circumnavigating the world outside their little piece of the Cosmos. These are the guys that other kids in school would call geeks, and mercilessly make fun of by using the time tested methods of torturing the less then cool with a number of atrocities: stealing their lunch money, making cruel jokes at their expense, thrashings for those who refused to submit, and the most degrading of all…the wedgie or incarnations thereof (reference the episode where the two main characters are relieved of their pants by a former boyfriend of their pretty neighbor…a shining example of the torturers of years gone by)

Societal clichés abound in the pastimes they pursue: comic books, Star Wars/Star Trek films, online video games, science fiction television series, memorabilia, and an endless dialogue on what this or that fictional character or superhero would do in a (or any) real life situation. Being television there is a tendency to take the obsession to an extreme. Going to a viewing of a favored classic film with “8 seconds of previously unseen footage” being just a smattering of the lengths these characters go to maintain the legend that is all geekhood. Most fascinating is the attitude held by the main characters when confronted with their geekiness. They are often wont to stare in confusion at such things as someone doubting that Commander Spock would never act in an illogical manner. Such thought and statements are treated blasphemous. Who are you to tell me that he is not a real person/being?

The many adventures these Sages of the Scientific Fact and Fantasy world are mostly content to sit around a communal coffee table playing games or dreaming up places to go and people to meet who may or may not be real. They are the masters of the “what if” paradigm. That would probably account for a superior knowledge of mathematics and topics that would lose the average Joe buying a six-pack at the convenience store. Knowing the theoretical or practical application of why the cooler holding the hops and barley nectar gets and stays cold is not a real concern for most. Likewise the science nerd guys have zero-zip-not-a-clue where it comes to affairs of the heart. The endearing part of the show for me is that they really want to have a clue. The main character’s seeking and getting and losing and getting back a relationship with the gorgeous blond next door who is a community college dropout shows me that everything is possible. The young lady’s ability to see through the quagmire of an experimental physicist’s life and mind to see the tender, loving man that lives inside is what’s brilliant about this show.

Then there is the small nebbish who masks his insecurities with inappropriate comments and actions towards almost every woman he meets. His difficulty is compounded by the other characters bantering on about his lack of a PhD even though he has a Masters from the most famous scientific and technological university in the world (which he got when he was a teenager). Even his mother, with whom he lives, is included in the derision which serves to solidly cement the nebbishness. This poor soul with an IQ in the top 1% has been able to find a woman to love and, most importantly, love him back. Although, she also pipes in on the PhD junk once she gets her’s.

The show leaves me wanting more every time I watch. The astrophysicist from the “mysterious sub-continent of India” as he states when he is trying to pick up girls is the next big hurdle to climb. His problem is that when in the presence of attractive women, he cannot speak. “Social Anxiety Disorder” is what they call it. He can, however, talk like a meth head auctioneer when he has a drink or two in him. The problem comes in when, as expected, he drinks too much (I intimately recall how that works!) and he finds himself waking up in the beds of strange women. From a purely “let’s go out and get lucky” point of view, he is probably the stud in the group. Well, he gets laid more than the other guys when they are out hunting female companionship. His one real relationship was with a deaf girl who dumped him when she found out that his parents were cutting him off financially. The beauty here is that he was totally fine with losing the financial support of his parents to be with the woman he loves. Maybe it’s the Irish in me, but that’s a truly romantic thing to do. Anyone with that much honesty and affection for another human being MUST end up with a girl to really love and, most importantly, love him back.

And then there is Dr. Sheldon Cooper. This character is absolute, total, incontrovertible proof that vanity, pomposity, and outrecuidance can all be grouped to create an art form. There is nothing inherently wrong with being the smartest guy in the room. There is, however, something definitely amiss with anyone who has to announce it to the world…everywhere he goes. “The Great Sheldor” is exactly what you would expect from the background he comes from. Probably the most gifted of the geniuses he faces a number of obstacles more so than the others. Everything in his life from a professional point of view occurred at an extremely young age; college at 11, a doctorate at sixteen. Adding to the complication is the environment of a drunken father who abandoned him, and a freakishly religious mother. Particularly poignant was an episode where he fled to the protection of the comic book store when his roommate and the girl next door began arguing. This brought up memories that forced him to withdraw to a place where he acts like a small child who must be bribed with toys to get him to behave. The implication of mental abuse nearly shouted out the screen as I watched. The isolation he inflicts on himself must have surely created differing worlds where, out of self-defense, he could escape the harsh realities of life.

