While trolling the Web for a likely topic for my blog today, I stumbled across a real winner on CNN.com. It caught my eye with the perplexing headline: Poll: 52 percent approve of God's job performance. That practically begged for further investigation.
It seems a North Carolina-based firm called Public Policy Polling conducted interviews of a cross-section of 928 American voters using automated telephone technology between July 15-17. The company is, it seems, notorious for generating polls that produce controversial results.
The poll question that led to the response was, If God exists, do you approve or disapprove of its job performance?
The survey revealed that only 52 percent of those surveyed approved of God's performance though just a scant 9 percent disapproved.
When asked to weigh in on a variety of issues God is responsible for, the Almighty fared somewhat better. 71 percent of those surveyed approved of God's creation of the universe, 56 percent approved of its (his/her?) handling of the animal kingdom and a split 50 percent agreed with God's management of natural disasters.
As with many who read this news, I am neither surprised that such a poll was taken or even of the results of said poll. Having been in the employ of the US government for nearly 14 years, I am WELL aware that numbers can be juggled to arrive at almost any desired result. The manipulation of statistical data may not be within the sole purview of the federal government, but you still have to bow to their expertise with such. That being said, it's nice to see that private sector companies continue to exercise their Constitutional right to jack around with numbers too.
I suppose what surprised me most about this juicy little newsbit was not the topic so much as the over 2000 reader comments it inspired. I will say that, while I don't lay any claims to being a devout Christian, I was raised in a Christian home environment. I should also say that certain recent manifestions of providence have led me to believe I MAY not be giving Him enough credit for having a hand in my life.
What surprised and dismayed me was the sheer vehemence of some of the comments. Those commenting ran the gamut from rabid fundamentalist Christians to more mainstream Christians, from atheists/agnostics to assorted, obviously, non-Christian respondents of what faiths I am unsure.
Many of those commenting invited anyone who sought to question God, His doings or to ascribe human frailties such as poor performance to the Almighty, to toast our tootsies in the eternal fires of the Pit. This was offest nicely (said sarcastically) by an equal number of comments seeking to undermine God and Christianity as flawed from the inception. The vitriol and fervor threatened to melt the display of my phone.
So, please allow me to weigh in on my opinion of this all. As regards the poll, I admit to believing in a Supreme Being with a highly-advanced sense of humor. I believe in a God who would look on such a poll and its results and, with a hearty chuckle, wave his hand in a dismissive gesture meant to convey, "Those wacky kids!"
Here is the bottom line then. I do not care what your religion or belief system may be. I have no interest in promoting or denying the free practice of your religion as you see fit to worship. I believe that any religion or belief system that embraces the tenets of peace, love, faith, hope and charity can not be a bad thing for mankind in general. Finally, as when usually confronted with the sheer animosity that exists between the myriad sects of believers added to by the derision of the nay-sayers and non-believers, I am forced to pose a question that is deceptively complex in its simplicity. Can't we all just get along?!?
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Three Life Lessons From Labyrinth
Devoted (or even casual) readers at The Vault will know that my family and I recently moved to a new home. So far, we like the place quite a bit and are settling in nicely. This is not to say that everything is quite sorted out yet. The biggest shortcoming that remains right now is that we are still without cable television and the Internet. I won't bore you with the nuts and bolts details of that. I will say that it has renewed our appreciation for our DVD player and for our esoteric collection of discs.
A few nights ago, I was sorting through a box and stumbled on one of my favorite movies of all time, to whit, Labyrinth. If you have never seen it, I heartily recommend it as an excellent movie for all ages. Of course, if you haven't seen the movie then you may not fully appreciate my post today. Sorry for that.
I first saw the movie as a new theatrical release in 1986. Having been a long-standing fan of both David Bowie and of all things Muppet, I instantly fell in love with the movie. It was a fun combination of action, adventure and fantasy, intermingled with superb music and masterful muppetry.
It wasn't until a few years later when I got my first VHS copy of the movie (no snickering about my age) that I realized that there was far more going on in the movie than I had first realized. Intermingled with the muppets and the fantasy, amidst the adventure and the music, the writers had managed to shoe-horn in some very insightful and eternal truths. Hidden in this fun romp were lessons about Life and how one could live better with a better understanding of certain things.
So, my post today will consist of Three Life Lessons from Labyrinth. I hope that you recognize and are reminded of them as much as I was.
1.) Not Everyone Who Gives You What You
Want Has Your Best Interests In Mind.
Sarah, the 15-year heroine, spends her time in the fantasy world of her book, Labyrinth. Reading the book and acting out scenes from it feeds her need for magic and wonder in her, otherwise, boring and mundane world. At the movie's beginning, she rushes home only to find that her parents are going out and she is stuck watching her baby brother, Toby. She finds out her beloved teddy, Lancelot, has been taken from her room and given to Toby. She makes Toby cry from her outburst of teenage anger at the violation of her space. Unable to handle the crying, she tells him a story from her book of a girl who becomes so tired of her brother's crying that she asked the goblins to come and take him away. She ends her story by turning off the lights and saying, "I wish the goblins would take you away. Right now!" To her amazement and horror, Jareth, the Goblin King, and his minions DO take poor Toby. The mortified Sarah begs Jareth to return the baby. Jareth makes a deal with her that if she can solve his maze, the Labyrinth, within 13 hours he will return Toby. If she fails to do so, he will keep the baby...forever. Sarah realizes that, by granting her desire, Jareth has made her an unwilling player in his twisted "game". His only reason for doing as she asked was to solidify her belief in him and his powers. Thus begins her harrowing and dangerous quest to undo the damage wrought by a, seemingly, innocent wish. I daresay we have all had the truly unfortunate experience of being given that which (we thought) we desired most from an unexpected benefactor only to find ourselves cruelly ensnared in the strings attached to the "favor". It is never a pleasant thing but seems to be an inescapable rite of passage in Life.
2.) Life Is Not Fair.
In the early scenes of the movie, Sarah is rushing home when she is drenched by a sudden downpour of rain. She wails, "It's not fair!!" This is a persistent complaint from Sarah as the conditions of the Labyrinth keep changing and foiling her progress. She even complains to Jareth that his changing of the terms of the game isn't fair. Jareth jibes to her, "You do say that quite a lot. I wonder what your basis for comparison is??" At that point, it is as if a lightbulb pops on above her head. Sarah realizes that whether a situation is fair or not has nothing to do with the fact that the situation still exists and must be dealt with. I don't recall when, exactly, said lightbulb popped on over my own head but it still shines brightly to this day. Anyone else out there familiar with the harsh glare that bulb can cast? I would venture to say most of you are.
3.) Nobody Has Any Power Over You
That You Do Not Give Them.
Immediately after Jareth takes Toby away he tries to dissuade Sarah from trying to get him back. He tempts her with one of his magical crystals KNOWING it will not alter her resolve. He knows she will not abandon her brother, and steers her down a path of his chosing. As soon as Sarah undertakes the challenge, she is under Jareth's sway. The Goblin King is a fictional character whose magic and his very existence are dependant on Sarah's belief in him. Throughout the Labyrinth, Sarah is tempted and tormented by the, seemingly, limitless scope of Jareth's magic. In the climactic final scene of the movie, Jareth makes a final impassioned plea for Sarah to abandon her quest and remain with him. In a flash of insight, Sarah breaks his hold by uttering a line from her book, "You have no power over me!!" Her realization and the act of affirming his hidden weakness ends his control and Sarah and Toby are returned safely home. We have all felt ourselves, at some point, cast in the role of unwilling pawns. We have all felt the hopelessness and despair of being victims of circumstances that we were convinced were beyond our ability to alter. It is another sad rite of passage in Life. An unfortunate number of people never do seem to grasp the dea but I hope none of you are in that number. We all have within us the seeds of greatness. We all have worth and free will and the innate ability to become every bit as great and powerful as we can envision ourselves to be.
This ends my post on the Life Lessons From Labyrinth (for now). The movie offers many more gems of wisdom and, like Sarah, I would imagine I will have no choice but to venture back into the Labyrinth to extract more of them at some point. Be Well and Be Empowered my friends!!
A few nights ago, I was sorting through a box and stumbled on one of my favorite movies of all time, to whit, Labyrinth. If you have never seen it, I heartily recommend it as an excellent movie for all ages. Of course, if you haven't seen the movie then you may not fully appreciate my post today. Sorry for that.
I first saw the movie as a new theatrical release in 1986. Having been a long-standing fan of both David Bowie and of all things Muppet, I instantly fell in love with the movie. It was a fun combination of action, adventure and fantasy, intermingled with superb music and masterful muppetry.
It wasn't until a few years later when I got my first VHS copy of the movie (no snickering about my age) that I realized that there was far more going on in the movie than I had first realized. Intermingled with the muppets and the fantasy, amidst the adventure and the music, the writers had managed to shoe-horn in some very insightful and eternal truths. Hidden in this fun romp were lessons about Life and how one could live better with a better understanding of certain things.
So, my post today will consist of Three Life Lessons from Labyrinth. I hope that you recognize and are reminded of them as much as I was.
1.) Not Everyone Who Gives You What You
Want Has Your Best Interests In Mind.
Sarah, the 15-year heroine, spends her time in the fantasy world of her book, Labyrinth. Reading the book and acting out scenes from it feeds her need for magic and wonder in her, otherwise, boring and mundane world. At the movie's beginning, she rushes home only to find that her parents are going out and she is stuck watching her baby brother, Toby. She finds out her beloved teddy, Lancelot, has been taken from her room and given to Toby. She makes Toby cry from her outburst of teenage anger at the violation of her space. Unable to handle the crying, she tells him a story from her book of a girl who becomes so tired of her brother's crying that she asked the goblins to come and take him away. She ends her story by turning off the lights and saying, "I wish the goblins would take you away. Right now!" To her amazement and horror, Jareth, the Goblin King, and his minions DO take poor Toby. The mortified Sarah begs Jareth to return the baby. Jareth makes a deal with her that if she can solve his maze, the Labyrinth, within 13 hours he will return Toby. If she fails to do so, he will keep the baby...forever. Sarah realizes that, by granting her desire, Jareth has made her an unwilling player in his twisted "game". His only reason for doing as she asked was to solidify her belief in him and his powers. Thus begins her harrowing and dangerous quest to undo the damage wrought by a, seemingly, innocent wish. I daresay we have all had the truly unfortunate experience of being given that which (we thought) we desired most from an unexpected benefactor only to find ourselves cruelly ensnared in the strings attached to the "favor". It is never a pleasant thing but seems to be an inescapable rite of passage in Life.
