KjM - on the web

A gift - and memories

2012-01-12T23:57:00.000-08:00

I am fortunate in my siblings - and hope they might think so also, but I'm not going to ask.

My older sister has, over the years, given me books. One, The Maeve Binchey Writers' Club, was a very generous and thoughtful gift to this, her aspiring writer brother.

Early into the new year another arrived. And this took me back (not 'taken aback' you know, though I suppose I might have been in a way).

Back to High School, the final two years of secondary school, as I knew it growing up. It seems there's a demand that the poetry book used for those two years be republished. In the original cover, and using the original typeface.

The typeface, I must admit now, is less pleasing on the eye than I remember it. Though, at the time, I doubt I'd have known a pleasing typeface if it up and hit me in the eye. But, we learn as we grow - or so it is to be hoped.

What I remember about this book is I read it from cover to cover while at school. Anything else I did at school was the bare minimum - this book was worn out by the time I finished with it.

The editor, Augustine Martin, was a magician, able to capture the imagination of school kids - a difficult audience. Decades later, the book survives.

Part of the reason might be the selection of poets - Chaucer, Shakespeare, Milton, Dickinson, Yeats and many, many more. Twenty-three, or so, in total.

Another part, the 'Explorations' after each poem - though as a student I grew to dislike them for they represented work, effort, they formed the basis of homework.

Yet, for all that, they did give me a framework, an approach to poetry that has remained with me. However, the greatest 'exploration', advice to the reader of poetry, of the entire book arrives a little more than half-way through the book.

It is found after the first poem by Emily Dickinson included in the volume.

Here it is:

"Having read the poem, now read all Emily Dickinson's poems in this book. Don't feel that you have to make 'sense' of them, don't bully them in the hope they will yield up their message in a manner that can be summarised and paraphrased. If you find that you like them, only one thing is required. It can be best expressed by the advice the great Olympic athlete, Jesse Owens, gave to those who wish to be great long-jumpers. His three rules were that you sprint, sprint, and finally sprint. For the word 'sprint' we might here substitute 'read' with equal emphasis and repetition."

I can think of no better advice to anyone reading poetry. I also like, though again I didn't know of it at the time, the "Oxford comma" in the 'sprint, sprint, and finally sprint'.

Anyway, thanks to the generosity of my sister, I'm rediscovering poetry I haven't read in many a long year and, while I cannot claim that 'schooldays were the best days of my life' - how sad that would be - there are fond memories that I'm not unhappy to revisit.

On an entirely different note, above and a little to the right there is now a page dedicated to where my writings might easily be found.

Enjoy.

Darkest before the dawn

2011-12-25T03:25:00.001-08:00

The phrase entitling this post set me thinking.

Such phrases litter our language, hinting at a hopefulness I believe is at the core of us as humans.

Deep in Winters long ago (fadó, fadó - the Gaelic equivalent of 'once upon a time...')... So, long long ago in the depths of Winter, we sat through the long nights and remembered, told stories, of the warmth, the light, the bounty that flowed from the sun in Summer. We consoled ourselves that the sun had returned before, that new life had sprung from the cold earth, that we had seen other Summers before, and would again. That the people, the tribe, the group would again be saved.

Later, as knowledge grew, we learned to measure the change in the course of the heavens so it could be seen that there would come an end to seeming endless nights.

Celebrations sprang up, for we are a celebratory species - perhaps a little too pleased with ourselves when we think we understand something, but the celebrations were warranted.

So, little surprise that my own religious tradition builds upon this celebration, borrowing from older traditions, beliefs. "...people that walked in darkness...seen a great light"...the thought of new life born to us...that we would be safe.

It calls to something deep within us as a species. There can be but one answer - hope.

So, whatever your tradition at this celebratory time of the year, I wish you joy. I wish you peace and, most of all, hope.

Solstice

2011-12-22T21:14:00.001-08:00

Yes, I know. A day late - and likely a dollar short.

I blame the travel. Yesterday we flew across half the country, racing away from the sun. We took off in full sunshine and landed in full dark. In the land of my birth, it would have been full dark for more than an hour of the clock by the time we landed. It was dark enough for me not to feel homesick.

So, 'twas the solstice. The depth of Winter. The year's longest night. The year's shortest day - at least up here in the Northern hemisphere.

Yet the very word 'solstice' contains within it the name of our star, the sun. One can argue which came first - word or name. It doesn't matter.

The word looks forward. Therein is contained hope. In the depth of the night, the promise of light.

At the very least, the hope of light.

What a resilient species we are. Hopeful, despite our best efforts. Despite the darkness around, and within, us.

And therin lies the glory that we are.

Reading - a life-long passion

2011-12-06T22:53:00.001-08:00

As mentioned in my previous post, I didn't "win" NaNoWriMo 2011. Though I wasn't far off.

I blame November, Thanksgiving, and the seduction of The River Reader bookstore in Guerneville, a hundred or so miles north of San Francisco. Don't blame me if it's less, or more, than one hundred - travel and directions are not my thing, y'know?

We spent fours days in the environs of Guerneville, as we have for many years. There are several compulsory stops to be made, made compulsory by well engrained tradition by now.

One of them is the above-mentioned bookstore. A small independent store, they used to have a section of a wall dedicated to magnetic poetry, created by customers. Both of us left artily arranged words there over the years.

The store is eclectic in its stock, with local artists and writers well-represented.

So, why blame the proprietor for my NaNo fail? Ah well, the seduction of the books within. I always buy books there - it's one of the few places I buy "dead tree" books anymore. And I buy them by the armful.

The Natural Law of Water, poems by Kathleen Culver, caught my eye and her words caught my ear, and more than my ear.

I sat with the book, there in the bookstore and let the words sink in. I just like poetry. I like the art that transforms words, line, metre (forgive me, that's how I learned to spell it and how the word looks to me), shape, into feeling, into insight, into something that touches below the level of conscious thought.

And Ms. Culver can do this, and more.

A second book was A Radiant Life, by Nuala O'Faolain. Ms. O'Faolain was, among other things, a columnist and essayist for The Irish Times. This book holds between its covers columns of hers that span nearly twenty years.

Robust views, a clear-eyed perspective of Ireland and her society, and sometimes playful writing, the book is an education in the art of the column, the essay. And no small education on the realities of Irish society across the two decades they were written.

The title to the American edition, "A Radiant Life", is taken from the title of one of the essays. It tells of a young Irish-American woman, in whose honor there exists a statue in Japan. Maura O'Halloran became, at the age of 27, a Zen Master. And died but six months later in a motor accident.

Her book of journal entries and letters, "Pure Heart, Enlightened Mind", became another I had to go buy.

Perhaps it's not only the River Reader that has an eclectic collection of books.

The Ninety-Eight Percent Solution

2011-12-01T21:49:00.001-08:00

I've participated in the madness that is NaNoWriMo for four years, since I first ran across it in October, 2008. It's always been a blast. The first year, I enjoyed the story I was writing - that, to my shame, I find I am still editing.

In Year Two (2009) I tried something I hadn't tried before - writing from multiple points of view. Three main point-of-view characters, trying to keep them all balanced in my head.

In the third year, I took one of my Goldberg Variation flash stories and expanded it into a novel. It, actually, has the potential to become a series. I knew the ending I wanted to reach, but wasn't sure I have enough novel to get there. I tried something new here also, filling out initial character studies and blocking out the main scenes (at least for the first part of the story). There was always the intent to block out more scenes during the month of November. Didn't happen.

This year, year four, something new occurred. I didn't complete the fifty thousand words in the allotted time. I got close though, 98%. Nine hundred and some words left to write, but not the time in which to write them. As it turns out, the story is huge. There're a lot more than nine hundred words left to write to tell it properly. They will be written, at a slightly more leisurely pace than what went on last night.

This was the scene last night, shortly after midnight. My right wrist was tired, my shoulders stiff and my poor pens were worn out. Given I had to write over 7,000 words in the evening, I decided I wasn't going to stop to refill any pen that ran out of ink. Happily I had enough pens to hand meet the need.

From the top left: a Sheaffer Valor - black and palladium finish, Waterman Carene - black and gold, Aurora Optima - red with gold nib, Pilot Vanishing Point - blue carbonesque finish and the Edison Urushi Herald.

All did sterling work. The vast bulk of the words during the month were written with the Sheaffer. It's been a while since I used it and t'was good to take it out for a run. The others played backup in case I needed it. And last night I did.

So, I didn't win NaNoWriMo this year. Still, getting to 98% of the goal - that's not bad by any measure.

Notebooks, pens and NaNoWriMo

2011-11-19T23:49:00.001-08:00

I am late to this.

The above could well be a comment on many things in my life, but let's just go with Scribbles Blog Hop, Noland edition on Tony Noland's Landless site.

Earlier this month, some eight days or so ago, a group got together to blog about their use of pen and paper, notebooks and journals, in their writing process.

Pictures and discussions ensued. And I'm late to the party.

So be it.

I've mentioned on this blog, and in comments on others, that I use a notebook and one of several fountain pens when writing anything larger than flash fiction (and sometimes even then). There are several reasons, chief among them being I get distracted easily. With the entire Internet (or an appreciable part thereof) but a click away, I need to go "old school" to give me a chance to concentrate.

It works.

In addition, I enjoy writing by hand and I get to use those functional works of art, my fountain pens, for their purpose: the capturing of thought.

Battered - Unbowed

My main notebook is a leather notebook case into which I usually slot a 50-page Levenger ruled pad. It has good dense paper, which takes ink well.

On the left of the pages is a wide margin allowing for notes and ideas as they hit me while writing something else.

I was given the beautifully soft leather cover over 10 years ago, and it has aged with use. Exposure to California sun has caused fading. Its surface has recorded the hard knocks that life deals out. Character marks one could call them.

I like them because they show that I'm making use of the gift that was given and, while I do try to take care of my things, daily use leaves its mark on all of us, in one way or another.

Small Notebook

I have a second notebook that I generally carry with me. It's smaller, more suited to capturing the random thought (of which I have many) as it goes by. I recall when at a doctor's surgery a couple of years ago, awaiting the results of an outpatient procedure, I wrote a flash fiction story in the notebook.

I found it useful to divert my attention from what had just occurred, and what might subsequently. The story was published - and nothing untoward occurred resulting from the above-mentioned procedure. Everybody wins!

NaNo in progress

Right now I'm in the middle of my fourth NaNoWriMo effort. As in previous years, I am writing the fifty thousand words by hand. While tackling NaNoWriMo by hand has its virtues, it's not without its challenges. Writer's cramp (not to be confused with "block") is one of them. The issue of getting the first draft computerized is a second.

For that I use Dragon Dictate to get my words into files - adjusting the text along the way. A form of editing that doesn't feel like editing. It's an easy way to get a second draft that cleans up some of the nonsense that spilled out during the thirty days of November.

I am behind in my word count for NaNo 2011, but not egregiously so. Onward.

Blues - Fading to Gray

2011-10-31T23:52:00.000-07:00

Since my baby left me

Ain’t no music in my soul.

I said, since my baby left me

There ain’t no music in my soul.

She took away the sunshine

All I got left is gray and old.

I looked across the room at the singer. Head back, eyes closed, his fingers wringing sadness from guitar strings late into this night.

“You’re playing my song, brother,” I said, so softy no one heard. “You’re playing my song.”

For much of my life, I’d lived in the shadows. She changed all that. Everywhere she went, life was a blaze of color. You couldn’t look at her without being dazzled. Green eyes, red lips, flame to her hair.

I was dazzled. So dazzled, for a long time I couldn’t see. So I shut my eyes and saw all the colors she brought to our days, to our nights.

She changed my life from shadow, then changed it back again.

I used to find people. I was good at it. It’s what they paid me to do.

I found her. And I found him. I found them.

There was one last flash of brilliant red. Then my world grew dark again.

I still find people. It’s how I pay my way, now I have nothing left to lose.

I look once more at the singer. “I’m not here for you tonight, brother. No matter what you say, there’s music yet in your soul.”

I drop a twenty in his glass. “Me? I lost my soul two, three lifetimes ago.”

I drift towards the man in the expensive suit pouring expensive champagne into two much younger women. He’s the one I’m here to find.

I’m still good at it.

En un pueblo de la Mancha...

2011-10-30T23:31:00.000-07:00

I am currently reading Don Quixote, in translation for my Spanish is no longer up to dealing with the variant in use at the time of Shakespeare. Once it may have been, for I lived in Spain and was, for a time, fluent in the language. But that's now in the past.

The version I'm reading is a recent translation from 2009 by Edith Grossman, someone known for her translations of Latin American, rather than Spanish, literature. As the editorial review states: "...an honest, robust...Quixote for our times."

I've been drawn to the character of Don Quixote all my life, at least since I first encountered him. A long time ago, and far away, I had a VAXstation with the name DonQ. The company I worked for, Digital Equipment, had a world-wide network of computers before the world-wide-web was available. Each computer on the Easynet (as it was known) had a unique name - limited in the number of characters you could use.

I was unable to name my computer "Don Quixote" because of that. It's possible even "Quixote" was too long. Memory no longer delivers the details as it once did.

The idea of this madman wandering the world, seeing differently to all around him, has a definite appeal. Even knowing that the man was indeed mad, and the world was not as he saw it, does not take away - for me - from the appeal. Perhaps a quixotic view in and of itself.

It doesn't hurt that the book is regarded as the first modern novel and the finest, and last, of the very novel type Cervantes set out to satirize. There's something particularly elegant about that - which also appeals.

The image above is a Picasso - a print, you understand. It hangs on the wall of the office in which I do much of my writing. For a while it was the wallpaper on one of my smartphones.

Speaking of writing...I'm getting prepared for NaNoWriMo 2011. Prepared, or panicking. One of the two.

I've made sure I have sufficient writing pads for my words and ink for my fountain pen. This year I'm taking my Sheaffer Valor for a run across 50,000 words in 30 days. I have plenty of ink, and I may need it. In testing the pen this evening, I discovered it lays down ink quite generously. There'll be some bleeding through the page - and not just the writer bleeding red as he scrambles to the finish line.

There's still more work to do on my outline so I have an idea that will last through the 1,667 words per day. I'm certain the story's there, but I'd best have some basic bones in place on which to hang the meat of the tale.

To all engaged in this madcap endeavor, I say "Buena Suerte". It's a quixotic kind of adventure, no?

Lottery tickets maybe?

2011-10-23T00:45:00.000-07:00

Lunch seemed like a good idea. Get out of the house. Get some air. Get up off our rear ends.

Anyway, I had to go out and do errands, then or later. Might as well combine the two.

There's a family restaurant in San Mateo we go to from time to time. Comfort food. Heidis Pies (can't get a whole lot more "comfort" than pie now, can you?)

As we took our seats - "seat yourselves, wherever you want" - Dick spotted an advertising gimmick-ey thing on the table. Text "Pie" to some number or other, and win! (Maybe). A whole pie.

Well, I've got this nice shiny new phone - and I text, quite a bit. What was I supposed to do? Off went my text (don't you just *hate* people texting in restaurants?). An almost instantaneous reply - I won! As above - a whole pie! For free. Right then and there. Dang.

Our waitress was ecstatic. We were the third customer of hers to win. Seems they've been running the promotion since August. How observant of us. I know we'd been there at least once before since August. I don't recall seeing the promotion.

It's too early for the Holiday season pies - mince would have been my choice. Raisin works as a great second choice. I seriously need to buy some vanilla ice cream for tomorrow (yes, there's still some pie left).