His laundry list of issues he lives with might best be described by Luke 8:30:

“And Jesus asked him, saying, what is thy name? And he said, Legion: because many devils were entered into him.”

He is a germophobe, bacillophobiac, and bacteriophobiac as well as suffering from near maniacal neuroses which manifests itself chiefly by the obsessive compulsive disorder he displays. He covers his ailments well in the arrogant vainglorious and narcissistic behaviors his character portrays. His companions seem to put up with him, and even capitulate to his insensitive ramblings. But not always…

And here is where the beauty of the show comes in. In and about all his super intelligence and individual imperfections, this horribly wounded man has found a girlfriend. It is the one concession the Mighty Sheldor surrenders to, and the agony he inflicts on himself along the way to attaining a relationship is absolutely hilarious. His paramour is, as mercy tends to do, is a female version of him. This is probably the one part of the world that makes all equal. Falling in love is a universal gift, and, at the same time, the worst torture one can go through. It is nice to see that, even in a silly television show, love is the answer.

I will end my narrative with a piece of this compulsion I happily participate in;

“Leonard: If Penny didn't know that Leslie had already turned me down then that would unambiguously mean that she, Penny, thought I should ask her, Leslie, out, indicating that she, Penny, had no interest in me asking her, Penny, out but because she did know that I had asked Leslie out and that she, Leslie, had turned me down then she, Penny, could be offering me consolation. "That's too bad, you would have made a cute couple" but while thinking "good, Leonard remains available."
Sheldon: You're a lucky man Leonard.
Leonard: How so?
Sheldon: You're talking to one of three men in the western hemisphere capable of following that train of thought.
Leonard: Well, what do you think?
Sheldon: I said I could follow it, I didn't say I cared”

Well that is it, my current drug of choice, my not-so-secret obsession, and the thumb on my nose to the principles of Recovery. It is syndicated where I live and I can get as many as six episodes a day, which I record on DVR. Re-watching the episodes matters little to me and I have not grown bored with the exercise. I just keep watching. I have a website bookmarked that is nothing but quotes from the show. I alternately delight and irritate my Facebook friends by posting them on my public feed. I have no intention to go “cold turkey” to deal with this addiction. I can stop any time I want. Really! I can stop! I do not have a problem! Help! Help! Help…