2.) Life Is Not Fair.
In the early scenes of the movie, Sarah is rushing home when she is drenched by a sudden downpour of rain. She wails, "It's not fair!!" This is a persistent complaint from Sarah as the conditions of the Labyrinth keep changing and foiling her progress. She even complains to Jareth that his changing of the terms of the game isn't fair. Jareth jibes to her, "You do say that quite a lot. I wonder what your basis for comparison is??" At that point, it is as if a lightbulb pops on above her head. Sarah realizes that whether a situation is fair or not has nothing to do with the fact that the situation still exists and must be dealt with. I don't recall when, exactly, said lightbulb popped on over my own head but it still shines brightly to this day. Anyone else out there familiar with the harsh glare that bulb can cast? I would venture to say most of you are.
3.) Nobody Has Any Power Over You
That You Do Not Give Them.
Immediately after Jareth takes Toby away he tries to dissuade Sarah from trying to get him back. He tempts her with one of his magical crystals KNOWING it will not alter her resolve. He knows she will not abandon her brother, and steers her down a path of his chosing. As soon as Sarah undertakes the challenge, she is under Jareth's sway. The Goblin King is a fictional character whose magic and his very existence are dependant on Sarah's belief in him. Throughout the Labyrinth, Sarah is tempted and tormented by the, seemingly, limitless scope of Jareth's magic. In the climactic final scene of the movie, Jareth makes a final impassioned plea for Sarah to abandon her quest and remain with him. In a flash of insight, Sarah breaks his hold by uttering a line from her book, "You have no power over me!!" Her realization and the act of affirming his hidden weakness ends his control and Sarah and Toby are returned safely home. We have all felt ourselves, at some point, cast in the role of unwilling pawns. We have all felt the hopelessness and despair of being victims of circumstances that we were convinced were beyond our ability to alter. It is another sad rite of passage in Life. An unfortunate number of people never do seem to grasp the dea but I hope none of you are in that number. We all have within us the seeds of greatness. We all have worth and free will and the innate ability to become every bit as great and powerful as we can envision ourselves to be.
This ends my post on the Life Lessons From Labyrinth (for now). The movie offers many more gems of wisdom and, like Sarah, I would imagine I will have no choice but to venture back into the Labyrinth to extract more of them at some point. Be Well and Be Empowered my friends!!
Monday, July 25, 2011
A Summer Poem
I thought to pen a sonnet or a pleasant little ode
A verse of knights so daring and the mighty steeds they rode.
A tribute to the faeries and the forests of the night
But sadly not a paltry little couplet could I write.
Humidity assaulted me like blankets wet and thick.
My brain had been removed and in its place there was a brick.
Unpleasant dusty clouds swirled up brought on by lack of rain
And all my creativity was lost and gone again.
I languished for the longest time in pools of my own sweat
The death of half-seen visions filling me up with regret.
The shards of dreams unrealized lay broken at my feet.
The helpless, harmless victims of the unrelenting heat.
I cried for every fallen dream a somber requiem
For each of those rough stones had promise to become a gem.
But Summer in its jealous way would let no other shine
And so destroyed the promise of a poem rather fine.
But then the clouds rolled in and forced the brutal Sun to flee.
They burst with weight of raindrops plopping down with symmetry.
A subtle song, a pattern to each drop that touched my face
Transformed my mood and led me back to my creative place.
And like that healing torrent, words came rushing from my pen.
I knew what I must write and so I started off again
Accompanied by bird song and the breeze's gentle sigh
A poet rose reborn and stretched his thoughts up to the sky.
A verse of knights so daring and the mighty steeds they rode.
A tribute to the faeries and the forests of the night
But sadly not a paltry little couplet could I write.
Humidity assaulted me like blankets wet and thick.
My brain had been removed and in its place there was a brick.
Unpleasant dusty clouds swirled up brought on by lack of rain
And all my creativity was lost and gone again.
I languished for the longest time in pools of my own sweat
The death of half-seen visions filling me up with regret.
The shards of dreams unrealized lay broken at my feet.
The helpless, harmless victims of the unrelenting heat.
I cried for every fallen dream a somber requiem
For each of those rough stones had promise to become a gem.
But Summer in its jealous way would let no other shine
And so destroyed the promise of a poem rather fine.
But then the clouds rolled in and forced the brutal Sun to flee.
They burst with weight of raindrops plopping down with symmetry.
A subtle song, a pattern to each drop that touched my face
Transformed my mood and led me back to my creative place.
And like that healing torrent, words came rushing from my pen.
I knew what I must write and so I started off again
Accompanied by bird song and the breeze's gentle sigh
A poet rose reborn and stretched his thoughts up to the sky.
Saturday, July 23, 2011
The Process Continues
I plan to write another fifty thousand words today.
I have to write so many since I'll edit half away.
By sundown I can write a dozen chapters maybe more.
I don't mind if my butt's asleep or if my hands are sore.
I know it's still not everything I wish that it would be.
It's for that very reason I call it WIP.
And while I'm making progress it sure is a lot of work.
I'd better put another pot of coffee on to perk.
I'm straying off of topic and the subplot's rather lame.
I think I just decided I don't like my hero's name.
And yet I keep on rowing in a stream of consciousness.
I'll fix the plot holes later with a wee bit of finesse.
I've lost my story outline for the third day in a row.
It makes it hard to figure how this latest bit should go.
My organizing skills I must most surely work upon.
As soon as I discover where my storage disk has gone.
I'm fairly certain if I can continue at this pace
I'll finish up my novel while there's still a human race.
Of course by then there may no longer be an Amazon
Or Smashwords I can use to post my masterpiece upon.
I have to write so many since I'll edit half away.
By sundown I can write a dozen chapters maybe more.
I don't mind if my butt's asleep or if my hands are sore.
I know it's still not everything I wish that it would be.
It's for that very reason I call it WIP.
And while I'm making progress it sure is a lot of work.
I'd better put another pot of coffee on to perk.
I'm straying off of topic and the subplot's rather lame.
I think I just decided I don't like my hero's name.
And yet I keep on rowing in a stream of consciousness.
I'll fix the plot holes later with a wee bit of finesse.
I've lost my story outline for the third day in a row.
It makes it hard to figure how this latest bit should go.
My organizing skills I must most surely work upon.
As soon as I discover where my storage disk has gone.
I'm fairly certain if I can continue at this pace
I'll finish up my novel while there's still a human race.
Of course by then there may no longer be an Amazon
Or Smashwords I can use to post my masterpiece upon.
Friday, July 22, 2011
Temporal Anomaly
Detective Lieutenant Adam Jacoby sat at his battered desk in the squadroom of the 24th Precinct reading the coroner's report on victim #3. As he scanned the pages, a vague sense of uneasiness prodded the back of his mind relentlessly. Jacoby scowled as he realized he was reading over the same paragraph for the third time. He froze in mid-scowl and wondered, Oh shit! Is it happening again?!? His hands trembled as he set the brown folder down on the desk. No...no it wasn't. Jacoby sighed audibly.
It wasn't another temporal anomoly after all. Jacob scowled again at the thought of a temporal anomoly being real. He wasn't even really sure if that's what had been happening to him for the last three days. But fuck all!! What else would you call it?? Jacoby would be the first to admit he was no Rhodes scholar but you didn't make lieutenant in a major metro Homicide unit without acquiring a LOT of esoteric knowledge along the way. It was the only thing that made sense...unlikely as it might be.
His first thought had been that it was a stress reaction to this latest case he was working. After all, the bastard had carved up six women in two weeks without leaving behind a single bit of forensic evidence! No, that was bullshit. Yeah, the case was a true ballbuster but he had worked plenty of high-profile cases in his 22 years on the force. He knew what stress felt like and this was something else entirely.
Monday had been the first...anomaly?...he recalled. He had been typing some notes on the case when his telephone rang. He reached for it and...SNAP!...his hand froze mid-reach. His hand, Hell! His entire body was frozen as if he were suddenly statuary, not a living, breathing person. His mind was working overtime but the rest of the world...stopped. Jacoby couldn't even move his eyes but he sensed no movement around him. He could see Markowitz, three desks over, frozen in the act of eating a doughnut. His mind reeled as he remained...trapped...in time. How much was impossible to tell, but he KNEW time was passing. He sang all of a round of 99 Bottles of Beer. He recited the names of all 215 rookies from his Academy class. He did the multiplication tables up to 14. He...SNAP!...his hand snatched the phone receiver he had been reaching for. Jacoby dropped it like a hot rock.
His head whipped around, searching for any telltale indication that something HAD, in fact, happened. All that he saw was the usual assortment of activities that went on in the squadroom on any given day. He was totally dumbfounded. His thoughts blurred with attempts to explain what had just happened.
The tinny sound of a voice coming from the dropped receiver and, that easily, he banished the incident from his conscious mind and returned to work. When the remainder of a very long day passed without incident, he had convinced himself it had been a daydream or some such and gone home.
The next anomaly had been on Wednesday afternoon. Jacoby was methodically placing pins into a large map. Each pin corresponded to the last known location of every woman reported missing in the area for the last 90 days. Jacoby frowned at the sheer number of pins...of women..possibly involved with this case. Disgusted, he snatched up the now-cold burger off of the table and took a large mouthful of greasy meat and cheese. As he chewed, he reminded himself that you had to keep fuel in the machine when you were...SNAP!...working.
It was happening again!!, he raged. He was rooted to the spot, immobilized, the burger inches from his face. He sensed rather than tasted the food in his mouth. As before, he could perceive nothing around him but saw other officers similarly motionless. What the fuck is going on?!? he screamed mentally.
Jacoby exhausted his formidable arsenal of invectives before he grew bored with it. His mind, instead, turned to his two-plus decades of solving puzzles. As before, his perception that time was passing could not be confirmed. Jacoby's analytical mind crossed off one possibility after another. He was unsure when he had locked on to the possibility of a temporal anomaly. He had initially allowed himself a cerebral chuckle at the stupidity of the concept but, after reflecting, realized that it had to be what was taking place. He remembered some old thing about when you eliminate the shit that makes sense whatever is left HAD to be true...or something like that.