And maybe some lottery tickets.

Apropos my shiny new phone...

On Thursday I indulged my geek side (again) and took the day off work to go to Nokia's Sunnyvale offices. Microsoft and Nokia were running a full day (8 to 5 - but they provided breakfast) Developer Phone Camp. I was there with my Windows Phone. But that's not my shiny new phone.

My shiny new phone is the Nokia N9, which you can't get here in the US, which I had drop-shipped from Denmark, which is just gorgeous, which is the first and last of its kind that Nokia's producing because they're going with Microsoft Windows Phone software, which is... Stop, Kevin. Remember, breathe. In...out...in...out... OK. All better now?

Sorry. It's just...

Well, anyway, I brought my N9 with me, just to have the coolest phone in the room. Childish. I know. I showed it off to a Nokia employee. He snapped it right out of my hand! In error. "Where did you get this," he demanded.

This is Silicon Valley. NDAs (Non Disclosure Agreements) abound. Instances of prototype devices turning up in the oddest of places make headline news. It seems my phone, at first glance, might bear some resemblance to as-yet-unannounced products. He returned my phone once I showed him the error of his ways.

I'm probably lucky I didn't get tossed out on my above-mentioned rear end.

Life in the Valley. Dad would have loved the story.

Getting ready for November

2011-10-16T23:43:00.000-07:00

We're mid-way through the month of October. And, as you can tell, I managed to recover my MacBook. I'm not entirely convinced about the new version of Mac OS - Lion. But, it's up and running now so I no longer care.

There was a time I would, but now I simply need computers to, what's the phrase?, "just work".

Halfway through October means only about 15 days to the start of November and the madness that is National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo).

I'll be working again with pen and paper, so the lack of a functioning MacBook would not have been a huge problem. I am really hoping not to do what I did last year - have to sprint madly at the end. In truth, 1,667 words per day is not a lot - given I managed over 11,000 on the last day of November last year!

So, the intent is to go the steady route. Let's see how that works out.

During NaNoWriMo 2009, I wrote the first book of a two-parter (although there's a third percolating at the back of my mind - but, for the moment, it can stay there.) This year I'm going to write the second part, picking up a few months after the last scene of the first.

I have some ideas about the plot. Some of the characters, those who made it through the first, return. There are some new ones.

Right now I'm working out the plot trajectory/points. I am not an outline kinda guy but I am going to "block out" some of the main areas of the story as the narrative will unfold from (a minimum of) three different points of view - as the first story did.

I'm using, as I did for NaNoWriMo last year, an application named Index Card for the iPad. In addition to its corkboard metaphor, it can turn the cards into an outline.

The outline can be imported into Scrivener, giving me some structure on which to hang the text.

For the moment, I've just drawn the lightest of character sketches, color-coded according to the narrative's point of view character. When I lay out the different scenes, I'll maintain the color coding. The theory being I should be able to tell at a glance how balanced the story is.

I'll let you know.

To all those embarking on NaNoWriMo this year - good luck, and keep writing.

Computers - can't live with them...

2011-10-12T23:00:00.000-07:00

So there I was, late in the evening and I deciding now was a good time to update my MacBook to Lion.

I should have known.

The download went well, if slowly. But it was finally done and so I hit "Go".

What was my first clue? I think the "Your disk is corrupt" was the start of it all.

"Physician, heal thyself" or rather "Disk Utility - Repair my disk". Would that it were that simple.

For starters, the installer was booting off the disk to be repaired. All that was possible was a verify that failed to complete. The "Repair Disk" button - a stubborn gray.

Insert standalone installation disk - attempt a repair. No go (or dice for that matter). The disk cannot be repaired.

Instead I get a helpful message about backing up, erasing the disk and then restoring.

Only one small difficulty - the disk is corrupt (you said that) and cannot be backed up.

Erased, yes. Backed up - "I'm sorry, Dave, I just can't do that."

So, erase, reinstall the previous operating system version (Snow Leopard) and pray to whatever deities are in charge of late night computer repair.

As my dad said, "Ain't technology grand?"

Images - Masks, if you will

2011-09-28T15:18:00.000-07:00

We each of us maintain a set of images which we preserve for "show". Those selves of ours which we display depending on a given set of circumstances.

There is a risk that such images, like wayward Adams and Eves, go their own ways - leaving us without the means of communicating with those around us.

It was with a sense of that happening, at a point in my life, that the following was penned. That goes some way to accounting for the tone of despair to be heard in the last lines.

o0o

Images

Darkness to Light, Day from Night
And I was.
No antelope raised its head
No pendulum checked its marking of time
Perhaps a mirror cracked
Which would explain
the many reflections that are mine.

Shadows, shades
In fact just aids
To Life, to living
Images really
Like that of Friday's child
Loving, giving.

But while the images dance
Changing to meet each challenge
It can get lonely here
Here at the center of a Universe
And it empty.

Let's start at the very...ending

2011-08-27T15:34:00.000-07:00

It was a bit weird, I'll admit that, but I was young then...

Back, in the days before these days, in a place before this place, my father and I were talking. He spoke of Asimov's Foundation Trilogy (for there were only three books in the series back then - told you it was a while ago.) I suspect now that Dad had read of the republishing of the series, which is why it sprang to his mind. He'd read them when they were first published.

I was fascinated by what he told me of the books, of how Asimov had, seemingly, mapped out an enormous sweep of time and written stories set at different points along the timeline. But these three, in my Dad's opinion, stood far above the others.

I took myself off into the city, seeking out the series. Sure enough, in the vibrant Science Fiction section of one of the main bookstores, I found "Second Foundation". Imagine my dismay when I discovered, prior to buying, this this was the third in the series. The other volumes were sold out.

Even then I was an "instant gratification" kind of guy. So I bought it. And read it.

A week later I bought "Foundation and Empire". And read it.

Finally, "Foundation" - bought and read.

It was a fascinating way to read the trilogy. The third book spent the early part dealing with The Mule, this mutant who had come out of nowhere to upset the Seldon Plan. Yet I had to imagine how bad this was, and how bad things had become, because I hadn't seen that part of the story yet.

In the second book a character rages against a "dead hand" controlling events. I, as the reader - the out-of-order reader, had the same feeling. An almost mythological being, Hari Seldon, seemed in charge of the overall direction of events - and nothing the actors on the stage could do would change this. And then there appeared The Mule, and all the concern at the beginning of the third book fell into place.

Finally I "met" Hari Seldon in the first book. It felt strange to see the man after seeing the impact he'd had on events so far in his future. Such a towering force contained within the frame of a man. It was interesting to hear him speak for himself, rather than his being "intoned" by acolytes hundreds of years after his death.

I've since read the trilogy a number of times. All the "correct" way - "Start at the very beginning..."

But I've never lost the feeling the first reading gave me. The having to figure things out, to attempt to create what had gone before, the history, as the characters knew it. They weren't there when it happened either, they just knew what they'd been told.

It was a great adventure to try discover the world in which they lived, and how it got that way.It's a feeling that's never left me.

I'd love to write a story that way. Backwards. It's been done - the movie Memento does it well.

My main problem with trying to write a story that way is...how I usually write stories. I tend to start at the beginning, and write till I reach the end - being surprised (if I'm lucky) a few times along the way by the twists and turns the story and the characters take.

To begin at the end, and have the story flow backwards...would that mean I'd have to know everything up front?

Possibly not.

Edison Urushi Herald

2011-08-14T17:59:00.000-07:00

Can you have too many fountain pens? Or, at least, can one say he has enough fountain pens?

I've tried to say "Yes" to both of the above questions. Several times - usually after I find another fountain pen that's just that little bit (or very much in some cases) different.

The Urushi Herald fountain pen, from the Edison Pen Company and the hands of Brian Gray and Ernest Shin, is a case in point. An ebonite pen, coated in many, many layers of lacquer, covered in 23.5K gold power and then further layers of pigmented lacquer.

The process took months of painstaking effort, by hand.

The two men strove for an modern touch with pigments chosen to produce a teal color. However, the vagaries of handcrafted work and the heat and humidity of this Spring and Summer caused the end result to turn out darker than they'd originally hoped for.

The resulting pen has a green cast to the lacquer, with underlying blue visible in some lights. Since the pen did not turn out in the striven-for color, Brian graciously lowered the final price.

The pen is clip less, the first of such that I own - leaving me terrified I'll drop it or let it slide from a pocket. Not a problem were I to leave it at home in a desk drawer - but such pens should be used. My favorite description for fountains is "functional works of art". As such, they should be allowed to fulfill their function.

The Urushi Herald is a limited edition pen. I have a few limited editions - my Aurora Europa (one of who-knows-how-many), my Delta Peace pen (one of 1,994), my powder blue Pilot Vanishing Point (again, no idea of how many). The Urushi Herald is different. It is third of twenty. That's it. That's all.

I opted for the F nib - without further customization, for that would be a waste of the pen crafter's skill. My ability with pen and ink falls far short of the skill required to make use of the more esoteric flavors of nib style.

The nib is wonderful as it moves across the paper. There is a slight resistance which serves to allow the writer remember his place.

The resulting line is not as fine as I've seen with other nibs, but the clarity is all down to the nib, and not the writer.

Given the lacquering that's been applied to this pen, it's recommended that one doesn't "post" the cap. This is not a problem in my case, I'm European. Sometime last year I read that caps are seldom posted in Europe. Who knew? It seems I've been doing it "right" all along - at least in so far as how "right" is defined where I hail from.

As it turns out, I don't post the cap while writing because it changes the center of gravity of a pen for me, leaving it seeming unbalanced.

I've inked the Herald with a Royal Blue from Pelikan. It has a very rich tone to the color and seems to suit this pen very well.

Given, however, the green cast to the entire pen, I may go looking for a deep and rich green that should complement it nicely.

Below is a sample of how the pen writes - using the Pelikan Royal Blue, on a Levenger pad.

Women Survive their Men

2011-08-05T15:43:00.000-07:00

"Women survive their men."

Ruth raised her head. She'd been focused on some point, miles away, on the table in front of her, and looked sharply at her mother, Anna Goldberg.

"What?" she said. "What's that supposed to mean? Is that that I've to look forward to now? Years without him?"

Anna shrugged. "It's just something I read.”

The two of them sat, in almost-matching black clothes, in Ruth's home. Recently Ruth and Andrew's home. The kitchen table stretched between them, separating them by far more than its three foot width.

Anna shrugged again and moved her hand as if to pat her daughter's arm, but stopped and let it lie in the middle of the table. "But," she said, continuing, "I had you. Maybe it was easier…"

Ruth bristled and Anna stopped speaking. Her hand moved an inch nearer her daughter.

She sighed. "I didn't mean…" She stopped and then continued. "You know what I mean."

Across from her, Ruth closed her eyes for a long moment, then opened them again. She nodded. "I know. I know." Her voice held a lifetime of weariness.

She looked around. Many of the kitchen surfaces were covered with food containers. Leftovers, from the day, a day full of visitors.

"Leftovers," she said, her voice quiet. "A lifetime of leftovers." She looked at her mother. "Is that what I am now? A 'left over'."

Anna opened her mouth, closed it again and shook her head fiercely. "No," she said, "never that."

Ruth's gaze was level. "Then what, Momma? What?" She shrugged her shoulders, the gesture identical to that of her mother. "My career? Throw myself into my work?" Her voice took on a ragged edge. "Or the first bed I find?"

Anna bit back the retort that sprang to her lips, though the emotion flashed in her eyes. Their gazes clashed and held, Ruth's face stubborn. Then, after a short while, Ruth looked down at the table again. A strangled sound, half-sob, half-laugh, escaped her lips.

"I'm sorry, Momma," Ruth said and shrugged again. She looked up. "You know what I mean."

Anna nodded, pain evident in her face.

"You grieve," she said after a long while. "You grieve, as you are doing now, as I did for your father."

The silence grew long as the evening settled into the quiet rooms of the house.

"You grieve," Anna said again, "for as long as you need. Your Andrew was worth that."

Ruth nodded and and placed her hand flat on the table. They sat, mother and daughter, on opposite sides of the table, hands almost touching, and the darkness grew around them.

Optical character recognition, anyone?

2011-07-29T18:23:00.000-07:00

There are, as I've mentioned before, advantages to my habit of writing longer pieces (short stories and novels) by hand. The primary advantage is the lack of distraction.

The Internet is not just a click away when you're writing with a fountain pen on a pad of paper. And I need all the help I can get - *oh, look at the pretty shiny thing!* {sigh}

However, there is a disadvantage. When done with a novel, there are around four full pads of text to, somehow, computerize. Not to worry, where there's a technical problem, there's a technological solution.

And we all know technology won't fail us, yes?

"Yeah, right" I believe is the phrase I'm searching for.

I use a Mac for my writing. Other than for small stuff, I really haven't found the iPad useful for the purpose. And I try not to sweat the small stuff, as they say.

Recently I upgraded to Mac OS Lion. I'm an early adopter, what can I say.

The speech to text software I use to dictate my scribblings...ah well, it's not all that Lion-compatible, is it? There I was, being all "early adopter" and "techie" with my OS Lion and text to speech software. And where did it get me?

Up a gum tree without a paddle - or some such mixed idiom.

I'm actually only three pages short of completing the loading of one of the novels I'm working on. No tragedy. I can type that as easily as dictate it.

Of course, there is the other three pads full of another novel waiting in the wings to be entered. Well, I've enough to be going on with editing the current one. By the time I'm done with that, Dragon Dictate for Mac will have the problem fixed.

Ever hopeful - a requirement when you depend on technology.

Aurora - Italian fountain pens

2011-07-19T22:45:00.000-07:00

Don't blame me - I blame Julie - Okami for it. It was she who suggested I post a pen review or two.

I know Julie suggested my Sailor Koi, but I've always been contrary. I decided to begin with the pen that restarted me on my fountain pen kick (a friend of mine called it a fetish - could be painfully true, but I'm not agreeing).

An Aurora Optima, created for an anniversary. A gift, due to this custom in the United States of the bride and groom giving gifts to the bridal party. And he is my brother, and she my sister-in-law, and I was their best man.

It's a beauty of a pen, causing me to fall in love with Aurora pens, and to remember my love of fountain pens. An 18K gold nib, medium tip, delivers ink very smoothly. Like all Aurora Optimas, the filling system only takes bottled ink, a twist mechanism at the base of the pen fills the reservoir. One neat feature, when it seems the ink has run out, twisting the base of the pen forces a reserve of about one page's worth of ink to the nib.

I've found that useful on more than one occasion.

The ink supplied with it is a very dark blue, and is flowing yet.

I have a second Aurora Optima, again a gift. We had made the mistake of looking at the pen counter in the Halls Department Store in the Country Club Plaza in Kansas City, MO one Christmas. I always look there, but far less frequently buy.

But there it was, this beautiful green Aurora Optima. With the light shining on it, it was impossible to ignore.

It did not hurt that the pen had been marked down quite aggressively. What could one do? Well, I for one could walk away - sighing, I will admit.

But not the one who was with me. The pen was snapped up and presented to me as a gift. And this was after the several-years-standing agreement that we had "enough". Christmas gifts were no longer required nor expected.

Unexpected. And quite beautiful. The 14K gold nib delivers a very smooth line, with absolutely no pressure required. Given the pen body is green, with the most marvelous highlights throughout, it seemed only correct to ink it in green.