Peace

The Seventeen Damn Dollar Phone

Here is a taste of my novel "The Seventeen Damn Dollar Phone"
Prologue

Let us suppose you are taking a walk. Let us further suppose that this is not a structured walk. There is no destination, or predetermined length to your journey. Quite simply, it is just a walk on a pleasant day for the sheer delight of being one with the great outdoors. You go by the neighbor’s house, and then the school you went to as a kid. Take a left at the end of the block and enter the woods you played in a thousand times as a child. In your uncomplicated imagination there were cowboys and Indians, mountain men (or women), fearless explorers, brave warriors doing great battle with the dreaded enemies, and a multitude of other fantasies only the young and inspired might dream.
You walk to the big tree with the double trunk, and sit in the crook between the trunks on the seat that has been worn into it by years of kids coming to it and dreaming great dreams. As you contemplate the past, and the astonishing worlds you entered as a child sitting in these woods, you begin to sadden. Your depression is that…hard as you try…hard as you wish…hard as you dream…you can no longer see in your mind's eye with the beauty of a child Your ability to conjure a game to play has been replaced with the ever present realities of being an adult. You begin to resent ever growing up.
You get up and start back to your house, and the inevitable congestion of adult life. The car payment is due, the spare bedroom needs painting, the mailbox got knocked over by the neighbor kid throwing rocks at it. You look back at the woods with a longing that is impossible to realize. You’re an adult, and adults have responsibilities. Games are just tricks we play to escape life, and we all know…tricks are for kids.
Chapter 1
You pick the mailbox up, thinking you would like to strangle that little son of a… Inside you find a letter from your editor. In the house, you read the letter. You stare in bewilderment at the words on the page. It appears that your last two books have not sold enough copies to even cover the advances, and the publisher wants to drop you. The letter further states that your genre is flooded with many, more talented, authors who consistently produce novels that sell, and that you have lost your touch. Unless you can come up with a profitable product in this next book, your contract will be cancelled due to lack of performance.
You snatch the phone from the cradle, and dial the bastard’s number. You angrily demand to speak to him, and are told that he is currently in a meeting. Out of frustration you rage at the secretary about the situation. The voice on the other end of the line suggests that you go back to teaching grammar school English which is probably all you are good for. “It’s not as if you have any real talent, anybody can write spy novels for goodness sake.”
Dropping the receiver on your desk, you stare out the window blankly. All of a sudden your world has become irrationally horrible. You pick the phone up and let the secretary have a real piece of your mind. I was a LITERATURE teacher, and it was COLLEGE! Albeit a junior college, but still a COLLEGE! I NEVER taught grammar school! Don’t they know who I am? My first book topped the N.Y. Times bestseller list for 29 weeks! I’ve been on the damn Jay Leno show! I am KNOWN!
The tirade lasts for about an hour until you’re just too exhausted to continue. You drop the phone on the floor, and finish the rant by flinging it at the wall…smashing it into pieces. It rings unbelievably, but all you can do is helplessly wait for the answer machine to pick up. It’s your editor returning your call. He explains that abusing his secretary was the last straw and he can find someone else to edit the dribble you call literature.
Frustrated and despondent you walk outside and sit on the porch swing of the house you no longer have the ability to pay the mortgage on. As you swing, you start wrestling in your head about all those adult realities that were so irritating this morning in the woods while you sat fondly remembering your childhood. How long can you last on the money you have? What about the savings? Are the bills current? What am I going to do?
You go into the house, and dig out the checkbook. It is out of date by a year. I should talk to my accountant more often. You reach for the phone, only to discover it laying in pieces…by your own irrational, raging, idiotic effort. Your checkbook says you have plenty of money, if you don’t take into account all the checks you never recorded. You have to get another phone!
In the garage you find the expensive German sports car has a dead battery, and the OnStar won’t work because the subscription has ran out. The vintage edition suicide shift Harley Davidson that you’re afraid to ride is sitting there but you don’t remember how to start it. The custom designed titanium/graphite mountain bike has a flat tire. All that’s there is the 1972 Volkswagen Super Beetle that you kept to help you remember where you came from. Astonishingly it starts.
You go to the mall and find a phone that suits you only to have the clerk tell you that your credit card has been declined for being over the limit. You open your wallet to find just $17.00. The clerk tells you that the discount warehouse across town is the only place you can find a “17damn dollar phone.”
On the way to the “17damn dollar phone” store you pass the accountants office and decide to stop in. You went to high school with your accountant, stood godfather to his bookkeeper/secretary’s son, and date his sister on occasion. He welcomes you like the old friend you are, and asks what he can do for you. You tell him about the letter, the editor’s secretary, the editor, the checkbook, the car, the OnStar, the motorcycle, the bicycle, the credit card, and the “17damn dollar phone.”
He listens attentively, and sympathizes. He pulls up your files, and gets online to look at your accounts. He frowns. He double checks the figures, rechecks the bank numbers, and turns to you incredulously announces, “You’re broke.” He explains that most of your assets are not “fluid.” What in the hell does that mean, you demand in a decidedly irate tone of voice.
He holds his palm up to you, and waits for you to calm down. “You told me to look after your money, and I have. You never keep track of the checks you write, even though I have begged you to. Your bills are all on automatic pay, which is fine except for the lack, by the account holder, to pay attention to what he spends. You’re in some trouble. You no longer have an income, and it doesn’t look like you are going to after you cussed out that guy’s secretary. You’re not destitute or anything like that, but I would seriously consider spending that ‘17damn dollars’ on some groceries.”