He had no idea what to do or who he should tell about this. He couldn't envision his captain getting behind him on this. Jacoby let his mind wander, knowing that eventually the anomaly would...SNAP!...end.
He nearly choked on the greasy burger as the world returned to normal. He forced it down and then walked to the large dry-erase board by the door and swiped his name off of the "ON DUTY" side and marked the "OFF" box. He drove home and slept soundly with the help of a bottle of scotch.
Jacoby awoke with a fuzzy head but also with a plan. After his shift today he would drive over to the University and see what the eggheads there would make of his belief in having witnessed theoretical physics made real. He worked that day with renewed vigor. Silently fearing another anomaly, he buried his anxiety in good old-fashioned work.
As the day wound down with no unusual circumstances, Jacoby began to relax. Maybe the universe had hiccuped a few times, but all seemed back to normal now. Jacoby snatched up the phone on the first ring. The captain wanted him in his office. They had the first major lead in the case. Jacoby grinned as he hung up the phone and snatched up his jacket. He almost sprinted to the stairs leading up to the captain's...SNAP!...office.
As Jacoby stood with one foot on the stairs, he was as trapped in place as the times before. But while his body remained in place, Jacoby's analytical, hard-boiled cop mind fled elsewhere. His body could not follow the path of his sanity as it ran screaming and gibbering away through a mental landscape devoid of time and order.
Meanwhile, not that far away from where Jacoby stood, Miriam had just switched off the electronic book reader with a SNAP! and placed it on the nightstand. Sorry Jacoby, as interesting as your meeting with your boss might be, I need sleep. But don't worry...we can pick up RIGHT where we left off tomorrow. Right??
It wasn't another temporal anomoly after all. Jacob scowled again at the thought of a temporal anomoly being real. He wasn't even really sure if that's what had been happening to him for the last three days. But fuck all!! What else would you call it?? Jacoby would be the first to admit he was no Rhodes scholar but you didn't make lieutenant in a major metro Homicide unit without acquiring a LOT of esoteric knowledge along the way. It was the only thing that made sense...unlikely as it might be.
His first thought had been that it was a stress reaction to this latest case he was working. After all, the bastard had carved up six women in two weeks without leaving behind a single bit of forensic evidence! No, that was bullshit. Yeah, the case was a true ballbuster but he had worked plenty of high-profile cases in his 22 years on the force. He knew what stress felt like and this was something else entirely.
Monday had been the first...anomaly?...he recalled. He had been typing some notes on the case when his telephone rang. He reached for it and...SNAP!...his hand froze mid-reach. His hand, Hell! His entire body was frozen as if he were suddenly statuary, not a living, breathing person. His mind was working overtime but the rest of the world...stopped. Jacoby couldn't even move his eyes but he sensed no movement around him. He could see Markowitz, three desks over, frozen in the act of eating a doughnut. His mind reeled as he remained...trapped...in time. How much was impossible to tell, but he KNEW time was passing. He sang all of a round of 99 Bottles of Beer. He recited the names of all 215 rookies from his Academy class. He did the multiplication tables up to 14. He...SNAP!...his hand snatched the phone receiver he had been reaching for. Jacoby dropped it like a hot rock.
His head whipped around, searching for any telltale indication that something HAD, in fact, happened. All that he saw was the usual assortment of activities that went on in the squadroom on any given day. He was totally dumbfounded. His thoughts blurred with attempts to explain what had just happened.
The tinny sound of a voice coming from the dropped receiver and, that easily, he banished the incident from his conscious mind and returned to work. When the remainder of a very long day passed without incident, he had convinced himself it had been a daydream or some such and gone home.
The next anomaly had been on Wednesday afternoon. Jacoby was methodically placing pins into a large map. Each pin corresponded to the last known location of every woman reported missing in the area for the last 90 days. Jacoby frowned at the sheer number of pins...of women..possibly involved with this case. Disgusted, he snatched up the now-cold burger off of the table and took a large mouthful of greasy meat and cheese. As he chewed, he reminded himself that you had to keep fuel in the machine when you were...SNAP!...working.
It was happening again!!, he raged. He was rooted to the spot, immobilized, the burger inches from his face. He sensed rather than tasted the food in his mouth. As before, he could perceive nothing around him but saw other officers similarly motionless. What the fuck is going on?!? he screamed mentally.
Jacoby exhausted his formidable arsenal of invectives before he grew bored with it. His mind, instead, turned to his two-plus decades of solving puzzles. As before, his perception that time was passing could not be confirmed. Jacoby's analytical mind crossed off one possibility after another. He was unsure when he had locked on to the possibility of a temporal anomaly. He had initially allowed himself a cerebral chuckle at the stupidity of the concept but, after reflecting, realized that it had to be what was taking place. He remembered some old thing about when you eliminate the shit that makes sense whatever is left HAD to be true...or something like that.
He had no idea what to do or who he should tell about this. He couldn't envision his captain getting behind him on this. Jacoby let his mind wander, knowing that eventually the anomaly would...SNAP!...end.
He nearly choked on the greasy burger as the world returned to normal. He forced it down and then walked to the large dry-erase board by the door and swiped his name off of the "ON DUTY" side and marked the "OFF" box. He drove home and slept soundly with the help of a bottle of scotch.
Jacoby awoke with a fuzzy head but also with a plan. After his shift today he would drive over to the University and see what the eggheads there would make of his belief in having witnessed theoretical physics made real. He worked that day with renewed vigor. Silently fearing another anomaly, he buried his anxiety in good old-fashioned work.
As the day wound down with no unusual circumstances, Jacoby began to relax. Maybe the universe had hiccuped a few times, but all seemed back to normal now. Jacoby snatched up the phone on the first ring. The captain wanted him in his office. They had the first major lead in the case. Jacoby grinned as he hung up the phone and snatched up his jacket. He almost sprinted to the stairs leading up to the captain's...SNAP!...office.
As Jacoby stood with one foot on the stairs, he was as trapped in place as the times before. But while his body remained in place, Jacoby's analytical, hard-boiled cop mind fled elsewhere. His body could not follow the path of his sanity as it ran screaming and gibbering away through a mental landscape devoid of time and order.
Meanwhile, not that far away from where Jacoby stood, Miriam had just switched off the electronic book reader with a SNAP! and placed it on the nightstand. Sorry Jacoby, as interesting as your meeting with your boss might be, I need sleep. But don't worry...we can pick up RIGHT where we left off tomorrow. Right??
Saturday, July 16, 2011
I'm NEVER...EVER Moving Again...Seriously
This will be the third and final post that I will be doing to chronicle the trials and tribulations of our move. As with previous moves that we have done it has been fraught with petty complications of one sort or another. I have come to accept that this is all just part and parcel of the whole process.
Today finds us with numerous unfinished tasks yet to be completed. We have until Tuesday morning to finish everything up and make THERE become HERE. It will all get done. It always does. I think my family and I do some of our best work with the clock ticking down and the buzzer about to sound. It's how we roll and probably how we always will. We sit down, formulate concrete plans of action and then proceed to scrap them one by one and fly by the seats of our collective pants. Unorthodox? Of course. Effective? Mostly. Inevitable? Definitely! It is what it is.
We are mostly down to the grunt work of taking boxes and bags to the trusty van and schlepping them to the new place. We may not QUITE be to that phase...but not far off. By tomorrow night that will all be over but the moaning from sore muscles. Such is to be expected but we'll still somehow manage to be surprised.
Furniture? Major Appliances? Well...those are still works in progress. We MAY (or may not) have the use of a friend's truck tomorrow. We MAY (or may not) have additional strong backs to help us move things. We MAY (or may not) just run away screaming and toss ourselves off of a cliff like psychotic lemmings. Half of the fun is in the unknown of it all. Somehow it will all work out. It always does.
One way or another, Tuesday morning THERE will have become HERE and we will witness the transformation of a house into a home. Pictures will be hung (crookedly most likely), knick knacks and such will be placed in locations they probably won't be in the next week.
There will be the joys of hanging curtains and blinds, changing or replacing an infinite number of lightbulbs and such. There will be the ceremonial stringing of extension cords and power strips (never enough outlets). It will involve a bazillion menial, annoying and necessary chores that will all need done and will get done. Somehow...some way...right?
The most important thing of all is this: It doesn't really matter which of our things may (or may not) survive this process of HERE to THERE-ness. Things are just...things. Growing up poor and spending most of our lives in the lower middle classes has made it far easier for us to not be thing-oriented people. A perpetual state of not having quite what we want is also how we roll.
What THERE will have that HERE had is us. Just...plain...us. We are wacky, abnormal, unorganized, chaotic people that all mixed up and mashed together make this neat thing called...a family. And in the final analysis, that is the only thing needed to turn a house into a home. It takes the love, the laughter, the tears and the trials of a family to make a home. And THAT, at least, we got!!
Today finds us with numerous unfinished tasks yet to be completed. We have until Tuesday morning to finish everything up and make THERE become HERE. It will all get done. It always does. I think my family and I do some of our best work with the clock ticking down and the buzzer about to sound. It's how we roll and probably how we always will. We sit down, formulate concrete plans of action and then proceed to scrap them one by one and fly by the seats of our collective pants. Unorthodox? Of course. Effective? Mostly. Inevitable? Definitely! It is what it is.
We are mostly down to the grunt work of taking boxes and bags to the trusty van and schlepping them to the new place. We may not QUITE be to that phase...but not far off. By tomorrow night that will all be over but the moaning from sore muscles. Such is to be expected but we'll still somehow manage to be surprised.
Furniture? Major Appliances? Well...those are still works in progress. We MAY (or may not) have the use of a friend's truck tomorrow. We MAY (or may not) have additional strong backs to help us move things. We MAY (or may not) just run away screaming and toss ourselves off of a cliff like psychotic lemmings. Half of the fun is in the unknown of it all. Somehow it will all work out. It always does.
One way or another, Tuesday morning THERE will have become HERE and we will witness the transformation of a house into a home. Pictures will be hung (crookedly most likely), knick knacks and such will be placed in locations they probably won't be in the next week.