So, from Levenger's "Slightly Wild" collection of inks (a collection I can't seem to find any longer), "Always Greener". I shall miss it when it's gone - although the world is full of green inks that I can work my way through.

Still, a collection called "Slightly Wild", how could one resist?

The third of the Auroras was also a gift - this time from myself to myself. One of Aurora's "Continents" limited edition fountain pens. Europa, of course. It could not have been otherwise.

The black and grey (yes, I know, it's the British spelling - but it's a Europa pen. I'll be back to the American spelling tomorrow) is beautifully understated. The cap is slightly translucent, you can see the nib rotate as you screw the cap home.

The nib is an 18K gold nib plated with Rhodium. When it first arrived, the fine nib was a little problematic, not as smooth as I expected.

I sent it to John Mottishaw of http://www.nibs.com for some work. The result was beautifully smooth and effortless delivery of ink to the page. A joy to write with.

The pen features a steam engine and an image of European industrialization on the silver band at the base of the cap. At the base of the clip there is an engraving of the European continent. The cap is topped with a blue cabochon.

This pen, like the red Optima, arrived with its own ink bottle. Grey, as is only fitting. I have continued to use that, and will till I exhaust the supply.

Then, I'll have to go hunting a grey that will work well with this beautiful pen.

Here are the three pens - the Limited Edition Europa is slightly larger than the other two.

And, finally, an example of how each of them writes. Please do not judge the quality of the pens by the quality of the penmanship. That would do them a disservice.

Enjoy.

Everyday poetry

2011-07-17T23:08:00.000-07:00

The days and weeks have a rhythm to them - some might call it a rut. I'm going with rhythm.

So nothing special about this Sunday. The usual gentle start to the day. Papers, breakfast, cats snoozing in the sun.

And music. Sacred music for sure, this is Sunday after all, and the two of us do have a depth of formal religion deep in our background. So, the Divine Liturgy of St. John Chrysostom by Rachmaninoff poured out of the music system (our neighbor is away on a trip) and washed over us. Can't understand a word of it - and you don't have to.

Truth be told, I do catch a word or two here and there. I have an ear that picks up patterns. But mostly I let it flow over me.

The afternoon had little more than lunch out at a family restaurant, noisy, sit where you please, and have lemon meringue pie and fun banter with the waiter. A few errands - coffee beans being of importance, else Monday cannot be survived.

More music, even if dishes and laundry needed tending. Then reading later into the evening while Gaelic or Italian or Deep Southern English set to music wove tales of love, loss, heartbreak.

Yes, I'll go with rhythm.

Coming back to myself

2011-07-14T19:51:00.000-07:00

It had nothing to do with writing, though yet, in a way, it did. And nothing to do with the stories I tell, except for the stories I might still tell myself in the long and the quiet of the night.

For I was a teacher once, a trainer, an instructor. I spent my days shaping minds to see order and sequence - and to realize (in the sense of making ‘real’) such seeing in code so a computer could go about the business of…well…computing.

Later, not formally teaching, training, instructing, I led others, in two different startups, to imagine order and structure laid upon the realities of business. We described the world, people, skills, and commerce, in abstract terms, in diagrams, in information encoded in database structures.

And I taught people to write code that brought these together and made something useful of it all. I even taught some to imagine how such might be wrought again.

Today, this afternoon, I got to exercise that part of me again. To imagine. To seek an innovative approach. To even seek a radical approach. To allow my mind shape theory out of imaginings and to have the result hang together and make sense to another.

The writing will be done by this other. A short paper, with her own ideas and experience brought to bear.

But I mapped out a road, placed the signposts, sketched the destination.

It felt good to stretch.

Our Past - Always Present

2011-07-09T10:56:00.000-07:00

“Pass the sugar, dear,” Mai said as she settled herself against the raised back of the booth.

Anna Goldberg slid the container of sugar, and sugar substitutes, in her direction. She was seated next to the wall. Rachel on her left, Rose across from her.

“You should cut back.” She said the words, part of the ritual.

The laugh, in response, was as much part of the ritual.

“If it hasn’t killed me by now, it never will,” Mai said, sprinkling the contents of a sugar sachet into her coffee mug. She crumpled the empty sachet in her hand and sent it to join the previous two at the corner of the table.

“You won’t be able to taste any of that coffee,” Rachel said, picking up the thread of the ritual.

Anna sat back, relaxing into the familiar three-times-a-week gathering of the four women. She reflected that they’d been getting together like this for more than twenty years.

“More than twenty years,” she said aloud.

“What dear?” Rose asked. Rose’s hearing wasn’t what it used to be,

Anna turned to look at her, just realizing she’d spoken aloud. “Twenty years, us, coming here like this,” she said.

Rose nodded and Mai spoke up. “I liked it better before.”

“Before?” Anna asked.

Mai waved a meaty arm, taking in the hard, bright, colored plastic that covered every surface in the restaurant. “It was quieter, easier to be in before.”

Rachel laughed. “Wasn’t all that quiet when we each had our children with us,” she said. She nodded towards Mai. “And yours the noisiest.”

Mai laughed her loud laugh, her body shaking. “Yes, mine were always loud. Can’t say I know where they got it.”

The others laughed with her, remembering.

“I suppose they were all noisy, at times,” Rose said, “except your Ruth, Anna. She was always a quiet one.”

Anna nodded, saying nothing.

“Mine put their noise to use,” Mai said. “Young Brent’s still singing. Doing well for himself.” She nodded her head vigorously. “Heard him on the radio just last week.”

The others all congratulated her on her boy doing so well for himself.

Rachel spoke of her sons, Ben and Roger. Ben was just finishing up his business studies. “He’ll be starting in his father’s business next month.”

Anna put her hand on Rachel’s, comforting her friend. “I’m sure he’ll do very well.”

Rachel turned her hand to hold Anna’s and swallowed before she spoke again. “No, it’s good. A boy needs his father. It’s good for him.” She smiled at Anna. “Yes, he’ll do well.”

“What about Roger?” Mai asked. “He still away?”

Rachel nodded. “Yes, still away.” She shrugged. “The army medical corps. What can you do?”

Mai reached over and placed her hand on top of Anna’s. “We pray, Rachel. We pray. That’s what I’m doing for my Tammy. Her second deployment...”

Rose added her hand to the pile of her friends’. “We’ll all pray,” she said. “We’ll all pray.”

The four women sat, hand in hand, for a moment longer and then returned to their breakfast.

“Sandy’s expecting her second,” Rose said. “She’s going to make me a grandmother again.” She smiled. “How did that happen?”

They laughed, the tension passing.

“Surely you know,” Mai said, “and you a grown woman.”

Rose laughed. “You know what I mean, Mai.”

“I got a call from Ruth,” Anna said. Rose looked at her sharply.

“She asked how Sandy was doing.”

A moment passed before Rose answered. “Sandy’s doing fine,” she said. “Tell Ruth not to concern herself. Sandy’s doing fine.” Rose lifted her face to Anna’s. “I’d prefer if Ruth didn’t contact her, Anna.”

Anna held up her hand. “No,” she said, “that’s not it. Ruth isn’t going to do anything. She knows Sandy has her own life.” She looked pleadingly at her friend. “She was just asking how she was, that’s all.”

Rose nodded slowly. “Sandy’s fine. Her daughter’s keeping her busy and her new baby will fill in any time she has. Her husband’s away a lot on business, but everything’s fine.”

Anna waved her hand, signifying acceptance of what Rose was saying. The other two women were silent.

“I’m glad,” Anna said. “Glad. And I’ll be happy to let Ruth know Sandy’s well. Please don’t worry.” She smiled at the other woman. “Anyway, Ruth has news.”

“News?” Mai asked.

Anna smiled and nodded. “Yes,” she said. “She’s getting married in the Fall.”

Rose’s face showed surprise. “Oh,” she said. “Married? Ruth?”

Anna nodded.

“Well, I’ll be,” Mai said. “I never thought she would. He must be some boy to…to win her.”

Anna shook her head. “Not boy, Mai,” she said, though she was looking at Rose.

Rose met her eyes.

“Jenna,” Anna said, “her name’s Jenna.”

“Oh,” said Rose.

Plays well with scissors...

2011-06-29T23:08:00.000-07:00

...or should that be, runs well with others?

Whichever it should be, they both bring to mind the current writing activity in which I'm involved. More of that in a moment.

When I think, or certainly thought, of writing, a solitary time at a keyboard, typewriter or pad and pens are images that spring to mind. Ideas, words, worlds welling up and flowing (or trickling sometimes - blood-from-stone-like) onto the screen/paper/page.

And so it's been mostly. Me, a pen (or several), a writing pad (or several) and away I scribble, long into the night. The results have not been bad. Sometimes, even, they've been good. And once or twice, only a few times, they have astonished me.

Of late, there's been something else. Absolutely. She who signs herself, Absolutely*Kate, and who writes and showcases writing at At the Bijou tapped me on the shoulder (virtually that is - and on my virtual shoulder at that) and suggested a duet, a sharing of the writing task.

*Kate is fond of my writing style and it is to understate it to say I am enamored of hers. *Kate has a fluidity with language that inspires - and makes me laugh (when it's not making me envious.)

I had an opening scene with some strong characters, sent it to her and got by return mail (e-mail, that is) this impassioned plea to be permitted to play with these characters. I am many things, stupid isn't one of them (mostly), and so I said "Yes".

We've traded stanzas of this evolving story back and forth between us - all the while maintaining a correspondence covering/suggesting back story, time and place, and about whom the story will finally be (that's still on-going, I'm not sure the characters are ready to tell us yet).

Characters have come bounding out of the woodwork to take a twirl on the dance floor (there was an actual dance floor in the 2nd and 3rd stanzas).

What is surprising to me is the in-tuneness that *Kate and I share about the story. I had thought two of the characters would need to talk, only to find that the meeting was set up by *Kate in her stanza - without discussion on the point between us. There have been other such serendipities.

This collaborative (co-laborare - to work together if I have my Latin correct) approach is new for me. We moved the home state of some of the characters and shifted time back some thirty-odd years - all without a hitch. We're still hunting around for the thrust of the story, which promises to grow to quite a serious length, but are piling up potential - the discharge of which will provide a very satisfying plot (I think).

I do not recommend this approach to anyone - because I do not recommend any approach to anyone. I don't know enough to make recommendations (other than to write - for that is what writers do, write, and we short-change ourselves when we don't.)

But, should some collaborate in a similar or dissimilar way - I can only wish that you enjoy it as much as *Kate and I are enjoying it.

No - you may not buy this book!

2011-06-25T00:08:00.000-07:00

And why ever not, I ask.

"The City and the Stars" by Arthur C. Clarke is one of Science Fiction's great works. I don't know how often I've read it. It bears re-reading.

And I bought it for my Kindle some time ago, from Amazon, in the US. I read it. Archived it. Today I was extolling the virtues of the book. We went to see what it cost on Amazon. Not there.

I thought I remembered buying it, nay buying and reading it, so I checked. Sure enough, there in my Digital Items it was. I clicked on the product information and the cover showed up.

And a note that it was not available to people living in the US. I live in the US. It is, however, available for purchasers from the Amazon UK site.

And there we have it, a concern I have about electronic books. If I want to read a book, but it's not published here in the US, I get a friend or a relative to buy the book on my behalf (a friend of mine did that once for me - but instead of buying one copy of Paul Gallico's "Jennie", titled "The Abandoned" in the US, she bought six! The Lady C was ever thus.)

You can't do that with ebooks. Somehow, I'm not "allowed" own a book not made available in the US.

This is not good.

Lest anyone think that I'm not "for ebooks and e-readers", allow me to present my credentials. I've owned e-readers for well over a decade. My first was the Rocket E-Reader in the late nineties. The side of a large paperback and an ugly gray screen, it was a marvel in its day.

I progressed, after a couple of years, to the Gemstar color e-reader, which had an Ethernet port (wired) that allowed, what today we would call, in-app purchases. In the end, I bought two of the Gemstars, as the device was discontinued after a few years.

Both of them are alive to this day. Both of them still capable of displaying the content they contain.

A Sony e-reader followed the Gemstar, later traded in for the next version of Sony's technology. Both versions were the new e-ink displays. The Sony still works, and still displays the over 100 books I own on that platform.

The first Kindle, then a Kindle DX, one iPad with Kindle software and now a color Nook (so I can see e-books I publish for that platform) mean that I am very much part of the e-book/e-reader enthusiast group.

Yet there is a restriction placed on me as a purchaser of books in the digital realm that does not, nay cannot, exist in the world of dead-tree books. In the world of dead-tree books I could phone a book store in another country, order the book I wanted, and have it shipped to me. I could even do so using the online-store of such a book store.

I cannot do that with an e-book - the store won't sell it and thus I cannot get it onto my device for reading.

I've just now tried to download the copy I purchased at some time in the past to my Kindle app. There's an error in synching - so no book.

This is not good.

Duet - in the key of C

2011-06-17T09:59:00.000-07:00

A Duet in the Key of C

~ By Absolutely*Kate and Kevin J. Mackey

"Steve. Steve."

Steven Bradford turned in his chair at the sound of his name, and stood. Tony Callini was bearing down on him, but it was the woman with Tony that drew Steven from his seat.

She was tall, would be even without heels. Her eyes, the clearest shade of blue Steven had ever seen, seemed to be dancing with some private amusement. The same amusement was playing on lips coated a very pale pink.

An asymmetric gown, midnight blue and baring one shoulder, hugged her figure. It covered everything and hid little.

"This is --" Tony began.

"Carolina," she said. Smooth, open vowels and Steven caught just the hint of the "r" in her name.

Carolina offered her hand, slim and warm in white elbow gloves. She offered it, fingers together, arching downwards. Steven had to fight the urge to touch his lips to them. He looked up and caught another hint of amusement.

"So, that's it then," Tony said. "I've done my part, yes?"

Carolina turned her head to him, her hand still in Steven's. He felt her fingers tighten a shade more, ensuring he still held her hand.

"Yes," she said, "you're finished now, darling Tony." Carolina turned back to Steven.

Steven blinked at the most complete dismissal he had ever heard, and then shook himself.

"Forgive me," he said, "I've forgotten my manners. I'm Steven, Steven Bradford."

Her smile flashed, a row of neat, white teeth on display for an instant.

"Carolina, as I said. Carolina Beatrice Templeton." She smiled again and shrugged slightly. Steven's eyes drifted over the light dusting of freckles on her bare right shoulder before being captured again by her eyes.

"An old family," she said, "fond of inflicting dignified names on wayward children."

Steven smiled in return. "Oh I am sure you are very dignified."

Her smile just broadened.

"Steve?" Alice, Steve's date for the evening, joined them. Steven released Carolina's hand, noticing as he did so a slight reluctance. He turned to Alice.

"Alice," he said, a shade too brightly. "This is Carolina, Carolina Templeton. A friend . . . of Tony's."

It seemed to Steven, reflecting later, that the temperature around their little group dropped.

"Alice," Carolina said, "so pleased to make your acquaintance."

"Likewise, I'm sure," Alice replied.

Steven noticed neither woman moved to touch the other.

Alice took Steven's arm in hers.

"Steve," she said, "we really must go and say 'hello' to Sandra and her husband."

Steven looked at Alice and then back to Carolina.

"Steven," Carolina said, "you mustn't let me keep you from enjoying yourself." She paused a moment and then looked directly into his eyes. "I hope you will allow me to call on you sometime. Tony has told me so much about your work."