How could this happen I ask? I had received what I thought was retirement money with my first royalty check. I invested, or had the accountant invest it in a retirement account. I asked about that, and was told that it was, in fact, still there. I told him to use that, and was informed that if I pulled it out at the current level I would lose about half of it as a result of a downturn in the stock market. The original investment was based on a certain level of performance in the invested companies. The fund had taken a hit with the rest of the economy. This had happened several times over the course of the investment, but had always recovered. It was currently in the process of recovering, but still would yield less than half of the original investment. The best he could say was that when it recovered to the point of reasonable return we could migrate it to the accounts and use it.
This was all a foreign language to me. All I wanted to know was how I was going to live. The accountant gave me several options;
1. Make peace with my editor, and give him a book that would sell,
2. Find a new editor and publishing company in the hopes they could sell the supposedly un-sellable material,
3. Go back to teaching,
4. Sell my car, motorcycle, mountain bike, and half my land.
I was now getting a headache. I had worked hard on my eccentric bestselling author persona, and did not like the options before me. The old editor could kiss my nether regions for his attitude. The book business was especially swamped with wannabee classic authors, and editors were not easily impressed. Teaching was altogether too much like work, and I loved my stuff too much to sell it. I asked for more options.
“There are none really. What you might do is take certain components of each, and try to come up with viable alternative.” He was truly trying, and I appreciated it. He had always been the person to whom I ran to when things stopped making sense. He was Bud Abbott to my Lou Costello. Dean Martin to my Jerry Lewis. Angel to my demon. Always the straight man to my clown, and most importantly…the voice of reason to the idiot savant I quite often became. It was time to grow up, so I asked him what to do.
“How long does it take you to write a book?”
“My first took me 38 years…”
“Noooo…it took you 38 years to find someone to publish it. I’ll ask again. How long does it take you to write a book?”
I thought for a minute, “With inspiration, commitment, and hard work…about a year. Of course, I currently have no inspiration, I’d rather drink and look at the beauty queen than works as my maid, and I won’t give those idiots another minute of my life”
“Why?” With that question, he nailed me. I had lost it. I looked at writing as a job, and not the magical land I created with words. Characters were clichés, prose was just filler, and poetry was bullshit. My Waterloo, those last two books, came from the video store. I found fifteen or twenty action/adventure movies, and stole themes, plots, characters, and style. All I had done was receive a check. I had lost the ability to create. The editor was right, and I seethed at the uncovering of my lethargy. I looked at my lifelong friend, feeling an all-consuming disgust and contempt for myself. Sitting in his office, I cried like a child for loss of my craft. “But I’m a writer!” I wailed.
“No, dude, you’re a man. Writing is what you do.”
“I’ve forgotten how to do it.”
“Then go find it again.”
“And just how am I going to live while I am ‘finding my muse’”
“Leave that to me, I’ll make it as painless as possible. First, there is the car and the motorcycle. You don’t have the money to maintain the car, and you’re freaking scared of the Harley. We sell those and you’ll have enough money to live on for a few months…if you let me budget you.”
“What am I going to drive?”
“The Volkswagen and the mountain bike. I’ll send my boy over after school to fix the flat…and show you how to work on it, and the car.”
“I know how to work on the car. Remember college?”
“Oh, yea, that’s right. You were a regular wiz kid back then. Dust off that part of your brain and maybe you can write a book on servicing ancient Volkswagens. That could be the change of genre the editor was talking about.”
“Just what I’ve always wanted to be…a “How-To Hack.”
“Hey, Bob Vila pays his bills.”
“Okay, but what if it takes some time to sell those things? Why don’t we sell the back part of the land? It ought to bring something.” I said this not really meaning it. The Woods were the back part of the land. I didn’t really own the woods. Legally I did, but the truth was that the woods owned me.
“Now you’re thinking. Only I would rather wait on selling the land. They’re not making anymore of it, and it will only increase in value. Besides which, you don’t own the Story Tree. Until then, I’ll float you a loan. Payable when you publish again.”
I inwardly sighed in relief, but it only lasted a second, “What if I never publish again?”
“You will.”
“You seem to have faith in me that I don’t have.”
“Remember what grade I got in freshman English?”
I laughed at that. “You mean the grade I got you in freshmen English”
“As I recall I did better than you did when I did your algebra”
“Okay, relax. I still want to know what I do if I don’t publish?
“I take your house and you live in my garage apartment.”
“Ah, I feel the love of a benevolent tyrant.”
“HA- HA- HA. Seriously, this will work if you do your part.”
“What’s my part?”
“Give my kid a list of the foods you like. He’ll bring you groceries…macaroni and cheese worked in college. He’ll mow your lawn, and clean your house.”
“What about Christiana”
“She goes. $500.00 a week is too much for a former Miss Ecuador who does nothing but lay in the sun by the pool half-naked, eat your caviar, and drink all your wine. Eye candy is a luxury. My kid will take care of you, and you get to help him with his schoolwork. I’ll pay him. You just keep him busy.”
“Deal. What’s next?”
“You go buy that 17damn dollar phone, and go home.”
* * * * *
That’s how it happened. The bestsellers returned, television optioned some of my books as well as the movies. Awards came, the Nobel, a Pulitzer, two Oscars, six Emmy’s for the miniseries I did for Hallmark, and maybe this years Tony. All because I bought a 17damn dollar phone and went home. Well…perhaps there was tiny bit more to it.