There will be the joys of hanging curtains and blinds, changing or replacing an infinite number of lightbulbs and such. There will be the ceremonial stringing of extension cords and power strips (never enough outlets). It will involve a bazillion menial, annoying and necessary chores that will all need done and will get done. Somehow...some way...right?
The most important thing of all is this: It doesn't really matter which of our things may (or may not) survive this process of HERE to THERE-ness. Things are just...things. Growing up poor and spending most of our lives in the lower middle classes has made it far easier for us to not be thing-oriented people. A perpetual state of not having quite what we want is also how we roll.
What THERE will have that HERE had is us. Just...plain...us. We are wacky, abnormal, unorganized, chaotic people that all mixed up and mashed together make this neat thing called...a family. And in the final analysis, that is the only thing needed to turn a house into a home. It takes the love, the laughter, the tears and the trials of a family to make a home. And THAT, at least, we got!!
Friday, July 15, 2011
Displacement Anxiety II
To My Readers: I apologize for the inconvenience, but I am still blogging though my not-so-smart phone and so can not insert links in to my blog today. If you have not read the previous portion of this story, you may
find it at: http://www.jeffreyhollar.com/2011/07/displacement-anxiety.html
As the bus rumbled along its route towards her job, Bernadette fumbled in her purse, finding and swallowing various medications. As she left the bus, she was firmly ensconced in a chemical blanket of artificial calmness. She began to actually relax as she entered the office where she worked with no further hallucinations.
She settled in at her desk and sighed audibly. The data processing job that Brookwood had arranged for her was mindless, boring and repetitive. It did have the saving grace of requiring her complete undivided attention. The structure and the regularity of the work focused her mind outside of her own head and that was good. She didn't do well if she spent too much time without external stimuli. She knew that and welcomed the endless columns of numbers she input as friends.
She dove into the work with more than her usual gusto and her mind went dormant to the rhythm of clicking keys. She appeared visibly more relaxed and at ease. An indeterminate amount of time passed before an unexplained sound intruded into her thoughts. She stopped inputting the numbers and stretched. Her eyes closed as she rubbed her temples absently. It would be a lot easier to get things done, she mused, if it wasn't for that damned insipid accordion music!!
Accordion music?!? Bernadette's eyes snapped open to find herself, not at her desk, but at a table at a street cafe! Her head whipped side to side, taking in the people seated about her, all of them laughing and chatting as people would in such a setting. She heard and then saw the young man strolling towards her with the accordion grinding out its tones. He smiled and nodded his bereted head as he passed her. Bernadette's hands flew to the sides of her head as if she could squeeze hard enough to expel what her senses showed her. Her head lolled backwards as a scream bubbled up inside of her and exploded out with unimaginable force. It seemed to last hours or days and would not stop until her lungs emptied and her throat was raw.
She gulped air in and realized then that she was surrounded, not by patrons of a Paris street cafe but by a gaggle of her very worried co-workers and her boss, Mrs. Finley. Bernadette pushed past them all and ran for the office door in a blind panic. So intent was she on escaping this latest hallucination, she did not even see the small stool the clerks used to reach the upper shelves of files.
Her shin collided with the hard metal stool, tripping her up and sending her flying through the air. She struck the wall with a sickening thud and fell to the floor unconscious. Mrs Finley dialed 911 while she fumbled through her Rolodex for the number to Brookwood Sanitarium. She didn't care HOW much the state subsidized the girl's wage, enough was enough!!
Bernadette swam up out of a haze of confusion to find herself in bed. She snuggled down into sheets and sighed contentedly. A dream, she thought, just a silly dream. Her ears registered the tread of heavy feet on the floor nearby. Her eyes opened slowly and came to rest on the bulky form of Nurse Callaway. But...that meant....Aww fuck!!! She was back at Brookwood!!! That meant she MUST have the damned Displacement Anxiety shit and they had sent her back...HERE. She drew her knees to her chest, clutching them and rocking as she sobbed uncontrollably. She kept on rocking, sobbing, and chanting No, No, No for a very, very long time.
Amanda sat and stared at the words on the computer screen. She pushed her chair away from the desk and stretched her tired muscles. It just isn't working out, she told herself. It didn't matter if she wrote the chracter on the beach at San Tropez, at the lodge in Squaw Valley or even at some cheesy Left Bank cafe...her new character Bernadette just didn't seem to...fit. With a groan, she saw the time displayed on her desk clock. She flipped the monitor off and headed to her bedroom. Got to be at the day job in just four hours, she thought. There'd be time to work on the damned story tomorrow.
In the darkened home office, behind the screen of the dormant monitor, a soft, small voice continued to sob and moan the word No for a very, very long time indeed.
find it at: http://www.jeffreyhollar.com/2011/07/displacement-anxiety.html
As the bus rumbled along its route towards her job, Bernadette fumbled in her purse, finding and swallowing various medications. As she left the bus, she was firmly ensconced in a chemical blanket of artificial calmness. She began to actually relax as she entered the office where she worked with no further hallucinations.
She settled in at her desk and sighed audibly. The data processing job that Brookwood had arranged for her was mindless, boring and repetitive. It did have the saving grace of requiring her complete undivided attention. The structure and the regularity of the work focused her mind outside of her own head and that was good. She didn't do well if she spent too much time without external stimuli. She knew that and welcomed the endless columns of numbers she input as friends.
She dove into the work with more than her usual gusto and her mind went dormant to the rhythm of clicking keys. She appeared visibly more relaxed and at ease. An indeterminate amount of time passed before an unexplained sound intruded into her thoughts. She stopped inputting the numbers and stretched. Her eyes closed as she rubbed her temples absently. It would be a lot easier to get things done, she mused, if it wasn't for that damned insipid accordion music!!
Accordion music?!? Bernadette's eyes snapped open to find herself, not at her desk, but at a table at a street cafe! Her head whipped side to side, taking in the people seated about her, all of them laughing and chatting as people would in such a setting. She heard and then saw the young man strolling towards her with the accordion grinding out its tones. He smiled and nodded his bereted head as he passed her. Bernadette's hands flew to the sides of her head as if she could squeeze hard enough to expel what her senses showed her. Her head lolled backwards as a scream bubbled up inside of her and exploded out with unimaginable force. It seemed to last hours or days and would not stop until her lungs emptied and her throat was raw.
She gulped air in and realized then that she was surrounded, not by patrons of a Paris street cafe but by a gaggle of her very worried co-workers and her boss, Mrs. Finley. Bernadette pushed past them all and ran for the office door in a blind panic. So intent was she on escaping this latest hallucination, she did not even see the small stool the clerks used to reach the upper shelves of files.
Her shin collided with the hard metal stool, tripping her up and sending her flying through the air. She struck the wall with a sickening thud and fell to the floor unconscious. Mrs Finley dialed 911 while she fumbled through her Rolodex for the number to Brookwood Sanitarium. She didn't care HOW much the state subsidized the girl's wage, enough was enough!!
Bernadette swam up out of a haze of confusion to find herself in bed. She snuggled down into sheets and sighed contentedly. A dream, she thought, just a silly dream. Her ears registered the tread of heavy feet on the floor nearby. Her eyes opened slowly and came to rest on the bulky form of Nurse Callaway. But...that meant....Aww fuck!!! She was back at Brookwood!!! That meant she MUST have the damned Displacement Anxiety shit and they had sent her back...HERE. She drew her knees to her chest, clutching them and rocking as she sobbed uncontrollably. She kept on rocking, sobbing, and chanting No, No, No for a very, very long time.
Amanda sat and stared at the words on the computer screen. She pushed her chair away from the desk and stretched her tired muscles. It just isn't working out, she told herself. It didn't matter if she wrote the chracter on the beach at San Tropez, at the lodge in Squaw Valley or even at some cheesy Left Bank cafe...her new character Bernadette just didn't seem to...fit. With a groan, she saw the time displayed on her desk clock. She flipped the monitor off and headed to her bedroom. Got to be at the day job in just four hours, she thought. There'd be time to work on the damned story tomorrow.
In the darkened home office, behind the screen of the dormant monitor, a soft, small voice continued to sob and moan the word No for a very, very long time indeed.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
I'm NEVER...EVER Moving Again
In my post yesterday I set out to chronicle the trials and tribulations of moving from one home into a new one. Today we continue that journey; this time focusing on one of the less physically challenging aspects. For the record, mentally challenging tasks are FAR more insidious since Ben-Gay does not work when your brain is sore. Today's topic? the changing over of the utilities.
This task always seems like it will be so much easier than it turns out to actually be. In our case this involves only three items. "Only three" is deceptive because those three seemingly simple transfers of service would have stopped Hercules easily had they been on his trials to win over King Eurystheus.
Since we only have limited options as to who provides these necessary services, I will refrain from making specific mentions of who did what to make our lives more trying. Rest assured that there were plenty of aspects that they shared in common to make my point.
Were he still with us, it would have brought great joy to Einstein to see his theories on the mutability of time proven valid by these utility companies. They bend, fold and manipulate time in ways once thought to be only theoretical. Allow me to provide you an example of just what they are able to do.
With each provider the first step is to speak with a representative to schedule the changeover. Here begins the physics lesson. My first call I made I was informed that due to high call volume my wait time would be about 40 minutes. I figured it might not really take that long and settled in to wait. During that call the automated system informed me the wait time had changed to 45 minutes. Yes...time was moving backwards! Impressive. It eventually occurred to me that it WAS going to take that long and I opted to leave a number they could call me back at when they were free. Two hours later (uhh...what happened to the 45 minute time frame) they were, apparently, free to call me back. Oh noo...why would I think THAT? I answered the phone only to be told by the automated system that I was about to be connected. Some 15 minutes later I was. I'm glad they were "free" to call me back.
What happened next was another exercise in time dilation or displacement. This particular provider told me they could disconnect my service HERE immediately but had nobody available to turn things on THERE until early next week. I specifically asked them NOT to turn the service off HERE because we would need it until THERE was up and running. A very kind lady told me this would be no problem. Her definition of "no problem" differs from mine since early today we realized the service was shut off HERE. A quick (45 minute) time later another nice lady told us there had been a "miscommunication" and they could turn us back on early next week...not very helpful there. So we're learning to live life without ___. (I did promise not to name the guilty parties.)