"Certainly," Steven said, and felt Alice's fingers digging into his arm. "Call me anytime."

Carolina smiled. "I may call on you anytime?"

Steven kept his face straight even though Alice was beginning to leave marks on his arm. "Yes," he said, "please do."

"Gift for gift," Carolina mused, her voice soft. She smiled again. "Well then, I will leave you two lovely people to enjoy yourselves."

She smiled again at Steven and nodded to Alice. Then, turning on her heel, she made her way gracefully across the room. As she walked, Steven was captivated by the gentle swaying of her hips.

"Steve," Alice said in a loud whisper, "stop staring at her. Who is she anyway?"

Steven tore his gaze away from Carolina just as she left the room. He turned to Alice.

"Just a friend of Tony's," he said, "like I told you."

"A friend of Tony's," Alice said, her mouth drawn into a thin line. "So, where is he then, Tony?

Steven looked around the room. Tony was not to be seen. He smiled and guided Alice towards Sandra and her husband. "He stepped out shortly before you arrived. I'm sure Carolina's gone to find him."

Alice's reply was unconvinced, but she allowed herself to be steered towards her friend, Sandra. It was, after all, in the opposite direction to the one Carolina had taken.

~ ~ ~

There were actually many opposite directions steered into when folks first made the acquaintance of Carolina Beatrice Templeton. Something about a nature that daunts always veers it so. The Templetons of Montgomery came from old money, dusty money, the kind of money not to shake a stick at, though few ever considered that. The Templetons were seen to be held in the highest regard -- from their open doors on every side of the wide-planked veranda on Magnolia Lane which welcomed friend and stranger alike right on into an iced pitcher of mint juleps, to the family trait of dancing eyes. Oh how the Templeton's eyes danced, waltzed, even tangoed. Midst amusement never veiled and down right chortling guffaws, the Templetons' family tree rollicked all its branches with the good humour that glided them in good stead through conference rooms and dance floors.

Carolina Beatrice Templeton was a gliding light on the dance floor this night, changing partners left and right.

Nodding in commiseration to Sandra's story about the gardener mistaking the potato patch for placement of the daylily bulbs, Alice's peripheral vision caught flash after flash of midnight blue. Much to her chagrin, Steven, who could care less about potato patches gone askew, was sporting a new level of intensity in his own regard for that vivid flash of midnight blue.

Bristling but a bit, Alice bolstered, rebuking herself to be a far better champ at holding her own. "Excuse us Sandra," she smiled. "Steven, I dare say this is our song. Shall we? Shall we dance?"

Strains of Some Enchanted Evening swirled the perfumed air, the evening's mood and the soft gliding collision of what dancers had on their minds in the New York minutes of a sultry Saturday night.

Carolina Beatrice Templeton had plenty on hers. And how convenient, she noticed, that the malice of Alice would bring her honey directly to the bait. The white gloved fingers of her right hand stroked tenderly the back of the neck of the broad suited shoulders who happened to be her current dance partner. Her throat arched back with a tinkling of musical laughter to something dashing or distinguished he'd just said. What was his name again? Tom? Dick? Harry?

~ ~ ~

There I was, with a great character, a great setup, and then...nothing. "Go," said I, "do something. I promise to record it faithfully."

Carolina glanced at me over one bare shoulder, sniffed and began tapping one delicate foot, all the while examining a spot two deliberate inches above my head.

Happily, the Universe reached out, tapped Absolutely*Kate on the shoulder and whispered, "I wouldn't ask usually, but he's stranded and seriously in need of help. A duet, perhaps?"

Mercifully, dropping as the gentle rain from Heaven, she consented. And Carolina and crew took to dancing while we chase madly after them, scribbling.

The above two stanzas of the duet are a sneak preview of whatever-this-is. The year is '76 (19, that is), the place New York (though Carolina's not from there). It's a messy political, financial world (is "messy" redundant there?).

We are hosting this preview on both of our blogs - here and at At The Bijou where *Kate features terrific writing (much of it hers), popcorn for all and wonderful call-outs from the Great American Songbook. Go there, and be wowed.

Also (there's more?), we wondered if you have ideas for the fun and games our characters might indulge in...

Enjoy - and thanks!

It was the...well, you know the kind of times

2011-06-09T22:59:00.000-07:00

An interesting experience, this pulling a book together and sending it on its way into the world. And rewarding too.

The raw material existed and a certain art and a certain craft went into the creation thereof. But that was, by no means, where art and craft ended.

Sixty-some photographs and their attendent haiku. Created over a couple of years. Now we can begin.

First was the task of pulling these photographs into one location and getting them all, in no order that god nor man could devine, into Scrivener - the tool chosen for book production. Four different phone cameras had been involved, each with its own quirks, including the 12MP variant that was my Nokia N8.

So, one of the tasks was to turn the photos into something resembling similar size and shape. Apart from the panorama shot, which was at least four shots stitched together, I believe I succeeded.

Then attach the haiku that had accompanied the photograph when initially uploaded to the Web, and sit back and think, "How on earth am I going to pull these into something coherent?"

"In the doing," as the Spanish might say. In truth, it took a day of thought before some "organizing principle" revealed itself. After that, it was a matter of drag and drop, rearrange, attempt a balance between the three sections, drag and drop some more.

So, art and craft needed here too. And what of the cover image? The title, "Haiku - Through a Lens", suggested itself, and by extension suggested the image. One dozen photographs of a camera lens later, I had the shot I wanted. A little cleanup in Photoshop got rid of the reflection of the phone camera in the camera's lens. I, briefly, considered the meta point this represented, infinite reflections of camera to lens to camera...but good sense prevailed.

Scrivener made the book creation, generation that is, fairly straightforward. Mobi, ePub, PDF - all possible with just a few setting changes. There are tools to preview the results and to examine the internal structure to ensure the ePub format is valid. I hardly doubted Scrivener's ability to create valid output - but it was reassuring to have it check out OK.

Then off to Amazon (.com, .co.uk and .de) and Barnes & Noble - with some frustration with Smashwords (Scrivener providing the Word output as well). A book laden with so many photographs runs over Smashwords 5MB limit for input to their Meatgrinder.

Another time perhaps...

There is a certain level of wry amusement for me in the fact that I was unable to give 17 copies of the book away. But there is art and craft in book promotion too.

And I must learn it.

Thanks to all for the support given so freely.

Haiku - Through a Lens

2011-06-05T12:18:00.000-07:00

As mentioned in my previous post, "Haiku - Through a Lens" is a collection of some sixty-odd ("don't say it, Kevin, just don't...") haiku teamed with photographs I've taken while out and about.

To celebrate its publication, I'm offering some (seventeen - but of course) copies to commenters on this blog.

After some time futzing with settings, the book is now available for purchase(!) at Amazon: Haiku - Through a Lens for reading on Kindle and various app formats of same. A version in ePub is available from Barnes & Noble for reading on their Nook - it can be purchased here.

Given there are many color photographs in the book, viewing on the Kindle hardware itself, or the original Nook will take some of the impact away. I have checked the book out using the Kindle app on a laptop, an iPad and and iPod Touch. Other than needing to shrink the font size on the iPod Touch to avoid wrapping of the text, it reads very well.

It also previews nicely on the software version of the color Nook and on the Nook app for the iPad.

I tried to use Smashwords for conversion to additional formats and ran up against a size limitation. Haiku - Through a Lens is just short of 5.5MB in its Word Doc format. This, even after taking the Smashwords suggestion of getting Word to compress the images (things were worse before that step.) The current size is above the 5MB limit for Smashwords' Meatgrinder conversion tool.

Short of taking some of the photographs out (my own first thought, but swiftly rejected), any thoughts on what I might do?

So, what about these seventeen copies? The first seventeen haiku comments on this blog entry will gain their authors a copy of the book. I have versions suitable for Kindle and Kindle app, Nook and also PDF. Let me know what format suits you best.

Here's an example of the book's contents:

I hope you enjoy it.

What to do with all these Haiku?

2011-06-03T23:43:00.000-07:00

Those who have seen my tweets passing by in the timeline (what an odd construction that is...) or as part of the "news" page on facebook, or yet again, off to the right on this blog will have detected my fondness for the simple, though not easy, form of poetry known as Haiku.

How I love a sentence that runs pell-mell all over a page!

According to my Twitter page I've sent over 1,900 tweets. The vast majority of these will have been the short seventeen-syllable scraps of thought in poetic form. With enough practice you can get competent at anything. So, some of the haiku I've composed are good, arresting even. Some, by the same token, are pretty bad - but then, I'm recovering from a lifetime of perfectionist tendencies (not, I assure you, of perfection).

What to do with all these Haiku, I ask? Well, nothing actually. Nothing, at least with the vast majority of them. I quite like the fact that most of them are ephemeral. Less so than I thought as it turns out. I was quite surprised to discover how far back I could go along my Twitter timeline.

No matter, once composed and dropped into the timeline, I consider them off on their own. (Write if you get work, y'hear?)

However (there's always a "however", isn't there?), I've sometimes included a photograph I'd taken with a tweet, combining an image with the verse. These, of necessity, had to be hosted on some web site for viewing. And so they remained.

It was suggested that I might assemble them into an electronic book form. It's possible others might enjoy viewing and reading a collection of these #PhotoHaiku, as I called them within Twitter.

I imagined I might have sixteen or twenty to pull together. So it might make something interesting to view. I was wrong, I assembled over sixty of these photo and poetry combinations, grouping them into three sections:

Light and Darkness
Travel
Seasons

I wondered how I was going to do it, and found that Scrivener, the tool I use on the Mac for my writing, has all the capabilities I needed to handle both the images and the text, in addition to generating native Kindle and Nook formats. The ePub format it generates also works for Apple's iBook - but Apple requires an ISBN - and I didn't have $125 handy.

And so, Haiku - Through a Lens was born. I'm currently thinking through how best to launch it, but the act of pulling together the images and text, grouping them in some coherent way and generating the final output was invigorating.

I must do this again.

Timeshare

2011-05-27T23:16:00.000-07:00

Queem drifted to the view screen, a hiss of annoyance escaping as he bumped against the bed where Ricardo Alvarez lay.

"Weak gravity on this world. Impossible to deal with."

He touched the viewscreen controls, the image coming in clean, sharp. He watched the perspective change as Mr. Alvarez rocked back on his heels.

"Not used to such heights, I think," Queen said.

The Phridshfoen lived at the edges of huge cliffs. Even Queem would suffer vertigo there. He watched as Alvarez rocked forward again, beginning to stretch wings to either side.

Even on the rigid face of a Phridshfoen, it was possible to make out an expression of wonder.

The sharp cry uttered was translated by Queem's equipment.

"Damn!" said Ricardo Alvarez.

Queem touched another control, just in time. Alvarez looked like he was about to try out his wings.

The body on the bed moved, shifted and opened its eyes.

"Slowly, Mr. Alvarez,” Queem said, his voice a deep rumble in the small room. “Slowly, this first time."

Alvarez looked at the ceiling for a moment and then sat up. He shook his head, looking around the room. Queem watched as the human stretched his arm out in front of him, confusion on his face.

"No wings," said Alvarez.

"No wings," Queem confirmed.

He stood there, squat, bulky, blue while Alvarez adjusted to his surroundings.

"Well," he asked, "was it as you expected?"

Alvarez looked at him, then looked again at his own arms.

"They fly there? They can fly?" He looked at Queem. "I could have flown there? For real?"

"You were a Phridshfoen," Queem said. "They live on a planet at the edge of the galaxy. And yes, they fly. The gravity on their world is less than here, far less than on my world." He paused. "I think even I could fly there."

Alvarez laughed. “It would take more than that to get you off the ground, Queem."

"No need to be insulting, Mr. Alvarez. I don't believe your slight frame would survive my world."

Alvarez held up his hands. “Don’t go getting all upset," he said. "You're just packed a little more solid than we are here. Now," he continued, "was that real?"

Queem nodded. "Yes, it was real. You were there. The Phridshfoen was...somewhere else."

"OK," Alvarez said. "So why such a short time? You said ten minutes. That wasn't any ten minutes."

Queem bent to check the console settings. Even though he had a massive frame, he possessed fine tentacles that could be used for the most subtle adjustments.

"The demonstration,” he said, “was for a short time interval. They are difficult."

“How so?" Alvarez said. "If it's a short time, shouldn't it be easier?"

"No," said Queem. "Longer periods are always easier, and it's not helped by your strange calculation system."

"What calculation system?” Alvarez asked.

"Ten sixtieths of one twenty-fourth of your planet's rotation on its axis? And that only an approximation. How did you ever devise such a scheme?"

Queem turned to Alvarez again. "And why didn’t you change it for something sensible?"

Alvarez shrugged. "It works for us. So, you couldn't work it out?"

Queem made a hiss of annoyance. "Of course I worked it out. I simply translated it to ten sixtieths of one twenty-fourth of the Phridshfoen home world's rotation."

“Why was it so short?"

"Their world rotates faster than yours," Queem replied. "That's all."

"Salesmen," Alvarez said. "You've an answer for everything." He pointed at the console. "So, how’s it work?"

"Do you plan to go into business, Mr. Alvarez, as my competitor?" Queem asked. He adjusted a setting on the console. “You’ll find the technology beyond that available on your planet."

Alvarez shook his head. "No, I didn't mean that."

"Then?" asked Queem.

"What I meant was, what happens? When I'm gone, I mean. What happens to me? To my body?"

"Oh that," Queem said. "What happens to you is that you are gone, hosted within another being's body, as when you were a Phridshfoen. Your body," Queem pointed a tentacle at Alvarez, “is available for the time period you are...away.”

"A timeshare," Alvarez said. "That's what you called it."

Queem nodded. "The term is essentially correct."

“And nothing bad’ll happen to my body while I’m somewhere else?"

"Mr. Alvarez," Queem said, "I would not be long in business if I damaged the...goods...I have to trade, would I?"

Alvarez shook his head. "No, I suppose not." He looked down a moment, and then raised his eyes to Queem again. "So, while I'm away, for two weeks, say, there’ll be someone else using my body, someone from out there?"

“Perhaps,” said Queem. "Someone else will, or might, have use of your body while you’re away."

“Might?” Alvarez asked.

“My business is new on this planet, Mr. Alvarez. The availability is not widely advertised."

"So, I've getting in on the ground floor you’d say?" Alvarez asked.

Queem looked at him. "We are on the ground floor, Mr. Alvarez. I don’t think the upper floors would hold me."

"No," said Alvarez, "I mean I’m the first. So you can offer me a good deal."

"Oh," said Queem, "I understand now. Yes. This is an opening offer. There is usually an exchange of valuable commodities, in addition to the availability of the traveller's body. For you, because you are the first, this is waived."

Alvarez smiled. "Sign me up."

Queem paused until he realized Alvarez's words signified assent.

"Very well, Mr. Alvarez. You are 'signed up' for fourteen three hundred and sixty fifths of your planet's orbit about its primary. This is agreeable?"

Alvarez frowned. "You mean two weeks? Fourteen days?"

"I imagine I do," Queem answered. "Fourteen of your day-units, yes."

"Somewhere warm. It's cold here in winter," Alvarez said.

"Oh yes," Queem said. "The planet is quite hot. You will be a--," he paused and consulted his console, "--an Anleethen, I believe is the closest sound to your language. A powerfully-built species, even more than my own."

Alvarez let out a whistle. "A big mother, wow."

“No,” Queem said. "This Anleethen is male, as you are."