Floccinaucinihilipilification

Any word that I am unable to pronounce, given my sacred fidelity to words, absolutely must be the title of a piece. For your convenience I will not make you go to the dictionary - “an act or instance of judging something to be worthless or trivial.”

I have been writing for the last few days for spite. There are powers acting in my life that appear to have some problem with my pursuit of full-time employment as a scribe of merit. What exactly the definition of this term “scribe of merit” might be is also part of the mood I am in, and it is not pretty in here. The chief power that has laid siege to my dream is non-other than me, myself, and I. Well, that is, not so much my whole person but that part of me that exists in my psyche and decision making apparatus. I am defecating all over what self-esteem I possess and have come to the momentous decision to engage in a noble crusade against the heretical rantings of my opponent. I must be careful though, I have a personal code of ethics that forbids me from engaging in a battle of wits with an unarmed opponent.

Would that I could just listen to my own values and cease participation in this pointless flight of foolishness! What fool is this that argues with himself as if it were a disagreement that could or would yield a winner? Why must I, once again, place roadblocks in my way to success?

That was the frame of mind I held when I began this piece. Nothing has been happening in my life as I wish and I have begun pondering if, perhaps, the writer of this piece might be the culpable party. Well, the truth is the hardest pill to swallow and while I wallow in righteously indignant clibber clabber, I must chronicle the fact that it most assuredly is me, and that if there is blame to be apportioned I need look no further than the mirror I use to shave.

I have an affinity for words and the very sound of them does something to me. The meaning of this word filled a need in me to denigrate my efforts as a scribe and, ultimately, a person. Deciphering worth is a tricky pastime. We have a set of values that seem important to us and there are the outside influences (friends, family, and co-workers) that bring their individual idiosyncrasies into the mix. I value the ability to make a point in a page or page and a half at the keyboard. That value has been my path to achieving that “scribe of merit” junk, and it has initiated what seems like a campaign against my success. It has taken me three tries, on this page, to do what normally but an hour or two. My values are within me and me is dissatisfied with me. So it appears I am in the process of committing “an act or instance of judging something to be worthless or trivial.”

I am not either worthless or trivial! I have a picture I snaked from the internet of two babies facing each other. One is crying and the other is holding his companion’s face with the caption – “YOU ARE LOVED, YOU MATTER, NO REALLY! YOU MATTER!” These words spoke volumes to me and, if I believe them, could realign my thought processes back to that person who knew better then to do battle with oneself.

Having taken so much of both my time and yours, I will close. An old friend once told me that this was my “pity blog” and the last three day that has been true. Well, enough is enough. I just received an e-mail from someone who wants me to edit a piece I submitted and re-submit it. Possibly for pay. It will not serve me, or you my faithful reader, to continue in this light. I must conclude this piece before it mutates into a diatribe on depression. A long discourse on that can wait until I really know something about it, other than feeling it. Well, maybe I need to listen to more learned heads then mine;

“By the time this screed gets to you the drafts may have come, but as I've heard nothing yet and been writing for two months now, you'd better have a look anyway. Will you please?”
-- Ernest Hemingway

Peace

To Publish or not to Publish?