And thus the ordeal continues. Any of them can stop service HERE at the click of a keystroke but can't start things up THERE without someone coming out to do something which will happen some time in the near-distant future. No matter how often I have done this, I ALWAYS forget that little glitch. I suspect my brain just blocks the memory out as simply too traumatic. Well the trauma is baaack in all of its...traumatic-ness. I'm pretty sure that's NOT a word but I'm just too tired to care. More fun to follow as the ordeal drags on. Pray for us...we may well need Divine Intervention at some point soon.
This task always seems like it will be so much easier than it turns out to actually be. In our case this involves only three items. "Only three" is deceptive because those three seemingly simple transfers of service would have stopped Hercules easily had they been on his trials to win over King Eurystheus.
Since we only have limited options as to who provides these necessary services, I will refrain from making specific mentions of who did what to make our lives more trying. Rest assured that there were plenty of aspects that they shared in common to make my point.
Were he still with us, it would have brought great joy to Einstein to see his theories on the mutability of time proven valid by these utility companies. They bend, fold and manipulate time in ways once thought to be only theoretical. Allow me to provide you an example of just what they are able to do.
With each provider the first step is to speak with a representative to schedule the changeover. Here begins the physics lesson. My first call I made I was informed that due to high call volume my wait time would be about 40 minutes. I figured it might not really take that long and settled in to wait. During that call the automated system informed me the wait time had changed to 45 minutes. Yes...time was moving backwards! Impressive. It eventually occurred to me that it WAS going to take that long and I opted to leave a number they could call me back at when they were free. Two hours later (uhh...what happened to the 45 minute time frame) they were, apparently, free to call me back. Oh noo...why would I think THAT? I answered the phone only to be told by the automated system that I was about to be connected. Some 15 minutes later I was. I'm glad they were "free" to call me back.
What happened next was another exercise in time dilation or displacement. This particular provider told me they could disconnect my service HERE immediately but had nobody available to turn things on THERE until early next week. I specifically asked them NOT to turn the service off HERE because we would need it until THERE was up and running. A very kind lady told me this would be no problem. Her definition of "no problem" differs from mine since early today we realized the service was shut off HERE. A quick (45 minute) time later another nice lady told us there had been a "miscommunication" and they could turn us back on early next week...not very helpful there. So we're learning to live life without ___. (I did promise not to name the guilty parties.)
And thus the ordeal continues. Any of them can stop service HERE at the click of a keystroke but can't start things up THERE without someone coming out to do something which will happen some time in the near-distant future. No matter how often I have done this, I ALWAYS forget that little glitch. I suspect my brain just blocks the memory out as simply too traumatic. Well the trauma is baaack in all of its...traumatic-ness. I'm pretty sure that's NOT a word but I'm just too tired to care. More fun to follow as the ordeal drags on. Pray for us...we may well need Divine Intervention at some point soon.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
I'm NEVER Moving Again
Welcome back to The Vault where things are more than a little bit hectic this week. My family and I are in the process of moving (ugh). Moving always entails far more brutal, pain-inducing tasks than I care for. Disregard the boxing, bagging, and battling with all of the things you do NOT intend to leave behind...that hassle is a given.
The physical process of moving furniture and major appliances is when the real fun begins. Moving furniture is the most basic activity that indicates that the laws of physics are not nearly as cast in stone as the Eggheads would lead one to believe.
This is the moment when you look at a four foot wide couch and a three foot wide door. Your first reaction is, "There is NO way that THIS is gonna fit through THAT!!" Here is where it gets tricky. You realize that THIS is currently on THIS side of THAT, so it must have been possible at some point in time for an alternative state to exist.
(Proof positive of the mutability of physics.) Scientists claim that every experience we have in life imprints itself into our brains. Try accessing the specific memory engrams on how in Hades you got THIS to fit through THAT to begin with. It shouldn't be that hard to recall right? Go ahead...I dare you! Ain't gonna happen folks! Take hope, friends, because inevitably THIS will eventually fit through THAT. It will. It has to. Doesn't it?!?
It does....really. I know the suspense was unbearable there for a bit. After much pain and suffering your large and heavy furniture will make the transposition from HERE to THERE. Then, of course, let's not forget that the whole process will be repeated when THERE has now become HERE. I know...physics is really one confusing bitch kitty eh?
There will be other incidental consequences of flying in the face of these laws by which our reality is governed. You knew there would be...right?? Knuckles will be scraped, bruised, bloodied and possibly...broken. It's going to happen. It's going to hurt...a lot. It's going to result in you saying words you were not intending that your 9-year old should learn...EVER. But it WILL happen. The sooner you realize this and accept it, the sooner the pain will begin and the sooner it can run its course. Brave face there little camper...brave face.
There is hope on the horizon...really. Given the migratory lifestyle I grew accustomed to in the Army I have done this moving thing a time or two. Okay, I have lost track of the number of times. The point is that I have undergone the procedure and survived it more or less intact. Eventually, after much weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth THERE will become HERE and life will be good. We will settle down on our newly-relocated furniture and breathe a collective sigh of relief. We will solemnly swear to ourselves that this is it. We will live, grow old and die RIGHT where we are rather than ever have to go through this again. There is a good chance that we will be lying to ourselves BIG time...but we really, really do mean it this time. Honest...no...really.
Thus I will end my first of a series of posts as I chronicle our ordeal this time around. As a teaser of what is to come...let me offer this. I have NO idea what font this post appears to you in. I don't have the option to insert eye-catching graphics. I can't spell check this post.
Why you ask? I am posting through the somewhat limited capabilities of my not-so-smart phone. I felt it was of sufficient importance for me to share this experience with you to try it by phone. I am not on the trusty laptop thanks, again, to physics. It seems shutting off utility services HERE is far easier than getting them turned on THERE. Enough said for now and thanks for your understanding if this post looks a bit subpar for me. Stop in tomorrow as the ordeal continues.
The physical process of moving furniture and major appliances is when the real fun begins. Moving furniture is the most basic activity that indicates that the laws of physics are not nearly as cast in stone as the Eggheads would lead one to believe.
This is the moment when you look at a four foot wide couch and a three foot wide door. Your first reaction is, "There is NO way that THIS is gonna fit through THAT!!" Here is where it gets tricky. You realize that THIS is currently on THIS side of THAT, so it must have been possible at some point in time for an alternative state to exist.
(Proof positive of the mutability of physics.) Scientists claim that every experience we have in life imprints itself into our brains. Try accessing the specific memory engrams on how in Hades you got THIS to fit through THAT to begin with. It shouldn't be that hard to recall right? Go ahead...I dare you! Ain't gonna happen folks! Take hope, friends, because inevitably THIS will eventually fit through THAT. It will. It has to. Doesn't it?!?
It does....really. I know the suspense was unbearable there for a bit. After much pain and suffering your large and heavy furniture will make the transposition from HERE to THERE. Then, of course, let's not forget that the whole process will be repeated when THERE has now become HERE. I know...physics is really one confusing bitch kitty eh?
There will be other incidental consequences of flying in the face of these laws by which our reality is governed. You knew there would be...right?? Knuckles will be scraped, bruised, bloodied and possibly...broken. It's going to happen. It's going to hurt...a lot. It's going to result in you saying words you were not intending that your 9-year old should learn...EVER. But it WILL happen. The sooner you realize this and accept it, the sooner the pain will begin and the sooner it can run its course. Brave face there little camper...brave face.
There is hope on the horizon...really. Given the migratory lifestyle I grew accustomed to in the Army I have done this moving thing a time or two. Okay, I have lost track of the number of times. The point is that I have undergone the procedure and survived it more or less intact. Eventually, after much weeping, wailing and gnashing of teeth THERE will become HERE and life will be good. We will settle down on our newly-relocated furniture and breathe a collective sigh of relief. We will solemnly swear to ourselves that this is it. We will live, grow old and die RIGHT where we are rather than ever have to go through this again. There is a good chance that we will be lying to ourselves BIG time...but we really, really do mean it this time. Honest...no...really.
Thus I will end my first of a series of posts as I chronicle our ordeal this time around. As a teaser of what is to come...let me offer this. I have NO idea what font this post appears to you in. I don't have the option to insert eye-catching graphics. I can't spell check this post.
Why you ask? I am posting through the somewhat limited capabilities of my not-so-smart phone. I felt it was of sufficient importance for me to share this experience with you to try it by phone. I am not on the trusty laptop thanks, again, to physics. It seems shutting off utility services HERE is far easier than getting them turned on THERE. Enough said for now and thanks for your understanding if this post looks a bit subpar for me. Stop in tomorrow as the ordeal continues.
Saturday, July 9, 2011
Retail Checkout Blues
I will be the very first person to admit that I can sometimes (well okay lots of times) be a bit (well okay a lot) impatient. I really don't do it on purpose and it's not a predictable character flaw as to when it will kick in. I try to convince my wife that is all part of the wonders and mysteries of learning every day a little bit more about the person you married. While my descent into impatience is unpredictable, I can guarantee you of one instance when it will kick in every...single...time. The time I spend waiting to have my purchases totalled up in ANY shopping environment is a meltdown waiting to happen.
My wife and I are often at odds over this. My goal is to go in to the store, get the items I want/need and escape in the most timely manner possible. For my wife, being a former cashier, shopping is as much a social interaction opportunity as it is a quest to get home with all of the items we set out to get in the first place. Of, perhaps, five possible lanes to check out through, my wife has been known to skip one with only one customer there (I don't like her so not going through her lane). Instead, she will stand in one that is six people deep just to chat with a friend working that register. That's usually when that big vein in my forehead rises to full prominence.
Another shopping point we differ on is the use of self-service checkout lanes. I figure that anything that removes a human obstacle from my intent to get the heck back out of the store in record time is a boon. My wife feels that they are evil and steal work away from humans. She gladly embraces vampires, zombies and flesh-eating insects but fears automation. Go figure. So, instead of using the evil robotic checkout, I compromise and we wind up in the "15 items or less" lane. This is usually a prime opportunity for that vein swelling too.
I have yet to comprehend (though my honey has tried ad nauseum to explain it to me) WHY, in any given store, the cashier on the express register is the single slowest-moving creature in captivity. Tortoises zip by these hapless creatures like cheetahs on the hunt. This is, invariably, a cashier with two to five major limitations to their mobility (old, gout, bad heart, carpal tunnel, etc). Checking out through this "express" lane has been known to leave me twitching and mumbling in a corner by the time the experience has ended.