Alvarez waved his hand. "No, I didn't mean...ah, it doesn't matter. OK. Hook me up and let me start my vacation."

Queem flicked a switch on the console and sent Alvarez on his way to the fire prison of Laethann. He checked the calculations. Laethann was quite far from its primary star. Alvarez would be away for ten Earth years. The Anleethen crime families paid well for others to serve out their sentences.

Queem looked over at Alvarez’s body. This planet provided such opportunity for business.

As I was walking down...

2011-05-25T22:36:00.000-07:00

There is an advantage to not visiting the City each day - you get the chance to see it with fresh eyes every time. A different perspective to those who live there - or who journey there every day.

Even mundane annoyances like Muni breaking down before reaching my station at the Embarcadero become, on a rare visit to the City, a pleasure. The air was clear, the sky cloudless, the early morning sun holding the promise of warmth.

Palm trees lined the street and curved away along the Embarcadero as I walked, looking around tourist-like, towards Market Street. The Bay Bridge, the sun behind it washing out all details, stood gray against the blue of sky and water, arcing over the Bay from San Francisco to Yerba Buena island. The eastern span was lost in the light to my dazzled Irish eyes.

Joggers loped by the waterside, off to my right towards Fisherman's Wharf, perhaps as far as the Marina. I wished them well on their way in the cool of the early morning.

Around me the city was awake, tides of people flowing along its arteries, each to his or her place. I let the tide wash over me. There was time. A day-long conference, breakfast would be provided.

I have often said that I like the fact that I've never really lived within a city. I've always lived with one nearby, within reach. Dublin, Geneva, London, San Francisco. Paris was three hours away by train and, while I dearly love that city, that was too far to call "nearby".

San Francisco, on such a day as dawned yesterday, well...it made me wonder what it would be like to wake up within such a city.

For this reason, Kansas City represents something new. There, we will be within the city itself. I look forward to a change in viewpoint.

--o0o--

In other news, yesterday turned out to be the birthday of two new first cousins (once removed) of mine. So, greetings Zoe and Emily. Glad you made it safely.

And welcome.

Winter Came Early

2011-05-20T17:21:00.000-07:00

Ruth Goldberg stood at the window and watched as the pale Winter sun dipped below the hills behind the house she had grown up in. She was dimly aware of the comings and goings as the others gathered.

“Dad,” she whispered, “I don’t know if I can do this. I really don’t.”

She closed her eyes a moment as she heard the familiar footsteps of Jenna, her assistant, coming up behind her.

“Ruth,” said Jenna, her voice hushed. “They’re waiting for you.”

Ruth took a deep breath and ran her hands down over her black suit, smoothing perfectly smooth fabric. She opened her eyes again, took a last look at the darkening hills, and turned to face Jenna.

She nodded. “I’ll be there in a moment,” she said. “Tell them…” she paused to gather herself, “tell them I’ll be there.”

“In a moment,” Jenna said, and nodded. “I’ll tell them.” She turned and left Ruth standing by the window.

The reading of the will. “Why did you go and make me executor, Dad?” Ruth asked. “Why not Cohen? Or someone else. Anyone else?”

No answer came and Ruth straightened, swept her dark hair back off her face and secured it, almost savagely, with an ornate comb. Thus held back severely, her hair served to accentuate her high cheekbones, sharp features and dark eyebrows over darker eyes. Her mouth had a determined set to it and she shook her head once before striding to the library.

“Let’s get this over with,” she said under her breath.

The library was uncharacteristically well-lit. Chairs were arranged in an arc in front of her father’s heavy oak writing desk. Jenna sat apart, off to the side. The other chairs were occupied by cousins, a few family friends, Cohen the family lawyer, and Anna. Ruth looked at her mother. Anna, her eyes the same dark as Ruth’s, looked back. Neither said a word.

Ruth took her place behind the desk and opened the document folder containing her father’s will.

The business was swiftly completed, the bulk of the estate going to charity, bequests large and small bestowed on this or that relative, this or that friend. The house was hers.

When she closed the document folder at the end, Ruth stood. The others stood and, one by one, bid her farewell, murmuring quiet words of praise for her father and sympathy for her. Jenna looked at her but Ruth nodded that she should go.

Anna remained seated.

Ruth, still standing, waited until Jenna had closed the door behind her. Then she turned to her mother.

“Generous,” Anna said, the word barely audible in the quiet of the room.

“He was a generous man,” Ruth said.

“I know,” said Anna, “I lived with him for fourteen years.”

“And I lived with him for nineteen years,” Ruth said, bright spots of color visible on pale cheeks. “And when I came back from college, and nursed him for the last years of his life.”

Anna raised her hand, warding off the anger. “A comfort to him, I’m sure.”

“You emptied him,” Ruth said, her voice low now. “You left him, left him empty, broke him.” She stifled a sob and clenched her fists, struggling to master herself.

“And I couldn’t heal him,” she said finally, quietly.

Anna was silent for a while, and then spoke again. “But you tried,” she said, “didn’t you?” She looked at her daughter. “We look alike, you and I. But you were always special to him.”

Ruth shook her head fiercely and her voice was ragged with emotion. “We are nothing alike. I cared for him. I was there when he needed me.” She paused before continuing. “You weren’t there when he needed you, when anybody needed you.”

Anna stood. She shook her head. “No, I wasn’t. And no, we aren’t very alike. I didn’t…I don’t… have your strength. I couldn’t deal with…so, yes, I left.”

Ruth drew herself up to her full height. “Well, you may leave again. This is my home now. There is nothing here for you.”

“What will you do?” Anna asked.

Ruth’s calm shook a little. “What can I do?” she asked. “The only man I’ve loved, the only man I’ve shared my life with, is gone.”

Anna raised her hand but Ruth stepped back. “There is still time for you,” Anna said. She glanced around the room. “Leave here, get out of this place. Leave behind its memories.”

Ruth shook her head. “We make our bed.” She was silent for a while. Then, “We lie in it.”

“That choice wasn’t yours, Ruth,” Anna said, “it wasn’t yours.”

“Not at first, no, I suppose not,” Ruth said, her voice flat and emotionless now. “But it became mine. It was mine.” She fixed her mother with a bleak stare. “But, in the end, it wasn’t enough. I wasn’t enough.”

Anna reached out but Ruth stepped back again. Anna let her hand fall.

“I…” said Anna.

“Go,” said Ruth. After a while Anna nodded and let herself out of the library, carefully closing the door behind her.

Ruth stood there a long time, her father’s stamp visible on the desk, the chair behind it, the selection of books on the shelves. On everything, and everyone, in the entire house.

May...she will stay...

2011-05-18T22:33:00.000-07:00

...with all due honor to Simon and Garfunkel.

Some years ago I came to the realization that I had a sort of Seasonal Affective Disorder. Just the reverse of what's considered normal.

Such a surprise.

Others find the dull gray of Winter problematic. I recall endless weeks of overcast skies in Ireland (and that was Summer! - I'm joking, honest.) My father found Novembers and beyond...difficult.

For me, it's May.

I had noted over the years an unaccountable melancholy that colored my Mays. It took me a number of years to puzzle out the why of it. I finally labeled it "homesickness". Not, I assure you, for a place. "Home" for me...is where I am. And very much where I am now.

But homesick nonetheless...for people.

May is a month of birthdays. In general I imagine that's true. In specific, it is very much so for my family. A sister, a father, a mother - this very day, a daughter, a son and she who regards me as her twin, and I her mine - the Lady C.

That's a lot of people, none of whom are here, here where my home is.

And so, an unaccountable melancholy - not so "unaccountable", I suppose.

To help, I turn my face to the blue sky and warm sun of California - and remember. It helps...somewhat.

And so, Peggy, on this day you are thought of. You are not forgotten.

Graces

2011-05-13T15:27:00.000-07:00

Ellen stood in her garden, long after twilight had faded. The stars shone bright and clear, brilliant white, blue and red against the deep black sky.

As her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, more and more stars appeared, painting the sky with a broad sweep of light.

Fragments of the others' conversation reached her from the back porch.

"...done for a while now." That would be Marcie. Stout, energetic. Always doing.

"The young ones are finding their feet, beginning to move away."

Ellen heard the mixture of sadness and pride in Marcie's voice. She shook her head. Marcie always invested so much of herself in those she nurtured. It was hard for her to see them go.

"That's the way it should be." Harriet's voice now. Harriet, always caring, the bridge between them all.

"I know, I know." Marcie's voice was soft, unusual for her. Resigned. "They're not the first. They won't be the last."

Ellen turned and made her way to the porch. She walked slowly. Time lay heavy upon her.

"You did well Marcie," she said. "You did well."

Marcie looked away, into the dark garden. Ellen nodded to Harriet and stood, waiting.

Marcie's voice quivered. "If I close my eyes, I can still see them."

She cleared her throat and shuffled in her chair. Then, glancing heavenward, her voice strengthening, she spoke of the young ones.

Far away, the first ships rose from the planet that had sheltered the race in its infancy. Now they reached out, across their solar system, spreading their wings.

Ellen placed her hand on Marcie's shoulder.

"You did well, Marcie," she repeated. "You did well."

Marcie stood, and Ellen hugged her. She shot Harriet a wry glance as her frail form was swallowed in Marcie's embrace.

"I'll sit a while," she said. "You too, Marcie. Let me have a look at you both."

Ellen disentangled herself and grimaced as she lowered herself carefully onto a plain, wooden chair.

She looked over at Harriet and caught the look of concern that crossed the other woman's face. She waved it away with a slight movement of her hand, but could see Harriet wasn't fooled.

Ellen reached out. "What's that you have there? Come, let me look at it."

Harriet held out her work. She had been weaving a pattern. It was not yet complete. Ellen looked over it, noting the care and attention that went into it.

"Fine, very fine. I could do no better myself."

Harriet smiled at the praise, but Ellen caught the "But..." in her eyes.

Ellen pointed to one corner. "Perhaps, now just perhaps, mind you, maybe a little dark -- there. Then everything will balance."

She heard Marcie's barely-smothered laugh. They were right, of course. She always had something to say, to add. It came from being the eldest, she supposed.

Ellen watched Harriet work. The woman's fingers moved carefully, weaving in a hint of dark over in one corner. Ellen nodded her head. Yes. Such a small change, yet now the pattern fell into place.

Far away, interstellar gas swirled around a newly denser area of space, twisted back on itself, clustered and began to coalesce. As gravity pulled it together, it compressed and the core of a star came into being, bursting into a rage of fire and fury.

"See," said Ellen, "see how the dark here", she pointed with her finger, "brings up the light there?"

Harriet nodded. Ellen suspected that the other woman would have made the exact same change herself, in time. She glanced at Marcie who, from the sound of another suppressed laugh, had suspected the same thing.

Ellen steered the conversation from Harriet's work and they turned it back on her, asking her how things had been early on. Ellen leaned back, reaching far into memory.

"So long, so long ago."

She spoke of her earlier years, how much energy there had been then, how new everything was. As she talked, some of the energy returned. She could see it reflected in Marcie and Harriet's faces.

She asked of their friends.

"Rita and Eleanor? Are they still--?"

Harriet remained quiet but Marcie couldn't.

"Yes, yes they are," and she shook her head. "They've been going at one another for an age. And no sign of them ever letting up."

Ellen spoke quietly. "They will, eventually. It's youth, it's growing. It will come to peace in the end."

Marcie snorted and Ellen saw Harriet look up, deep into the sky, her face clouded.

Far away, two spiral galaxies plowed, one into the other. Tremendous energy tore at the stars, straining the very fabric of space. It had been going on for eons and would continue for eons more.

The darkness deepened and the conversation continued for a while. Finally, Ellen raised herself stiffly from her chair.

"I'm tired now. I think it's time I rested."

The other two stood and Marcie helped Ellen through the door. She patted her arm and bid them both farewell. She felt their concern, but everything was as it should be. She would rest awhile and recover some of her energy.

Far away, a once-bright sun, flared briefly before fading, later to blaze again with the fierce heat of a white dwarf.

Z is for...

2011-04-30T19:42:00.000-07:00

...zis is ze end, no? Sacré bleu! Croissant! Pas de tout! (And lots of other french phrases...)

So the end of April dawned and the Z day has arrived. It seems as if I made it - with only ze slightest slip-up around "Q" (and I had all sorts of Queen-related ideas...sigh. 'Tis ever thus.)

In truth, Z-day is not for bad French pronunciations (at least not entirely). Z can also refer to Zebra Sounds - a blog artfully created by the talented, funny and fearlessly-loving person, J - Judy Clement Wall.

I was gifted by having something I wrote linked to in one of J's Friday Lists. And even more gifted by reading many of her blog entries.

Take a look over there, and discover the sounds a zebra might make.

Thanks for staying with me across this month. I've enjoyed dropping in on others who took up this challenge - and have been very pleased that some dropped in here.

Here's to May!

Y is for...

2011-04-29T22:50:00.000-07:00

...Yearning.

A Finnish atmospheric doom metal band. A what? Performers of "melancholy music" from the mid-nineties to late in the last decade - how could I not be intrigued? Their first album as Yearning was "With Tragedies Adorned."

Sounds like my kind of band.

There must be something about those cold Northern lands (and Ireland qualifies - it's up there about middle Canada.) Something to do with long, cold and dark Winter nights. Nights when all manner of mysterious beings have time and opportunity to roam about, and burrow deep into the thoughts and tales of those dwelling there.

"...and all their songs are sad" as Chesterton wrote.

Ah yes, but a delicious sadness all the same. And a soul-deep yearning that calls to all of us.

And, were we honest, we'd acknowledge that the call reaches us.

X is for...

2011-04-28T22:37:00.000-07:00

...the number 10 in Roman numerals. Or the solution to all those treasure maps in the stories we heard as children.

Those two concepts were marvelously combined in the third of the "Indiana Jones" movies along with the immortal line, "'X' never, ever marks the spot." And then it did.

Other x-related things ("related" I said, not the other thing) are x-rays, x-files, x as in "solve this algebra equation for 'x'". All extremely (sorry!) complicated.

That's enough to be going on with...I can't wait for what I do with "Z". But you'll have to.

W is for...

2011-04-27T21:56:00.000-07:00

...Water! Oh, no I'm not allowed to do that - Laura said no. So, W is for...whatever.

Wait. That's right. W is for whatever. A blog, named "Whatever." Honest. You should believe me. It's here: Whatever

This blog is written by O-Kami - Julie. Many of her entries are about fountain pens - a shared joy, though Julie is far more knowledgable than I.

She also, as can be seen in the post linked above, has far better handwriting than I. And she can draw, as some of her other entries show. Plus she can write. Tiresome, no? :)

There are some really talented folks hereabouts on these internetz.

So, anyway. Whatever. A wonderful blog by a very talented individual.

V is for...

2011-04-26T22:13:00.000-07:00

...View, Vista, Vision? Well, maybe the last one doesn't apply. But the others - Very much so.

Off to the city today. It's always made me smile...you can stand in the center of San Jose and say "the city" - and everyone knows you're talking about the city at the other end of the peninsula. Such is the gravitational pull of San Francisco.

I mean, who wouldn't love a city that has such urban art (now, that would have been a good "U" day image/word) on display.

And, odd though it may seem, there is not universal approval for that sculpture. De gustibus non est disputandum - it would seem.

The City by the Bay has its beauties, (I'm talking geographically here - though I suppose...) not least of which is the Bay Bridge itself linking the East and West sides of the bay. I regret that, today, I wasn't able to get to see the other, somewhat more iconic bridge. But I was nowhere near the Golden Gate.