There is no real question here. As a writer and reasonably deep thinker it is a given that if I take the time to write something then I would truly like someone to read it. The issue is at what level is that work of art to be published. I have a couple of blogs, a web site, and HubPages where I maintain a presence and that keeps me appropriately busy in a number of areas. I have my personal feelings on two. I maintain a political opinion focus on another. I enlighten the world on how to perform certain life functions on the third.

There are the social networking sites I am a part of, Facebook being the most used. I surf Twitter and belong to perhaps nearly a dozen others with varying amounts of use. These have been a boon to my writing career and I gain followers with every effort I engage in from the publishing point of view. This is certainly not of a meteoric level of participation. I have 19 followers on Twitter with at least one porn star anxiously awaiting the wisdom I have to tweet about.

While these are not exactly impressive, from a public relations point of view, it represents about a 600% increase in the last thirty days. Therein lays my answer. I have been pretty steady in putting written pieces out there and have taken my own advice from my own writings on how I apply the talents I possess. Write Write Write!

Having said this I find myself at an impasse. I began writing today in order to maintain fealty to my mantra …Write Write Write! My conundrum is that I have no idea where I must put this piece. Today I sat down and just began to put words on a page and what you are reading is what has come out. I am a mind to complain and rail against the unfairness of it all. I want to blame someone other than myself for the situation I am in. I want to give up.

Having made the leap of faith necessary to become a full time writer, I have experienced a most profound case of the Starving Artist syndrome. I have also found little respite from the life on life’s terms that have been directed my way. Yesterday I went out to go to the doctor and while out took the time to go and speak to several of my creditors to inform them of my lack of finances at this moment. It was the honest and right thing to do, yet, I came out of the experience humiliated. I have spent most of my life in financial straits of some sort or another. I always bounce back and things get better. I am in serious trouble right now with the added issue that my health is such that I physically cannot work at anything I have expertise at except sitting at a computer and writing.
Fortunately, I have this available to me at home. When, that is, I can get there.

The last several weeks have found me in bed a lot, and unable to get around to deal with my responsibilities. There are some who will read this and instantly wish to come and give me the “third degree” about my situation and offer assistance by way of suggestion on what I should do. I am grateful for the love and affection of the people in my life, but this is not an aid to me. Everything I am physically and mentally able to do about this situation has been done, and is continually being done.

It was not out of conceit or arrogance that I made the choice to stay at home and write. It was a result of years of contemplation and much prayer. I have the ability to put words on a page in an attractive manner and I truly believe that the God of my understanding wishes me to do this. For those who would tell me that “God Will Provide,” I must report that this statement is of no use to me either. He has most certainly provided for me already. He has given me the ability to put thoughts on paper, even when those thoughts are of a negative nature.
I am exhausted right now. This week saw me lose a day and a half to my infirmities, a complete lack of any form or remuneration, humiliation, and the worst day I have had in a long, long time. Boo F&@%ing Hoo!

In the spirit of “Always Look on the Bright Side of Things” I can report that all is not lost. I know where to publish this, and you who are reading will now that. Baby Steps.

Please pray for me.

Peace

Geniture

The temperature simply would not make up its mind. Not quite freezing and yet warm enough to be a threat. The rain fell relentlessly and the water seemed heavy. Like it wanted to freeze and couldn’t quite get there. Hovering at the freezing level like it was made Yussel think about what the degree was actually. He kept thinking that 273˚ seemed right but that never showed up on the sign at the bank across the street. All it would show was 0˚ or 33˚. That confused him just as it did in science class in school. He never could make sense of a lot that the teacher told him, but he remembered some things. He wished he learned more before the state school told him he had to get out because he was too old. They did not like having to feed him once he got big.