So, you can imagine my dismay when I was checking the online news today to find that Albertson's and several other major store chains are nixxing their self-serve lanes in favor of customers having more human interaction with the store staff. I'm quite sure they did extensive demographic and market-trend research before arriving at their decisions, but I fear that a segment of their customer base MAY have been slighted or overlooked.
The customers in question would be those like me. I hate to break it to their research folks, but I don't WANT social interaction when I shop. I don't WANT to get to know Employee #17 any better than I already do. What I WANT is to get out of the grocery and on to one of about say..a bazillion!...other things that I need to get done today. What I WANT is to get my 'fridge and freezer items bagged and home before any of a number of offending predatory bacteria set in on them. What I WANT is to get out of the whole shopping experience before I waste any more of the unknown amount of remaining life I may have left in their retail establishment.
I just want...out. I want to do my very best to adhere to my friend Walter's sage advice of, "Welcome to Wal-Mart! Get your sh*t and get out!!" Trust me Walter, I'm trying bud...I'm trying.
My wife and I are often at odds over this. My goal is to go in to the store, get the items I want/need and escape in the most timely manner possible. For my wife, being a former cashier, shopping is as much a social interaction opportunity as it is a quest to get home with all of the items we set out to get in the first place. Of, perhaps, five possible lanes to check out through, my wife has been known to skip one with only one customer there (I don't like her so not going through her lane). Instead, she will stand in one that is six people deep just to chat with a friend working that register. That's usually when that big vein in my forehead rises to full prominence.
Another shopping point we differ on is the use of self-service checkout lanes. I figure that anything that removes a human obstacle from my intent to get the heck back out of the store in record time is a boon. My wife feels that they are evil and steal work away from humans. She gladly embraces vampires, zombies and flesh-eating insects but fears automation. Go figure. So, instead of using the evil robotic checkout, I compromise and we wind up in the "15 items or less" lane. This is usually a prime opportunity for that vein swelling too.
I have yet to comprehend (though my honey has tried ad nauseum to explain it to me) WHY, in any given store, the cashier on the express register is the single slowest-moving creature in captivity. Tortoises zip by these hapless creatures like cheetahs on the hunt. This is, invariably, a cashier with two to five major limitations to their mobility (old, gout, bad heart, carpal tunnel, etc). Checking out through this "express" lane has been known to leave me twitching and mumbling in a corner by the time the experience has ended.
So, you can imagine my dismay when I was checking the online news today to find that Albertson's and several other major store chains are nixxing their self-serve lanes in favor of customers having more human interaction with the store staff. I'm quite sure they did extensive demographic and market-trend research before arriving at their decisions, but I fear that a segment of their customer base MAY have been slighted or overlooked.
The customers in question would be those like me. I hate to break it to their research folks, but I don't WANT social interaction when I shop. I don't WANT to get to know Employee #17 any better than I already do. What I WANT is to get out of the grocery and on to one of about say..a bazillion!...other things that I need to get done today. What I WANT is to get my 'fridge and freezer items bagged and home before any of a number of offending predatory bacteria set in on them. What I WANT is to get out of the whole shopping experience before I waste any more of the unknown amount of remaining life I may have left in their retail establishment.
Friday, July 8, 2011
Displacement Anxiety
Bernadette shifted slightly trying to find a more comfortable position. The soft murmur of the waves and the strident cries of the gulls mingled opposed each other but created an unexpected calming effect overall. It was a thoroughly relaxing setting until the strong ocean breeze had kicked up and the sand began to pepper her bare skin with its stinging caress. A frown creased Bernadette’s brow and with a sudden realization she cried out, “Sand?!?”
Sitting bolt upright, she was surprised to find herself not on the beach but securely between the sheets of her Murphy bed in her small studio apartment. Fumbling on the nightstand beside her, she located the pill bottle there and fumbled it open with shaking hands. Concentrating, she calmed the tremors and took two of the small shiny capsules in her palm. She placed them into her mouth and followed them with short swallows from the nearby water glass. Within minutes her body had relaxed again and she sank back down beneath the top sheet. It was happening all over again…happening as it had nearly every night for the last two weeks.
As she drifted in a drug-induced haze she heard the voice of Dr. Streicher as if he were right there with her on the day that she had finally been released.
“Now Bernadette, I can not stress strongly enough just how important it is for you to follow your post-release treatment regimen. The medications will make your life more manageable only if you continue taking them every single day, as prescribed.”
“Yeah. I get it. Take all my pills. I’m not a kid you know?”
“I realize that, of course, Bernadette and that brings me to my greatest concern of all. You have been with us here for nearly 17 years. All but a few brief years of your entire life has been under the controlled conditions at Brookwood. I greatly fear that you will be highly susceptible to a condition known as Displacement Anxiety.”
“Great…another condition? What the blazes is Displacement Anxiety?!?”
“Calmness Bernadette..calmness. Displacement Anxiety is a syndrome first documented in individuals recently made homeless. A traumatic change in living conditions can be quite severe.”
“Describe severe.”
“Sleepiness or insomnia…either or both. You may experience loss of appetite, severe mood swings and panic attacks. In the worst known cases the subjects even experienced hallucinations…auditory, visual…very disturbing indeed.”
“That sounds lovely. I thought that’s what all of the freakin’ pills were for? What’s the point of me taking them if I’m gonna be crazy anyway?”
“Bernadette! Crazy, as you know, is NOT a word we acknowledge here at Brookwood. Of course, the medications are essential and WILL make your transition easier and, most likely, prevent any problems. BUT..I can not strongly enough express my very real concerns for your well being. You know we have come to think of you as part of our Brookwood family.”
“Right. Okay. But you’re NOT my family. They all died in the fire that wound my mentally-damaged ass up here in the first place. Right?
“You need not be cruel or vulgar Bernadette. While it is, of course, true that we are not your biological relations, family is not always about biology. I want you to know that I will never stop caring about you or for you. If you EVER need my help or simply just someone to talk to, I will always be available to you.”
Bernadette rolled over on her side and waited for sleep to reclaim her. The pills always took care of that fairly quickly. Although she was not a religious woman she whispered a silent prayer. Please…don’t let it be that Displacement Anxiety jazz. Yes, she had been having some small issues with sleep and her appetite was a bit off but that kinda stuff happens for no special reason right? With a sigh, she drifted back to sleep.
She awoke to her jangling alarm and quickly prepared herself for the day ahead. As she turned the door knob to leave, she allowed herself a quick look back at the small apartment. At Brookwood she often worried that someone had been in her room as she slept. Old habits die hard, she mused, as she looked and saw nothing out of place. She stepped out the door and in to…knee-deep white powder.
The door to her apartment had vanished and she stood shivering in a harsh cold…where was she? All about her people in parkas and snow suits laughed and strolled. Many had skis or snowboards in hand and so this must be some kind of resort?? Disbelieving, Bernadette’s pulse thundered in her ears. Her breathing became labored and she felt she must be hyperventilating. She closed her eyes tightly and willed it all to please, please go away.
When she began to feel calmer, she hazarded a peek through veiled lids and saw…the front steps leading down to the sidewalk and her bus stop.
It can’t be happening she muttered to herself over and over as the bus rumbled on its way toward her job. Was this really happening or was she finally sliding right off the edge into a Displacement Anxiety wasteland?
Be sure to stop back next Friday to The Latinum Vault to learn more of Bernadette's situation
Thursday, July 7, 2011
One Finger
I am exceptionally happy to be sitting here typing my post for today. Why you may ask? Because the very existence of this post is the living embodiment of my promise to continue allowing writing and creating to be a continuing feature of my life. Read or follow my blog for any length of time and you will not fail to find a reference to My Personal Dark Ages. It was a singularly dismal and hopeless period of my life. I worked, I ate, I slept and I drank (heavily). That comprised the sum total of my existence and, at that time, I was okay with that. I harbored no dreams, no ambitions, no goals. That can be a very empowering state to exist in. Of he who has no expectations provided to him, nothing is expected. It is, in retrospect, an unhealthy life view but a comfortable one. It is, almost literally, impossible to disappoint someone who ultimately had no faith in your ability to perform successfully anyway. As I have said, it was a comfortable but singularly uninspiring time in my life.
It was a life view that my stepmother would have heartily disapproved of. I have not shared with my readers an aspect of my life that might make it more possible for them to either understand or disapprove of me. I will rectify that situation today. My birth mother died when I was barely three months old. I will wave a flag of truce to those feminist writers who opine that we men can not possibly hope to understand the syndrome known as post-partum depression. I readily acknowledge that we are simply not wired to make sense of it.
To most men, the birth of a child is a cause for celebration, cigars and alcoholic toasts. It is the women, the mothers, who experience those first fearful gut-wrenching moments of feeling totally unworthy of the task of caring for a tiny life and of making that life important and vital. I can claim to understand it clinically but not factually. I can readily acknowledge that it overwhelmed my mother and led her to take her own life to escape her fears. Post-partum depression was not generally acknowledged to have existed at the time she gave birth to me. I can accept that and have made my peace with her actions. Something bigger and badder than her was driving the train on that particular given day. I hope that in death she found the solace she could not achieve in life.
The single guiding, driving source of maternal wisdom throughout my life was always my stepmother. She was always just Mom to me and, in my memories, will always be Mom. She was a singularly unremarkable woman in almost all aspects. She had limited intellect, minimal education and precious little life experience outside of being a wife and mother. She graduated from high school the same year that I was born. She was scarcely an independent adult herself when my sister began to grow in her womb and she married my father and thus inherited my older brother and myself. If you want to speak to feelings of inadequacy I can find no greater example than she. But she rose above her fears and grew to be the most supportive and nurturing presence that I have ever known in my half century of life. She wore the hats of mother, caregiver, confidante and teacher of life with grace and aplomb. Okay, there was a LOT of yelling and threatening and cajoling but her efforts were always sufficient unto the day. And at the end of the day, she WAS and always will be...Mom.
It was she and no one else, who launched me down a path that perhaps only she understood that I was destined to tread. To say that my mother was literate is not in question. To say that she derived any pleasure from literature is also not in question. While my mother could, certainly, read and write neither activity was a source of pleasure for her. It was a case of simple functionality. It is because of that state and her ability to see beyond it that I owe her so much that I can never repay.