Rather, I was downtown, on 5th, when passing this building housing the San Francisco Chronicle - a paper dating from 1865.

A city of traditions - some of them the "only in San Francisco" kind of traditions. But, I suspect, many cities across the world have their own kind of "only in..."

But, perhaps, none quite like San Francisco.

U is for...

2011-04-25T23:29:00.000-07:00

...uisce.

OK, yes, I'm cheating. Though not really. Or at least it's nothing I haven't already done during this month's challenge. I've used words in Greek and French. Why not Gaelic?

And so, uisce - water.

As the old song goes, "Thank God we're surrounded by water." 'Tis but a small island and easily surrounded by water, all the same. So I suppose it's no surprise that I find myself living by San Francisco bay. There is something about all that water.

While it is true my father's first love was mountains, even he penned a poem for the sea once. And both a grandfather and an uncle of mine made their living on the water.

Uisce is pronounced "ish-keh". If that sound puts you in mind of "whiskey", it should. It's the first of the words translated as "water of life".

And so, slánte - hic!

...wondering now...could I use "water" for the "W" day? :)

T is for...

2011-04-23T18:20:00.000-07:00

...Time and Tide - those things that wait for no one.

Today has been, and will be yet, an interesting mix of times. Time spent this afternoon looking forward into the medium term as we get our place ready to go on the market, in preparation for a move to the Midwest.

More time, a good deal more, listening back in time to plainchant that is eight and more centuries old.

And later this evening, we take part in one of the only remaining 3-hour plus liturgies in the Roman Catholic Church. Friends we have who follow Eastern traditions are far more used to liturgies of such length. But we will survive.

It is valuable, or so I've found, to step out from the ordinary business of the day (when this can be done, of course) and take time on a different scale. To carve out a space in time, for whatever purpose.

To stop, to pause, to listen.

Whatever the purpose, whatever is being listened to (or for) is a matter for the individual.

The point is to take the time - from time to time.

S is for...

2011-04-22T22:41:00.000-07:00

...Science Fiction.

I grew up on classic Science Fiction books. My father had a collection of magazines and books that dated from the early, "Golden Age" of the genre. Thus was my taste and interest formed. There are too many authors to name, and I am certain to leave some out/forget some.

But Clarke, Asimov, van Vogt, Simak, Dick, Stapledon, Anderson, Farmer, le Guin - these are the names, the old and faded books, that fired my imagination. And they do still.

As I mentioned in the "R is for..." entry, I will read anything that may be found between book covers. But Science Fiction remains an early and enduring love.

I'm prepared to watch much of Science Fiction that's delivered on TV and film - but reading it remains a greater passion.

R is for...

2011-04-21T23:46:00.000-07:00

...Reading.

No, not the city in the UK, although I spent many weeks there as an Instructor. Nor in Northern California, either. Never been there.

The act of reading, books, the backs of cereal boxes, any series of words that fall into my line of (now somewhat augmented by correcting lenses) sight. I have said, often, that I will read pretty much anything that comes between book coves. I should also add to that, pretty much anything that has come on one or other of the half-dozen eReaders I've owned and used over the years.

Poetry, nonsense rhymes, short stories, novellas, great (in all senses of the word) Russian novels - and just about all genres, from pure (or otherwise!) Romance, through Young Adult, to hard-code hard Science Fiction - and all points in between.

Stories. Plain and simple. Or lush and complex, for that matter.

I read to enjoy, to get lost in the story, to inhabit the world built up in the collaboration between writer and reader. And, in recent years, I find I also read to learn, to watch the creator at work, to peek at the mechanics going on between, beneath the words.

But I still get lost in the story. As I should.

And then there's poetry - but we already know what I think about that. "P" was dedicated to a small "show and tell" on that topic - where the showing was done by the great Ms. Dickinson herself.

So, reading. It's good for what ails ya.

And, right now, I'm reading a Kurt Wallandar story by Henning Mankell. And lost in the story I am.

Q is for...

2011-04-21T01:05:00.001-07:00

...Quick, post something!

*sigh*

It was that kind of day...

P is for...

2011-04-19T21:51:00.000-07:00

...Poetry

The artful, graceful, powerful use of words. Nothing else comes close.

And, should you be uncertain, here is Emily Dickinson on the topic of words:

A word is dead
When it is said,
Some say.

I say it just
Begins to live
That day.

Were I to never read any other poetry than that of Emily Dickinson, I would still receive full measure of what poetry is and can be. I remain awestruck whenever I read her.

O is for...

2011-04-18T21:40:00.000-07:00

...Optimism

My default state (yes, I know that's a geeky way of phrasing it, but I'm a geek so...)

I tend to have a, quite unreasoned and unreasoning, view that "everything will turn out OK". It's not, quite, pollyanna - though my father might have thought otherwise.

He once opined that I was "...indeed fortunate." He then continued, "you have to be." I suspect that was more a comment on how I tended to proceed through my life rather than anything to do with Lady Luck.

We were very alike, he and I, and in that one aspect could not have been more different. I had something of a habit of (metaphorically) walking off cliffs in the sure and certain knowledge that, cartoon like, if I simply kept walking I would reach the other side.

Or, if not and I did fall, there would be a net. Or I would learn to fly before impact.

Or something would work out. As it often did - often despite my best efforts.

Which is why I treasure "The Optimist". And really dislike when he takes his leave. For the world is a dark and difficult place without his perspective.

But, he is seldom gone, and seldom for long.

Yes, I know. I'm talking about myself in multiples and in the third person. But...it's my blog.

N is for...

2011-04-16T22:15:00.000-07:00

...my least-favorite word (as James Lipton and Bernard Pivot before him and Marcel Proust even before him would have it).

No.

Something that has had its own impact on many aspects of my life. It's not a word I much like to hear. Nor, to my cost and to the cost of those around me at times, is it a word I like to utter.

So, KjM's a "Yes-Man"? Well, not in so many (or few) words. But, I've had difficulty saying "No" on and off across my life. We remain a work in progress. This is one area where there has been some progress, painfully achieved.

Of course, given I write, "No" is becoming quite the familiar sound. "We read your work and...regret..." "Thank you for sending us your work but...have decided not to..." "We received your entry...not a fit..."

So many ways to say "No". Who knew?

Not I. My native language, Irish or Gaelic, has no(!) word for it. Truth to tell, it doesn't have a word for "Yes" either. Crafty people those Celts. Can never get a straight answer out of them.

M is for...

2011-04-15T20:10:00.000-07:00

…Memory

"A gift, Sir", She said

"Birthday, Anniversary or a

Just because - of sorts?"

But I

Wrapped suddenly in the memory

Of being wrapped touchingly

In a new closeness

Said,

"An Anniversary - of sorts

- just because"

And I smiled.

L is for...

2011-04-14T22:28:00.000-07:00

...Lonely

You are ever near
   My Love
I see you
   Almost there -
You have just left
   Every room
   As I enter
The sound of your voice
   Is just -
   Out of range.

I feel your Presence
   And turn
   To talk with you
And you are
   gone -
   Just this moment -
   gone.

Ah my Love!
   Why are you so close?
   When you are so far -
   away?

This love, when we parted
   'Twas said
   would change.
And change it has
   For it has gone
   gone
   gone -

Gone into the marrow of my bones
And the depths of my heart.

K is for...

2011-04-13T22:12:00.001-07:00

...I'll get to that in a moment.

It strikes me that these posts, all the way from A, have been personal in one way or another. Am I doing it right, I wonder? As right as any, I suppose.

So, in that vein, K is for KjM and KjM's gadget obsession. To that end, this post is being created on my smartphone - the one that feels a good bit smarter than I am - but that might just be my insecurity talking.

A new Nokia phone, with a physical keyboard to reduce the risk of entertaining autocorrection. Sorry if that takes away some of the fun.

Gadgets, toys if you will, bright shining things that are designed well. (No wonder Apple has received a lot of my money over the years.) A harmless obsession in many ways, but an obsession nonetheless.

We can give thanks, at least, that eBay has been able to absorb the overflow over the last few years. More than just I got to play with my toys.

So, here's to my new Nokia E7 - may my interest in new technology remain, not unlike my father's, undiminished as time goes on.

Posted, unabashedly, from my new smartphone.

J is for...

2011-04-12T22:56:00.000-07:00

...never let your fellow prisoners at school (it seemed like that at the time - overdramatic, I understand) know what your middle initial stands for.

In fact, don't let them know what your middle initial is - and avoid the problem at all.

Jude.

Actually, I quite like the name. It's grown on me over the years.

Quick. What song springs to mind when you hear the name 'Jude'? And there you go. Answering (or not, being the contrarian I have always been) to "Hey! J..." yelled out at random for what seemed, then, like f.o.r.e.v.e.r - sours you on the whole thing after a while.

Worse yet when some Eng. Lit. had been driven through our mightily resistant skulls and we get to "Jude The Obscure".

And, of course, the good man has been anointed the patron saint of hopeless cases and lost causes. An Irish Catholic upbringing can be a terrible thing.

Ah, boys will be boys...

We'll not mention how easily Jude can become Judy.

Though, oddly enough, I took a perverse pleasure in that. Probably best to leave that for another blog post.

I is for...

2011-04-11T17:05:00.000-07:00

...Team!

What? There is no "I" in "Team". Or so I have been told off and on over the years. By people who were paid well to know what they were talking about.

Stuff and nonsense. Of course there is. There are N "Is" in "Team", where N ranges from 2 to the number of Individuals in the Team. (Sorry, I've worked for a statistician for the past four or more years - give or take - and it sort of rubs off.)

In my view, a team can only work effectively if each and every Individual brings whatever of her or his talents are required. I have to be fully present - as Me. Else I'm just a cog in someone's machine, interchangeable, easily replaceable. Fungible, as it were. (Now, that would have been a great "F" word!)

And cogs in a machine do not a team make. I could go into all sorts of sports metaphors here - but am very likely to be caught out by the second sentence. So, let's not do that. I'm not really a sportsy-kinda guy. But you get what I mean (he said, hopefully).

So, I is for Team. Otherwise you won't get the job done.

H is for...

2011-04-09T19:01:00.000-07:00

...home. Home - is where the...hearth is.

Ex-pats, for such a one am I, often speak of "Home". They mean elsewhere, that place from which they are "ex-".

I don't think that way, and - I suppose - I am not alone in this. But, for me, "Home" has most often been where I am.

Dublin, surely. I was born there and did a lot of my growing up there. It remains an on-going process, the "growing up", though I suppose you could say the same of Dublin. Cities, when healthy, continue growing up - even if they have been regarded a "city" for over a thousand years.

Connecticut, USA (as if there were another elsewhere). I spent a year there between 1975 and 1976 - and grew very fond of this country and its population. And it was "Home".

Salamanca, España.¡Cómo no! Great, great fondness and memories of my year there.

Sauverny, France. Two years there, just across the border from Geneva. I have good memories of home there. And a friendship that has survived distance - both of time and space.

I spent time in England, and - though I have deep friendships there - it was just for work, with my home elsewhere. It never seemed like "Home".

Cupertino, Santa Clara and Foster City - all in California. Oh, I am "Home". Of this, there is no doubt.

And now, and now...

The heartland calls, this boy from an island, who lives by the Pacific Ocean, right beside a lake/lagoon filled with salt water, is planning to move to the middle of a continent.

"Itchy feet", my Mother used to call it. (And it had nothing to do with athlete's foot - Momma didn't raise no athlete, at least not in me.)

So, once I perfect my thousand-yard stare and get used to a big sky above me I may well be found by the banks of the Missouri river (I know that gives me a lot of latitude to work with, but I hate being tied down!)

So, in the end, Home may well be where the hearth-land is.

G is for...

2011-04-08T18:11:00.000-07:00

...la grippe.

Well, I may not have the 'flu itself, but it certainly feels like it. And, like so many things, it does sound better in French. :-)

Not entirely well yesterday and today feeling positively (or not so positive, actually) miserable.

So, please forgive the brevity of this entry - and I do promise those who have commented that I'll return the favor when my head is not (quite) so stuffed.

Achoo!

F is for...

2011-04-07T22:54:00.000-07:00

...well, #FridayFlash as it happens.

FridayFlash, to use the words of Jon M. Strother its creator, "...is an Internet meme designed to increase your visibility as a fiction writer."

The idea is elegant in its simplicity. A writer writes (duh!) a story or 1,000 words or less, posts it to her or his web site - on a Friday - and tweets the fact, adding the hashtag #fridayflash. Once done, readers flock to the site to read, and comment. It's also a good way for the writer to find and read other flash fiction on Fridays (ohhh, three Fs, hard on one another's heels).

In addition, there is the collected Best of Friday Flash, Volume One already for sale (full disclosure, this author is happy to have an entry in this collection) and a second volume currently gathering entries.

So, for good Flash Fiction reading - try searching for the twitter #fridayflash tag. You will not be disappointed.

E is for...

2011-04-06T22:40:00.000-07:00

...giving thanks - though only if you have a Greek/English English/Greek dictionary handy.

We made it back to California in one piece (well, two pieces really - there were two of us after all). And no delays, no redirected flights and our luggage actually came on the same plane as we did. Mirabile visu.

And our business in Kansas City, MO was concluded successfully. I was going to write "concluded without any issues" but Momma taught me to tell the truth (truth to tell, it didn't take nearly as well as she'd hoped - but that's another blog entry I suspect).

Still, the business was concluded without any major issues.

We got to spend time with really, really good friends - and more than once across the few days.

All in all, much for which to give thanks.

And so... Ευχαριστώ

D is for...

2011-04-05T18:58:00.001-07:00

...Dining. Fine dining at that (even if that seems like it incorporates an F word.)

Seafood, some scotch (single malt - a rare indulgence) and excellent company. Food is well leavened with good conversation between good people.

These friends go back more than a decade-and-a-half for me. For my partner - far longer than that. And there is an ease about the four of us - with a waiter who seemed to understand that - and was easy with us.

Good, good times.

So, dinner for four. A good use of D as a letter.

C is for...

2011-04-04T15:34:00.001-07:00

...the Country Club Plaza in Kansas City, Missouri.

Quite famous, and rightly so, this was still a wonderful surprise to me at first encounter. I mean, you hardly expect to find a scale reproduction of the Seville tower smack dab in the Midwest.

Yet, there it is - and beautifully rendered. All the architecture in the - outdoor shopping mall I've heard it called (by no means does that do it justice) - Country Club Plaza borrows from Spain.

Well, from Spain with elements, like these street lamps, from San Francisco, CA. It seems, no matter where you go, there you are (or, at least, a part of where you're from goes right along with you).

All of the buildings in the Plaza (as the cognoscenti call it) are outlined with colored bulbs. At Thanksgiving, each year, there's a lighting ceremony. The lights remain on through Christmas and beyond. The results are spectacular.

But, enough about the Country Culb Plaza. C is, of course, also for Cats.

B is for...

2011-04-02T14:19:00.001-07:00

...well, blogging as it turns out.

And not, mercifully, Being stuck in an airport - as happened the last time we came here (in the month Before this one).

Here, By the way, is Beautiful Kansas City, MO.

So here, Beached on a Bench, I Blog.

Why so? Well...

...Because. :-)

- Posted using BlogPress

A is for Adventure...

2011-04-01T11:40:00.001-07:00

...and April, and airports (sigh), and appreciation, and...