Pushing the shopping cart up under the bridge Yussel looked at the girl riding in it. Ekanta looked into the kind eyes of the man who pushed the cart and smiled. She looked at her swollen belly and wondered how that had happened. She did not understand the word “pregnant” that the doctor at the clinic had used. She did not remember doing anything that would cause her to be so fat. There was a movement inside her that sometimes hurt and sometimes felt good…in a special way.

It was all a mystery to her. How she got here under this bridge, and why her father had not come to get her. All she remembered was getting off the large boat and getting lost in the crowd. That was months ago and she could not figure out why anyone would want to come to this awful country. Home was not that bad and she knew people there. Everyone spoke the same language, not like this Amer-a-ka. No one could understand her and the big man she met under the bridge was nice most of the time but he seemed a little bit, well, confused. Oh, Papa! Please come and get me!

Under the bridge was dry, and with the barrel of burning scrap wood going, it almost seemed warm. There were a whole crowd of animals that had found their way to the campsite. Yussel had a liking for small animals. Dogs and cats mostly, but a few birds and some rabbits made up the biggest part of the crowd. A man pulled up in a van the other night and let about a dozen monkeys and hamsters loose. Every day he would share some of the food he had scrounged for them with the animals and the herd seemed to behave according to the way the big man directed. They circled the cart when it came under the bridge and playfully ran around the big man and jumped in the air to catch the treats he threw. In his scrounging that day he had found a large bag of dried dog food, and several boxes of animal treats. Everyone would get a good meal that night.

They had been staying at the mission about a mile away since the weather had gotten cold, but the last four nights they did not make it there in time to get beds. The colder the weather the more people showed up to get out of it. All they could get the last four days was a couple of blankets and some soup in a cup. Fortunately, there were different people handing out blankets so they had gathered enough to beat back some of the cold.

There had been some sheet metal like they used to make portable buildings in the trash at the lumberyard down the road and Yussel had brought some back and built a three sided building to help the girl get out of the weather. He propped it up with some pieces of pipe and strapped it together with plastic ties and twine he’d scavenged from a construction site. He could have been working there but did not like the way the other workers made fun of him. After the state school he worked for a man that built houses and learned how to work with his hands. There was always, sadly, someone that would call him stupid or retarded and it made him mad. He was not stupid, or retarded. It just took him a little while to understand some things. He was plenty smart. He took care of this little girl after he found her being messed with by those pimps on the stroll. She did not even know what they wanted from her. Yussel knew what they were trying to do, and made them leave her alone. When he got mad, most people ran away from him. Ekanta never felt scared around him. He was the only person who made her feel safe. Him and Papa, but Papa was nowhere to be found.

Ekanta moaned softly and the big man reached into the cart and picked her up. He laid her in the shelter, and he realized that she had wet herself. He got some paper towels out of the cart that were not too dirty and gave it to her to clean herself. She sat up and, suddenly. screamed and held her belly. Breathing hard she implored Yussel to get her some help, but he could not understand her words.

D-jack, the junkie that sometimes stayed under the bridge with them came up to the shed and, after looking at Ekanta, told the big man that she needed a doctor. She was going to have a baby and it looked like it might be soon. He told Yussel what to do, and that he would go and get help.

The baby came about midnight. It seemed funny to Yussel that the animals did not scatter when the girl screamed. They just sat or lay at the entrance to the little building as if it was the most natural thing in the world. The child did not cry or make any fuss. After cleaning him, Ekanta held him and both her and the child smiled at the big man washing the blood off his arms. He smiled back, and went to get them all something to eat.

Standing up from the building Yussel turned to find three men, a cop, a small Indian man holding a picture of a young girl, and D-jack. The junkie explained to the cop about the big man and the girl. The small Indian man slowly peered into the makeshift building and began to cry. Ekanta saw the man and also began to cry, “Papa!” she cried. The cop got on his handheld radio and called for an ambulance.

The street light, which had been burnt out for weeks, suddenly came on and shined brighter than the few other lights on the street. The folks under the bridge, astonished, stared at it in amazement. All of a sudden it began to glimmer and sparkle. From time to time it would flare bright similar to the way traffic signals do after midnight. As the paramedics were loading the girl and the baby into the ambulance they told the cop that if not for the light, they might have drove on. Like a bright star in the sky…it was how they found the spot.