Some of my earliest and most treasured memories are of my mother reading to me. While money was a rare and seldom-seen commodity in our overstuffed home life, Mom always made sure that we had the things that mattered the most. For a young child tube socks and toothbrushes are not matters of particular concern but they were to Mom. She managed the household finances and did so in such a way that David Copperfield stood no chance of explaining the magic behind it all. And what she always made sure that I had was books. I have never understood why it never took with my older brother, but I was actively reading simple books before the age of four. The first book that I owned and read was the wondrous Where The Wild Things Are. To this day, it remains my favorite book of all the millions of such that I have read. I progressed from there to the point of reading on a sixth grade level in the second grade and becoming the youngest contributor to write an article for our grade school newspaper. (I wrote an informational article regarding swordfish.)
At this point in a blog post I should be at the point of making a point of the randomness and so here it comes. My mother instilled in me a love of fantastic and speculative tales. It was, as if, having no creative outlet of her own she was determined that her literary son never have need of creativity and find none in the well. As I became an adult, we shared a love of movies of magic and make believe. One of our favorite movies was the wonderfully story book movie Willow. If you have never watched it, consider this a shameless plug for such.
In the early portion of the movie, Willow, a simple farmer craves to become an apprentice of the village's mage. To do so he must pass a test. He stands in a row with the other would-be students as the old man troops the line. Of each he asks the same question, "The power to control the universe resides in which finger?" Each makes their pick to include Willow. When his turn comes he pauses and briefly glances at his own hand before picking one of the old man's fingers. Sadly, the old man announces that there will be no apprentice that year.
He takes Willow aside and chides him for not following his instincts. The proper answer, it turned out, was that the power to control the universe resided in one's OWN finger. My mother understood this concept in a way I was truly amazed to discover. She understood that by empowering my fingers to follow text across a page...by conditioning my fingers to the act of turning the pages of a book, she was gifting me the power to control the universe. Learning, knowledge, and education were the Holy Trinity that would some day magically transport me beyond my humble circumstances and convey me to a world more wondrous than any that I could ever imagine. To this day it is the most precious and enduring gift that I have ever been given...the power to change the world with just my own otherwise unremarkable finger. Thanks Mom!
It was a life view that my stepmother would have heartily disapproved of. I have not shared with my readers an aspect of my life that might make it more possible for them to either understand or disapprove of me. I will rectify that situation today. My birth mother died when I was barely three months old. I will wave a flag of truce to those feminist writers who opine that we men can not possibly hope to understand the syndrome known as post-partum depression. I readily acknowledge that we are simply not wired to make sense of it.
To most men, the birth of a child is a cause for celebration, cigars and alcoholic toasts. It is the women, the mothers, who experience those first fearful gut-wrenching moments of feeling totally unworthy of the task of caring for a tiny life and of making that life important and vital. I can claim to understand it clinically but not factually. I can readily acknowledge that it overwhelmed my mother and led her to take her own life to escape her fears. Post-partum depression was not generally acknowledged to have existed at the time she gave birth to me. I can accept that and have made my peace with her actions. Something bigger and badder than her was driving the train on that particular given day. I hope that in death she found the solace she could not achieve in life.
The single guiding, driving source of maternal wisdom throughout my life was always my stepmother. She was always just Mom to me and, in my memories, will always be Mom. She was a singularly unremarkable woman in almost all aspects. She had limited intellect, minimal education and precious little life experience outside of being a wife and mother. She graduated from high school the same year that I was born. She was scarcely an independent adult herself when my sister began to grow in her womb and she married my father and thus inherited my older brother and myself. If you want to speak to feelings of inadequacy I can find no greater example than she. But she rose above her fears and grew to be the most supportive and nurturing presence that I have ever known in my half century of life. She wore the hats of mother, caregiver, confidante and teacher of life with grace and aplomb. Okay, there was a LOT of yelling and threatening and cajoling but her efforts were always sufficient unto the day. And at the end of the day, she WAS and always will be...Mom.
It was she and no one else, who launched me down a path that perhaps only she understood that I was destined to tread. To say that my mother was literate is not in question. To say that she derived any pleasure from literature is also not in question. While my mother could, certainly, read and write neither activity was a source of pleasure for her. It was a case of simple functionality. It is because of that state and her ability to see beyond it that I owe her so much that I can never repay.
Some of my earliest and most treasured memories are of my mother reading to me. While money was a rare and seldom-seen commodity in our overstuffed home life, Mom always made sure that we had the things that mattered the most. For a young child tube socks and toothbrushes are not matters of particular concern but they were to Mom. She managed the household finances and did so in such a way that David Copperfield stood no chance of explaining the magic behind it all. And what she always made sure that I had was books. I have never understood why it never took with my older brother, but I was actively reading simple books before the age of four. The first book that I owned and read was the wondrous Where The Wild Things Are. To this day, it remains my favorite book of all the millions of such that I have read. I progressed from there to the point of reading on a sixth grade level in the second grade and becoming the youngest contributor to write an article for our grade school newspaper. (I wrote an informational article regarding swordfish.)
At this point in a blog post I should be at the point of making a point of the randomness and so here it comes. My mother instilled in me a love of fantastic and speculative tales. It was, as if, having no creative outlet of her own she was determined that her literary son never have need of creativity and find none in the well. As I became an adult, we shared a love of movies of magic and make believe. One of our favorite movies was the wonderfully story book movie Willow. If you have never watched it, consider this a shameless plug for such.
In the early portion of the movie, Willow, a simple farmer craves to become an apprentice of the village's mage. To do so he must pass a test. He stands in a row with the other would-be students as the old man troops the line. Of each he asks the same question, "The power to control the universe resides in which finger?" Each makes their pick to include Willow. When his turn comes he pauses and briefly glances at his own hand before picking one of the old man's fingers. Sadly, the old man announces that there will be no apprentice that year.
He takes Willow aside and chides him for not following his instincts. The proper answer, it turned out, was that the power to control the universe resided in one's OWN finger. My mother understood this concept in a way I was truly amazed to discover. She understood that by empowering my fingers to follow text across a page...by conditioning my fingers to the act of turning the pages of a book, she was gifting me the power to control the universe. Learning, knowledge, and education were the Holy Trinity that would some day magically transport me beyond my humble circumstances and convey me to a world more wondrous than any that I could ever imagine. To this day it is the most precious and enduring gift that I have ever been given...the power to change the world with just my own otherwise unremarkable finger. Thanks Mom!
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
The Commander and the Den Asaan Rautu
A Latinum Library BOOK REVIEW:
The Commander and The Den Asaan Rautu
The Haanta Series, Book I
5.0 out of 5 stars Truly Worthy to be called Epic Fantasy
The Kingdom of Frewyn is being invaded by the Galleisian infantry and at the forefront of the battle is Boudicca MacDaede, a First Captain in the Frewyn armed forces. Her regiment is charged with defending the borders between the two nations, but when Frewyn’s last line of defense falls, Captain MacDaede enlists the assistance of a Haanta, one of giants from the islands to the far north. Promising to free him from his imprisonment in exchange for his help, she gains his trust long enough for them to win the battle and save the Frewyn border from being breached. The giant’s freedom is granted, but Rautu cannot return home unless he redeems himself in the eyes of his people for past his transgressions. He is offered a place by the captain’s side, and together, they defeat the Galleisian forces and become the saviors of Frewyn.
One year later, King Alasdair Brennin takes the Frewyn throne, Boudicca is made commander, Gallei and Frewyn reach an accord, and Rautu is granted an invitation home. He is eager to return and see his brothers but finds it difficult to leave Frewyn without Boudicca at his side. He has become accustomed to her company and the idea of being made to live without her begins to distress him. Rautu invites the commander to the islands in hopes of finding a way for them to remain together, but when they arrive at the white shores of Sanhedhran, not everything goes as planned: one of the dangerous Haanta magi is freed, Rautu’s three brothers are strangely missing, and the neighboring nation of Thellis leads an attack on the islands.
Together, the commander and the Den Asaan Rautu must find a way to unite their two nations and defend against the Thellisian fleets, but can they do so successfully when an envious Frewyn king, and impending war with Thellis, and a cruel Haanta military leader would keep them apart?
One year later, King Alasdair Brennin takes the Frewyn throne, Boudicca is made commander, Gallei and Frewyn reach an accord, and Rautu is granted an invitation home. He is eager to return and see his brothers but finds it difficult to leave Frewyn without Boudicca at his side. He has become accustomed to her company and the idea of being made to live without her begins to distress him. Rautu invites the commander to the islands in hopes of finding a way for them to remain together, but when they arrive at the white shores of Sanhedhran, not everything goes as planned: one of the dangerous Haanta magi is freed, Rautu’s three brothers are strangely missing, and the neighboring nation of Thellis leads an attack on the islands.
Together, the commander and the Den Asaan Rautu must find a way to unite their two nations and defend against the Thellisian fleets, but can they do so successfully when an envious Frewyn king, and impending war with Thellis, and a cruel Haanta military leader would keep them apart?
_________________________________________________________
I recently had an opportunity to read Michelle Franklin's debut novel of The Haanta Series, The Commander and the Den Asaan Rautu. I was looking forward to it because I don't enjoy reading any other genre the way that I do epic fantasy. I read my first fantasy book at the tender age of 4 (Where the Wild Things Are) and have been hooked on fantasy literature ever since.
The book's plot synopsis seemed filled with the promise of a truly epic tale and it delivered the goods with a level of quality and style that I have seldom encountered in this genre. Michelle has obviously devoted an unimaginable amount of effort to the development of every aspect of the Haanta Series world. Every aspect of the world is rich and full with great attention to detail. Geography, politics, magic, wars and, of course, the various races that people the world are all well thought out and consistent. Nothing ruins a fantasy novel faster than contradictions or unexplained details and I am pleased to say that this book suffers from no such problems. Michelle, I believe, lives, eats and dreams in this alternate world and so is quite comfortable inviting the rest of us in to it for a visit. It's not always a pretty or a kind world but it is one imagined to its fullest potential.