A challenge. Just in case I didn't have quite enough going on, last month I signed up for the A-Z Challenge. Twenty-six blog posts in April.

Every day except Sundays. If twenty-six looks and sounds familiar to those ...um... familiar with the alphabet used in English, it should. The blog posts are themed - one for each letter.

What do I know about "Q"? Funny you should ask...but that'll have to wait a few weeks.

Anyway, another "A-word", we're airborne again. And I'd promised myself "not again" - at least for a good long while.

Well, not actually airborne as yet (is it not ever thus?). But soon. How do I know? The Airline told me so.

What's that double positive that signifies a negative?

Yeah, right.

Up, up and...Away.

Airport Appreciation

2011-03-04T01:14:00.000-08:00

It was to have been a quick trip. Two-thirds of a day traveling on Saturday (because we were going against the sun), an evening, a day (Sunday) and a morning in Kansas City, and a half-a-day traveling back to SFO on Monday (this time going with the sun).

And, I suppose, it was a quick trip. We left when we should (more or less) and we arrived back when we should (also more or less).

But it was all the time in between when the wheels came off the wagon - and where I learned a new phrase, the one serving as title for this post, "Airport appreciation".

We heard it as we took a shuttle from a hotel to an airport at a very early hour on Sunday morning. Two pilots were talking and I overheard,

"I had about three hours 'airport appreciation' yesterday," said one.

"That's happening a lot more lately," the other replied, "sitting around, going nowhere."

Tell me about it. We weren't supposed to be anywhere near an airport on Sunday morning, early or otherwise. But there we were.

The plane for the connecting flight on Saturday, in Chicago, broke down ("some mechanical difficulties", they said), so the flight was cancelled. Not to worry, there was another two flights. The first of which was already full, but we were booked (boarding passes and everything) on the second. The only fly in the ointment - the flight we were to be on didn't leave for another five and a half hours (or so).

Five and a half hours at the gate? No. Not doing that. Not, not, not.

As it turns out, we were fortunate enough to have the means to step into the American Airlines Admirals Club® for the day. It has a "Quiet Room" - no cell phones (well, no talking on them anyway) and a general air of quiet - no loud voices, good chairs.

It was like being in church, you didn't want to talk above a whisper!

We spent many hours there Saturday - even got some food later in the evening. There were display panels showing flight information, so we could watch as the flight got more and more delayed.

Finally we went to the gate. This was now around 10:00 PM. And waited, and waited, and waited…

From time to time a new departure time would be posted. Worse yet, my phone would ring and a bright voice would announce the new time. And the time would pass (the bright voice neglected to mention this).

The flight had been diverted, but it finally left there and was in the air, en route to us! Cheers all round. Well almost. The woman beside me, who had just flown in that day from London, said, "The crew…". I told her to be quiet.

"You know what I was going to say, don't you?" she countered.

"La, la, la, I can't hear you," said I. I was a little loopy by this time.

The plane landed, the passengers disembarked. And the crew left. They had passed over, through, by the number of hours they were legally allowed to fly.

A big surprise to the staff at the gate (something I yet don't understand).

"I told you," said the Londoner.

It was now 1:00 AM on Sunday. Flights were booked for the following day. Hotel vouchers were distributed. The hotel was 20 minutes away - on a good day. We watched the (small) shuttle fill three times before patience snapped. We took a different shuttle to a different hotel (one three minutes away from the airport).

We got to bed sometime after 2:00.

Back to the airport later that morning, listening to flight crews talk of "airport appreciation".

We made it to Kansas City with minimal delay that morning - though we had to cancel the breakfast we had arranged with friends, and push our meeting that afternoon back an hour.

Oh, and one other thing. Our luggage wasn't on the flight with us.

It turned up after midnight Sunday evening. Cell phone chargers were all in the one checked bag - so our phones had died sometime Sunday.

It was good to get back to the Bay Area Monday, let me tell you.

Life imitates the high art of comedy

2011-02-25T17:05:00.000-08:00

Comedians make good money (well, the good and the fortunate do) from satire. Public figures, particularly around election times, provide rich veins to mine.

We've often heard or watched a position or statement taken to its illogical extreme - and enjoyed the arrival at absurdity. Similarly, a comedian will - in the voice of the public figure being skewered and roasted - make a series of statements about other people/groups/factions laced with innuendo and...shaded..."truth" - and we laugh at the absurdity of it. For we know the whole exercise not to be true and we know the statements were not made...but could have been.

Or so I thought.

The governing board of our condo association is up for reelection - or some members are. I have learned over the years that emotions around such governing boards can be heightened. We've been in receipt of position papers, exhortations to vote one group out and another in, stern messages to "stay the course" (dance with the one that brung you?)

Today we received another of these - but this one stands out. The first third is a bulleted list of innuendo and conjecture, casting considerable doubt on the character and motives of the incumbents. The great Stephen Colbert could have done no better.

But when I reached the line that stated "I am not in possession of any personal knowledge of this situation that would constitute evidence...", I had to stop reading. I was laughing too much.

How does the old saying go? "Better to keep one's mouth shut for fear of being thought an idiot than to open it and remove all doubt."

That train's left the station.

Basso profundo...at least for a while

2011-02-12T12:35:00.001-08:00

The clouds parted and...my brain started to work again (more or less).

The latter part of the week just ending was spent in a fog of cotton wool-filled head, sore throat and a marvelous voice that sounded like it had dropped an octave and a half. Not all bad, I suppose...

The previous week ended on a much higher note(!)

We went to New York City. My brother was having one of those "decade" birthdays and my sister-in-law thought our arrival from the West Coast, and my sisters, brother-in-law and niece arriving from Ireland, would add to the festivities.

She was right. A high old time was had by all on Friday the 4th. And well into Saturday the 5th, for that matter. And dinner with the entire family together on Saturday evening was a food and laughter-filled event.

A great time - enjoyed by all.

It was a good trip, despite almost being crushed (while still in our car) by an 18-wheeler! Not to mention the creative cab driver my sisters had the misfortune to select - he reversed down an entry ramp to a highway. This while on their way to the hotel from the airport.

I may have picked up some bug or other there because, by Wednesday, I was not feeling well at all. The past few days have been difficult - I am not known for being a good patient. This requires patience from those around me. And it is lovingly given - I am more fortunate than I deserve (thank goodness).

Today is better, but I have work, that was let slip, to catch up on. No rest for the wicked. I should never rest again so. :-)

On a completely different note, I was unaccountably saddened to read that Nokia changed direction and decided to produce phones with Microsoft's new mobile phone operating system. I know I'm a geek, but I really have to stop getting so caught up with devices.

Breathe, Kevin. Well, right now, with this cold an' all, that's a little harder than usual. Ya'know?

...sleep, perchance to dream

2011-01-28T23:27:00.000-08:00

"That's not the direction I'd go in, were I you - which I'm not."

I stopped, my foot already at a turn in the road that led down to a sunlit valley. The voice, coming from behind me and to the right, was clear, low-pitched and warm.

I turned to face her. She was sitting, this young woman who had seemingly materialized out of a light mist, atop a granite boulder.

Bright green eyes regarded me out of a pale face that was framed by dark auburn hair. Her lips were also pale and curved into a slight smile.

She was dressed in a shapeless smock, that was not shapeless on her.

I looked down to where her foot peeped out beneath her hem and frowned. Her foot was slim, perfectly formed, and bare.

I nodded at her foot. "You don't seem to be prepared for any direction, so far as I can tell."

Her smile broadened and she shrugged. My eye caught the gentle swaying beneath her smock.

"You go where you will," she said. "You needn't concern yourself about me." She leapt lightly from the rock and looked at me, her head cocked to one side.

"Should you meet a river, wherever you go, careful not to get your feet wet. You'll die."

With that she spun on her heel and was lost to my sight behind the boulder.

I stood, watching for her a long moment, and then turned and mounted the stile leading over the stone wall in front of me. I shook my head once, remembering there had been a road, and now there wasn't, and continued on my way.

The light mist thickened, rolling in waves before me. It began to feel cold. After a while, walking along sheep paths through heather, I thought I heard water.

Sure enough, a mere ten paces on, I found a rock-strewn river flowing in front of me.

"Too wide to jump across," I said to myself, measuring by eye. I looked right and left. "No ford for crossing either."

I looked at the rocks sticking up out of the fast-flowing water. As children we had played in such rivers, leaping from rock to rock, like sure-footed goats.

I snorted with laughter. "I'm called stubborn as a goat now, not sure-footed."

I shrugged. Nothing for it but to try. I stepped onto the nearest rock, leapt to the next, and the next. Remembering the woman't warning, I tried to keep my feet dry.

Disaster struck, and I but two short jumps from the other bank. The rock I landed on tilted, as some had when I was a child. And, as happened when I was a child, I fell in.

The cold shocked me, my clothes soaking up water like dry sponges. My shoulder struck a rock, my hip struck bottom. I laughed. I'd fallen into about two feet of water. I'd not die of this.

I straightened up and made my way to the riverbank. Still, if I didn't get warm and dry, I thought as I pulled myself out of the river, I could well catch my death of cold.

I stood on the bank, warming myself at a fire that was blazing in a huge fireplace. I looked around. Dark soot-stained walls reached up to a ceiling lost in the gloom above me. Off to my right, bookshelves reached as high.

I shivered and one by one removed my clothes, wringing the water out and hanging them over a long curved couch that was to the left of the fireplace.

"Now," came a voice I recognized, "stripped bare and going your own path, you are ready to begin."

I turned and watched as the woman from the rock crossed the room.

"You said I would die."

"If all you were prepared to do was wet your feet," she answered, "then some part of you would die." She glanced at my wet clothes and then back to me. "You did a lot more than that."

I grinned and a door at the far end of the room opened. A bearded man entered. I looked at his bearing, the kilt he wore and then the arms displayed on the stone walls of the room.

"You would be named Duncan," I said, "were this the Scottish play."

The woman stood beside me and light struck the silver of the object in her hand.

"Is this a dagger I see..." I quoted, smiling.

"Use your own words," she said, and pressed the fountain pen into my hand. I sat at my desk and began to write...

On reading Irish short stories...

2011-01-20T15:48:00.001-08:00

Hearing the sound
Of words
   As I read them

The morning
Fades away
   To deep silence

Home - is not a place
It is an echo
   You hear in your heart

In a different time...

2011-01-14T14:15:00.000-08:00

“Tim,” Jenna called, “Tim. Over here.”

Tim looked up from examining the worn headstones, trying to see where his wife was.

“Over here,” Jenna said, waving.

“Okay,” he said, straightening up a little stiffly, “on my way.”

He joined his wife. She was sitting on the ground. He marveled how she still, so easily, could manage the lotus position.

“See,” she said, pointing. “Goldberg. The family plot is here." She pointed to a large, multi-headstoned plot.

“Anna's is here,” she continued.

“You're sure it's the right one,” he asked.

“Uh huh,” she said, “the dates are about right. They'd put her at nineteen when she knew Grandma Ruth.”

Tim eased himself to the ground beside Jenna.

“She died young,” he said, nodding at the headstone.

“She did,” Jenna said quietly. She turned to him. “Can you die of a broken heart,” she asked.

Tim remained quiet, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder.

“I didn't know anything about her till I found Ruth's journal,” Jenna said after a while. “She never told me. How come Allison knew so much?”

Tim smiled gently. “Well, she and Allison used to talk about a lot of things.”

Jenna looked at him. “Do you think Grandma knew about Allison?”

“She knew.”

“She did?” Jenna asked.

Tim nodded. “Allison told me your grandmother was very proud of us,” he inclined his head, “of you, for accepting who Allison was and whom she loved.” He was silent for a moment. “It seems her own mother was not so understanding.”

Jenna was quiet for a moment. Then, "it was a different time. And if she hadn't married..."

Tim nodded again, squeezing her shoulder. "I, for one, am happy she did."

Jenna placed her hand on his. "Me too."

Tim looked at the headstones. "It looks like Anna had her own difficulties. She's buried apart from the main family. She also married."

Jenna looked, tears springing to her eyes. "I wonder if Grandma Ruth knew Anna had a daughter."

She laid her head on her husband's shoulder and pointed.

"Look Tim, she named her Ruth."

Novel writing course progress...inter alia

2011-01-09T18:50:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I wonder if "progress" is the correct word. I'll go with "yes" for the moment.

At least my Instructor didn't turn back my second pair of novel ideas with "let's try that again." So, chalk that up as real progress.

Now I have to supply a scene of my protagonist interacting with some other characters - I have quite a choice here as this is the first of my NaNo novels - there's a lot of mud with which to make bricks.

One scene, and a couple of character sketches - one of the protagonist, one of the antagonist (plus a request from the Instructor to deepen/sharpen the antagonist), and for me to consider folding two of the supporting characters into one. That last only if the two are not really separate. I think they are, so no, for the moment they remain two.

What the Instructor's questions in her letter, and her markup of my story idea, have done is make me consider each part of the story and the characters. Things still hang together, but I can see where I can make this, quite fictional, universe more real to a reader.

That can't be a bad thing.

***

Apropos of nothing at all...while we were driving back from the South Bay yesterday, on a dreary gray day I might add, we recalled a snippet of conversation I had with my brother a decade and a half ago.

'Twas at our wedding and we had provided wine for our assembled guests. While buying same, we decided to lean more towards white than red - "people seem to go more for white than red," said we, with great confidence in our knowledge of people's proclivities.

Naturally - but of course - the red was a great hit and the well began to run dry.

I was talking with my brother and bemoaned the fact that we seemed to be running short of wine. My brother - who is a carpenter - deadpanned, "There's never a good carpenter around when you need one."

***

And, finally...Happy Birthday yesterday to N and G. Two relatives, one a young woman finding her place in the world and the other, a woman who has seen San Francisco grow and change - from the twenties!

No Cure for Longing

2010-12-31T17:19:00.000-08:00

She heard it coming. The arrow, whispering through the air, seeking her life. It tore the skin of her arm just below her shoulder and thudded into the tree behind her.

Her breath hissed through her teeth and she stilled herself, listening. She heard the rasp of a second arrow leaving the quiver, the tap of the shaft against bow, a sigh as the notch touched bowstring. She heard the strain as the bow was drawn.

She took two silver balls from her pouch, tossed them from hand to hand, and waited.

As the balls moved faster, gaining energy, she waited.

As the balls blurred they moved so fast, she waited.

Until the man stepped into a shaft of sunlight lighting the gloom of the forest, she waited.

Then she let them fly.

She heard the crack of a rib breaking as the first struck home and the smack of the second against skull.

Then the softer sound of a body hitting the forest floor.

She watched the arrow, loosed from the bow, fly harmlessly into the sky and fall to the ground nearby.

She turned and laid her hand on the trunk of the tree behind her, asking forgiveness for the harm that had come to it because of her. The bark, where her blood had touched it, was black and brittle.

She paused a moment longer, listening for others. There were some, far off, moving away. She stood and made her way to the fallen man.

He was tall, this hunter of her kind. A strong face, brows knitted in pain over dark eyes. His hair was short, dark like his eyes, and poorly cut. Blood trickled down his face from a wound above his left eye.

She knelt smoothly and retrieved the two balls. A low groan from the man caused her to look at him. He was struggling to sit up. Her ears caught the rasp of broken bones as they scraped over one another.

She moved swiftly to his side and laid her hand on him, pressing him back. His breath caught sharply as he stifled a cry of pain.