As the title indicates and the plot synopsis confirms, this first book is dominated by the characters of the Commander and her Den Asaan companion Rautu. I have encountered literally thousands of characters in an untold number of fantasy novels and met few that I liked as much as this unique and unusual duo. There are quintessential tragic heroic figures brought to life in all of their greatness and all of their baseness. They are both possessed of much to be envied that is yet inescapably intertwined with much that is flawed and pitiable.
Boudicca is, without recourse, a product of her environment. Orphaned young, she sets herself the task of becoming as hard and as strong as those responsible for her situation. She rises to prominence and power while forsaking any hopes of any softer way of life. Her core of inner strength is boundless and she has paid dearly for that strength. She projects a constant, unshakable aura of control and command while, secretly, longing for all of the silly romantic aspects of life that most women have. Her sadness, her loneliness and her inescapable feelings of loss for what might have been are all palpable and persistent. She is the type of woman that many women only wish that they could be but, if they knew more, would dread ever having to become.
In Rautu, we have a character no less noble or any less flawed. Rautu is, as well, the total end product of his upbringing. As a warrior scout he has been raised in a martial culture where physical prowess and martial ferocity are not only the standard but the yardstick by which a man's worth is determined. Failure to vanquish a foe or to meet them head-on with relentless force is not an option. Rautu has an almost childlike inability to view the world in any way other than how he has been trained to see it. For him, all of the intricacies and subtleties of society are unimportant. Rautu's world view is one of stark blacks and whites. There are no shades of gray only the inability of those too weak or feeble-minded to perceive things as the properly are. Rautu, as well, has never indulged in speculation of any other way than that which he has always lived. Though he does experience bouts of doubt, self-loathing, desire and other "human" feelings, Rautu simply refuses to acknowledge their viability. His place in the world is as it should be and it is sheer foolishness to think otherwise.
Imagine then, my enjoyment in watching an unlikely relationship develop between these two primal beings. From distrust and loathing, to forced interaction, to grudging acceptance and then to an emotion that neither of them have the words or the willingness to acknowledge, it is a journey worth following along on. This is not so much a story of romance as it is a tale of self-discovery and personal growth. In this wondrous story, flawed, heroic, tragic, lovable Boudicca and Rautu fight what they fear most...their own desperate needs to be both loved and needed. They would both be mortified to discover that, if no one else ever does, we, the readers, come to love and need them both as the cornerstones of this tale. We simply can't live without them in this epic.
I found this book to be a most enjoyable read that provided me all of the best aspects of epic high fantasy that I have come to respect from the masters of this genre. I have no doubt that Michelle's name as an author of this genre will be held in the same regard as names such as Piers Anthony, David Eddings and Robert Jordan. She has a talent and skill for transporting you straight out of your mundane world and dropping you at a random spot on the Frewyn coastline with her best wishes. I can only imagine that the remaining volumes in this gargantuan project will provide the same qualities of craft work, imagination and pure fantasy enjoyment as this flagship novel has. Bravo Michelle on a tale well told!
Saturday, July 2, 2011
Diavolino
A Latinum Library BOOK REVIEW:
Diavolino by Steve Emmett
5.0 out of 5 stars An Unexpected Surprise
My first exposure to author Steve Emmett and his debut novel Diavolino came at the hands of my wife. Having recently re-acquired internet access at home and a Kindle as well, she finally had at hand the tools to pursue her dream of becoming a published author. She immediately began developing a core of people to follow via Twitter, which supports a thriving community of both independent and traditional authors. Based upon her experiences, two things immediately became clear to me: the sheer number of aspiring authors out there and the fact that all of them seemed to have the next great novel they were schlepping to anyone with a pulse.
She read Steve's book and raved on it. She convinced me to give it a read as well. I will admit that my first inclination was to dislike the book. Of those aspiring authors she had read, few seemed to have produced anything I thought worth the effort. Additionally, while her chosen genre of expression is horror, I am not much a fan of such. So, reluctantly I delved into Diavolino with a jaundiced eye, determined to find flaw with it. To say that I was quite pleasantly surprised, to the contrary, would be an understatement.
Diavolino starts out in England, takes you to Italy and eventually leads you into the pits of Hell. It is fast-paced from the very beginning as you learn about just what Diavolino is. It is much more than just a secluded island on the Italian coast. It serves as an entrance to hell and Satan's best
hope for escape.
Steve has a good way of telling a story. He embraces one of the first tenets of writing and writes what he knows. Steve has intimate, first-hand knowledge of the location in which his story is told, and it shows. His rich descriptions of the terrain, the architecture, the people and places therein is obviously deep and genuine.
All books proceed at a pace. Some, to use an analogy, are like ocean liners. They steam along a prescribed course, at a determined pace and hold one's attention based on luxurious amenities. Some proceed more like an amusement park ride. They are fast, breakneck journeys of indeterminate length and unknown surprises. Diavolino is akin to the E-ticket ride from hell.
The book scurries along at a relentless pace, dragging the reader along with it. While it contains the occasional mental pause akin to a coaster chugging up a grade, it soon enough reaches the summit and plunges one through so many twists and turns that severe dizziness is a real possibility. While astute readers can usually predict just where a story is heading, Diavolino defies one to do such.
Steve has an interesting approach to the characters who play out the story. He struts them out on stage, provides a thumbnail sketch of them and then thrusts them into the tale. While, at times, I would have liked to have had more back story on them, the protagonists especially, I came to appreciate Steve's approach. His characters fit seamlessly into the story because they are portrayed in the same overall style as the book itself. It is as if the reader is told, 'Here is X. Here is what you must be told to have a minimal understanding of X. Now, let's get on with the story. Fill in the details for yourself.'
It lent an (intended?) air of suspense and mystery to the tale not knowing quite as much about everyone as one might have liked. It was as if to say, to use the analogy again, one might strike up a relationship with fellow passengers on an ocean liner but the fat guy in the Hawaiian shirt, in the next car of the coaster, you already know plenty about to enjoy the ride. It is a style of characterization I could grow to like.
So,to summarize, if you are yearning for a different kind of read; one that crosses genres back and forth, this contains all of the horror/suspense/thriller elements one could ever ask for. It is at times gritty, at times wondrous, at times horrific and at all times simply a really good yarn. Steve continues to pursue the elusive success that a first novel may not always garner. He is currently in development of several works, one of which is pegged a sequel to Diavolino. I can not strongly enough encourage you to give this fledgling writer the opportunity to become the icon that he has the potential to be within the Horror field.
Friday, July 1, 2011
He Can't Be Gone
I sat at my desk and stared at the glowing monitor. “He can’t be gone. He can’t be gone. He can’t be…” My words trailed off like an interrupted meditation mantra. I suppose that somewhere inside me there was the belief that if I refused to accept what the computer screen showed me, then it would not…could not be true. Salvatore was gone.
Salvatore, or Sal as he was known to everyone but his grandmother, and I first crossed paths more years ago than I cared to remember. I suspect what made us such fast friends was the differences between us. We were not kindred spirits but, more properly, proof that opposites do attract. He was all of the things that I was not. While I was quiet and bookish, Sal was boisterous and street smart. Where I was calm and deliberate, Sal was too busy flying by the seat of his pants to concentrate on anything.
It was a friendship both made in heaven and forged in the fires of hell depending on the circumstances. The formula for our friendship was discovered early on and remained constant throughout all of the days of our acquaintance. Sal would create a messy situation and I would clean it up. It was just that simple and yet, is anything ever really as simple as what meets the eye?
We survived our childhood years by the simple expedient of me being able to put out the fires faster than Sal could ignite them. While I bore the brunt of adults’ anger and teachers’ ire, Sal sailed above it all…pristine and untouched by the smoke and flames. For his part, I think Sal felt badly about the flak I caught but, being Sal, could never admit it. For my part, whatever resentment I may have felt towards him was assuaged by Sal’s unique ability to make me feel important and indispensible. And I suppose, to him, I was.
As adults, our situations changed very little. I was the wage slave sitting in his cramped office and Sal was the street hustler on the prowl. I placed money into my savings with every weekly check. Sal would, one week, need a couple of bucks for lunch and the next week invite me to a restaurant so extravagant that the valet parking required a credit check. While I never quite found the “right” girl, Sal decided that the best way to find her was to just keep culling the herd one by one.
There were successes and disappointments. There were losses and there were gains. Through all of it, the one constant that remained was Sal and me. We were inseparably joined at the soul by Fate and thus would it always be…or would it?
I never will know what sent Sal in to that final destructive spiral. Anything that I suggested to him was brusquely refused with a sneer. His interactions with others became too chaotic and toxic for even me to be able to mediate. He began to behave less and less like the Sal that I had always known and that was bad. Our relationship had clearly defined rules and Sal was ignoring them all. This could not long continue.
The last time I met with Sal I barely recognized him. His suit was so rumpled and stained that I could scarce determine what color it had started out. His cheeks and chin were darkened by stubble and his hair looked greasy and lank. His eyes were wild and barely focused. It was clear he hadn’t slept in some time. I nursed a small coffee while the waitress wore tracks in the carpet refilling his empty tumbler with more scotch and soda. He was in a bad way and I guess I wasn’t much better.
I tried one last time to bring him back to being a Sal we could all live with. The drinking, the drugs, the broken hearts and broken bones were taking their toll, I told him. While I loved Sal and his bohemian ways, I reminded him that even the most free spirit needed to obey SOME societal rules. I crooned, I cajoled, I pleaded and, at last resort, I think I even threatened. It didn’t work.
For his part, Sal seemed to rally a bit and I caught a glimpse of my friend through all of the smoke and mirrors. Then an invisible curtain fell and my friend was lost to me forever. He sloshed alcohol across his suit as he gesticulated wildly at me. He was Sal, damn it, and if you don’t like what you see? Take a hike! He would do as he had always done, be as he had always been and nothing had changed. My pleas for moderation fell on deaf ears and my course seemed locked and headed for only one outcome.
For one time in my life, the mouse roared. I transformed from Jekyll into Hyde and I raged. I demanded that Sal do as I told him, make the changes I absolutely required or there would be consequences that he could not survive. His features went from shocked to his habitual sneer and finally to an expression that could only be called insane. As he gibbered and drooled in a complete manic breakdown, I reached down and pressed the Delete key…ending Sal’s existence and ripping a chunk out of my soul.
Head in hands, I glanced again at the blank screen and wept. My oldest friend, my Enkidu, my Main Character was…no more.
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