"Foolish man," she said, the liquid sounds of her language smooth as water. "If a rib pierces your lung, you will die for want of breath."

He looked at her, confusion in his face.

"Lie still," she said, switching to their clumsy words. "I will help."

She ran her finger through the wound on her arm, coating it with blood. The man made to grab her hand as she brought it to his head. She swatted his away as she might a child's and looked at him.

"I can heal you," she said, "or you can die."

She waited, her finger poised. The man said nothing.

"My blood can heal or harm. It is a matter of intent." She held his eyes with hers. "I will heal you."

He nodded and she traced the wound on his forehead. His skin was softer than she had expected and warm to the touch. She pressed his head back so he lay on the earth and cupped the wound with her palm.

When she withdrew her hand, the wound was cleansed, the skin knitting.

"You will carry a scar to remind you of this day," she said, "to remind you of your foolishness."

He frowned at her but said nothing. She opened his doublet and saw the bruising she had caused. "This will hurt," she said and pressed her fingers hard against the bruise. He groaned again. She paid him no heed as her knowledgable fingers moved to align the broken bones.

After a while she sat back on her heels and looked at him. He lay on the ground, his breath coming in short, harsh gasps. "Why did you seek to kill me?" she asked.

He slowed his breathing, testing how his chest worked, and turned his head to face her. "If I had sought your life, you would be dead." He raised his hand to touch the healing wound over his eye. "Just as I would be, had you sought mine."

She nodded at that and turned to show the wound on her arm. "And this?"

"I am new come to this place," he said. "They told me there was a thief. They asked my help to catch this thief." He looked at her directly. "Are you a thief?"

"My people have lived in these forests from long before you, or your kind, were here," she said. "There is less forest now than before. So, who is the thief?"

He nodded his head and struggled to a sitting position. She saw the pain that crossed his face, and saw that it had lessened.

"You are strong," she said. "You will heal." She lifted her head in the direction of the forest's edge. "You live in the old cottage atop that hill?"

"No one was there," he said. "It is as good a place as any."

She held out her hand and he grasped it. His breath hissed again as she helped him to his feet.

"You can reach it on your own," she said.

"Will I see you again?"

"Perhaps." She moved away from him in the graceful manner of her kind. She did not look back but heard him as he walked out of the forest.

***

Some time later he returned to her mind. She went to the forest's edge. The old cottage was still there, a thin thread of smoke from a fire within. She made her way to the open door.

"I wondered when you might return," he said.

She stood in the doorway, looking at his face. The scar was still there, but his head was crowned with thin, white hair and he was stooped with age.

He looked up at her from the chair he was sitting on, a frown creasing his brow.

"You look as you did that day," he said.

"Time," she said, "flows differently for my kind. Forgive me. I should have returned sooner."

He shrugged. "I am glad to see you again. All those I grew to know are long gone. Yet I am still here. Is that because--"

She nodded. "I healed you. And so you lived long, longer than you might have." She looked around his home. "You never took a woman."

He shook his head. "No. I did not. For I never saw the woman I wanted again, until now."

She sighed. "Foolish, now as always. Joy was to be had, and you settled for longing."

"Can you heal that longing?"

She smiled sadly. "I can end it," she said, "not heal."

He nodded. "That is enough."

She drew the blade of a short knife across her left palm. The blood welled up along the cut. She moved to him and pressed her hand against his brow. He shivered, arched his back and was still.

She stepped back and regarded him.

The frown was gone; he was smiling.

She turned and left.

Fiat lux...

2010-12-24T20:42:00.001-08:00

...et lux erat.

"The people...have seen a great light. On those...a light has shone."

The celebration of light returning, bringing with it the promise of new life in a few short months, was a feature of Mid-Winter celebrations even before we began recording it in other than oral tradition.

And, in the Southern Hemisphere, people have just celebrated the longest day of the year.

May light, in whatever form, touch and transform the lives of each of us.

A Winter Solstice

2010-12-22T00:11:00.000-08:00

On this Winter Solstice, here is another of my Goldberg Variations. I've long been fascinated by the idea of our ancestors gathered to watch for and measure the returning of the sun - at least here in the Northern Hemisphere.

And, when a place like Newgrange was built in Ireland, there might still have been a racial memory of the time (in the ice age) when the sun did not return.

And what would happen to us all, were we to cause our own such Winter...

-------------------------------------------

"Mamma," said the child, "I'm cold."

Ruth nodded and gathered the thin bundle that was her daughter into her arms. The child was thin, as she was herself. There wasn't much warmth she could provide, but the little one snuggled against her nonetheless.

A smile, an equal mixture of pain and pleasure briefly crossed Ruth's pale features.

"Mamma," the child said.

"Yes, little one," she answered. "What is it?"

"A story, Mamma. Tell me a story."

"And what story should I tell you, child?" Ruth asked, already knowing the answer.

"About your Mamma's father, the stories he would tell, about before."

Ruth nodded, rocking her child gently in the cold, in the dark.

"I will, my child. Listen and I'll tell you as it was told to me, by my Mamma, and by her Mamma before her. How many, many people there were then. And how some men brought the sun down to us, but it burned them all. It burned everything.

"Then the sun went away. It hid behind the sky. And all grew cold.

"And my Mama's father would tell of the ones who knew of the tall stones, who would watch the sky, for the sun's return."

Her child snuggled closer to her, gathering what heat there was in her body.

"But the sun didn't return, Mamma," she said, with a child's urging of the storytelling.

"No," Ruth answered. "The sun did not come in those times, nor in these. It was long before then that it did."

Her child looked up at her, dark eyes in so pale a face.

"What was it like then?"

Ruth looked down at her. "Bright," she said, "bright and warm and people danced and ate and drank their fill. And there was food and plenty for all. And the sun's light shone on everyone and all were happy."

"How many people, Mamma?"

"They say there were as many as the stars in the sky, little one."

"Stars?," her child asked, as Ruth knew she would, as she always did. "What are the stars, Mamma?"

Ruth smiled at the ritual between them. "Lights in the sky, child. Up above the sky as we know it. They stretched over the sky like sand by the ocean."

She repeated the words even while the meaning was long lost to her.

"When was this, Mamma?"

Ruth looked at her child. "Long, long ago. So long it can't be remembered." She shook her head. Time was hard to measure anymore, in the half-dark they lived in. She shrugged. It was even some time now since she knew the months as they came and went.

"Can I see them, Mamma?"

Ruth shook herself, back to the present. She reached into her clothing and drew out the faded pictures. They looked at them together, their ancestors frozen in time, staring at them from once-shiny paper.

The child pointed and Ruth nodded.

"Yes, Annushka," she said, "there is the grandmother of my mother. You bear her name, Anna."

"That's what these marks mean, isn't it Mamma?"

Ruth nodded again. "Yes. The marks mean Anna Goldberg. That was her name, and yours."

Anna nodded and Ruth felt her snuggle closer, felt the child's breath against her skin.

She sat there a long time, rocking gently, and the dark grew around them. Out of the cave mouth she could see a sliver of sky. Dark, clouded, forbidding.

The cold was seeping into the cave where they had made their home. Ruth hugged her child closer to her, feeling the small body begin to chill. The child would not last the night now there was no warmth left in the world.

She sat rocking, rocking, as all around her grew dark.

In life's business...time to pause

2010-12-14T22:45:00.000-08:00

This next week's going to be busy. It just is. 'Tis the season, I suppose.

No present buying frenzy, at least we're spared that. We don't lug presents onto the plane to Kansas City. Just not the way we roll. And our friends there, they seem to regard our company as gift enough. We certainly regard their friendship, company and really excellent cooking as heartfelt gifts in our lives.

Work will be busy. End of year stuff, the usual. All the things that needed to be done over the last while need finishing. And, oh by the way, could you get these one, or two, other things done? You know, really important for end-of-quarter, end-of-year, roll-up kinda "stuff".

It pays the bills, so I can hardly say "No" too loudly, or at least too often.

There's also writing to be done, to be finished, to be submitted. Even I like to end the year by clearing out the backlog - or getting done the things I really should have done already.

Time to take a pause. To breathe. To remember this time last year, and all that has gone on through the year, to now.

We are here. We are well. We got to see those we love this year, scattered afar though we may be.

Time to take a beat. Nothing will be lost by it. If the wheels haven't come off by now...taking a beat will not change that.

And breathe, Kevin.

What separates us

2010-12-10T10:36:00.000-08:00

They sat on opposite sides of the table in the diner. The waitress poured coffee, waited a moment. No one said anything. She left them alone.

Ruth: Not what I expected. Not really. Muscles. Didn't expect that. Her hair's gray already. Lots still dark though, like mine.

"I wasn't sure you'd come," she said.

Anna: God, she looks like me. What the hell happened? How'd they let her get those tattoos? And that hair, green-streaked for god's sake.

"I wasn't sure either," she said. "How did you find me anyway?"

Ruth: She's got tattoos. If I'd known that, I wouldn't have got these.

"I've got skills," she said. "It wasn't very hard. Just need to know where to look."

Anna: Skills? Means she's bright enough, I suppose. That's good, isn't it?

"I suppose not," she said. "I wouldn't know how to." She paused. "So, let's get to it. Why'd you want to find me?"

Ruth: Ahhh, direct. To the point. Must be where I get it. Anyway, why the hell shouldn't I want to find her?

"Wanted to see you once," she said. "See who you are."

Anna: Once? What's she looking for? Closure? That door slammed a long time ago.

"The people, the ones who adopted you. I don't remember them as the piercings and tattoos type. What happened?

Ruth: You should see what else I got pierced! So, you thought you were doing me a favor, did you?

"He discovered cocaine. She discovered booze and driving fast are a bad mix. I ended up in foster homes. Thanks for that."

Anna: Christ. So much for the middle-class white bread townies.

"I'm sorry, Ruth," she said. "You still go by 'Ruth'? I couldn't bring you up, you know that, right? My parents dumped me when they found out."

Ruth: I don't want to hear your sob story. I've enough of my own. I survived it. And you.

"Who was my dad, anyway?" she said. "That was something I couldn't find out."

Anna: Why this sudden need for information? She's better off forgetting. God, she's not pregnant, is she? Doesn't look it.

"One of the guys in the band. I went on the road with them. When I had you, I couldn't take you on the road. That's not a life."

Ruth: So you drop kicked me to the nearest upwardly-mobile yuppies who needed a kid to complete the set. Was that it?

"So," she said. "You were a groupie then?"

Anna: Bitch. She's right, of course. Damn, she's got his say-what-the-fuck's-on-your-mind way about her.

"At first," she said, "then part of the roadie crew. I still do that kind of thing. But for trade shows now."

Ruth: I can see it was tough. She looks older than she is. She knows about surviving too, I guess.

"Yeah," she said, "I found that out. Then when I saw the trade show season was starting..."

Anna: Bright. I thought so. She's a survivor. Maybe she gets that from me.

"You said you're going to college. It's a good idea, not limiting your options. You seem to have your head screwed on right."

Ruth: A bit late for you to start giving me advice, don't you think.

"Yeah," she said, "I have. Least I didn't go pop out a kid at sixteen. More willpower, better decisions."

Anna: Ouch, that hurt. Sharper than a serpent's tooth...

"Access to better birth control," she said. "And, yeah, maybe more willpower."

Ruth: Didn't mean that jab. It just came out. So much for more willpower.

"Maybe fewer opportunities," she said, "and yeah, better birth control."

Anna: Truce? I wonder.

"I'm here for a while," she said, "three trade shows, one after the other. What do you say..."

Ruth nodded.

Wanna write...gotta read

2010-12-09T22:52:00.000-08:00

There's almost too much to read, what with Kindle and the number of "dead tree" format books lying about the house.

Most recently I've been reading Too Much Happiness by Alice Munro, a book of short stories I bought at the small bookstore in Guerenville over Thanksgiving this year. We always visit The River Reader when there, and just as always buy something(s).

In addition, I'm reading The Philip K. Dick Reader. Again, short stories, by a master storyteller.

If I want to write short stories, and I do, it behooves me to read some good ones. To enjoy, certainly. But also, and I find this is often how I read these days, to dig into how the story is constructed, how written, how the author communicates with the reader. How the shared world is constructed in that communication.

Last year, while reading the collected stories of Eudora Welty (I have yet to finish the book), I wrote what I consider to be my best short story yet.

What a panel of Masters is available to me, at whose feet I can sit that I may learn.

And what a delightful way to learn!

Don't do what I do (or did, anyway)

2010-12-02T11:07:00.000-08:00

There are traditions in NaNoWriMo as in many things we humans do. And I'm known as a sucker for traditions - or any form or rite or ritual.

One of the traditions is a "List of things I learned doing NaNo". Tempting as that may be, it has as a basis the assumption that one has learned. That's stretching things in my case.

I'll do with the simpler "post mortem" analysis of how the month of November went. If you look to the right on this blog, you'll get an overview of how things went. On a day-to-day basis - not nearly as well as they might.

I began with some preparation, a few (brief) character studies, a (small) set of scenes and how they would play out. The intent was not to do a full outline of the story, but to get the bones laid down. The meat would come (ever hopeful as I am) during the month.

As it turned out, I never got more than the handful of scenes together. I kept telling myself during the month that I should take the time to create more scene sketches. Didn't happen. The ending of the story came to me about the middle of the month. However, I was quite concerned that I didn't know how to get from where I was to where I could see the story end. For a long time I was uncertain the story had fifty thousand words in it. Again - wrong.

I did add one or two more character sketches as I went along - largely so I could remember their names.

The other pre-NaNo tradition upheld was the buying of some new Levenger writing pads. It would not do to run out before the month end. Given the number I bought, there was no danger of that happening.

I had planned to use my Visconti Homo Sapiens fountain pen for the entire 50,000 words. Not so easily done when the ink runs out before the idea does. In such cases I just grabbed the nearest one with ink, and continued. There are parts of my novel written in a delicate shade of green and others in a rich navy blue. These courtesy of two Aurora Optima fountain pens.

I discovered it is best not to write a huge number of words with a pen where it's not possible to see how much ink has been drawn in at the last filling - or how much is left. The Homo Sapiens is a joy to write with and, even at speed, makes my handwriting look good. But the uncertainty of how much ink remained finally got to me.

I fell back on my excellent black and gold Waterman Carène. A beauty of a pen, and a beauty to write with.

But I let the time get away from me, in a most unforgivable way. The last day was a long-distance sprint. If that description seems to contain a contradiction, so be it. It also describes the eleven thousand plus word day quite well.

However, as can be seen, I made it. It was very difficult to come down from the high the day after. And, why would I want to?

Will write for my supper...

2010-11-22T15:01:00.000-08:00

Saturday evening was very pleasant indeed. Good (very) food around a table with our friend, Va.

She is an excellent cook, and an even better storyteller - and they're all real-life stories of her friends, relatives, life. Much fun, laughter, the warmth you get from deep friendship (not to mention well-prepared edibles and chocolate cake).

Garage sales are among the many things Va enjoys and she has a fine eye for beauty. The "old lady's" watch - platinum and diamond encrusted - a very fine buy.

Knowing my fondness (fetish?) for fountain pens, she presented me with two. With the aid of a magnifying glass (the eyes aren't what they used to be) I was able to determine that the black one was an Esterbrook, the green (with a translucent barrel) a Recife.

The Esterbrook dates from the late 1940's and the ink bladder is still supple and holds ink.

You can see, in the photograph, the lever used to load ink. It is a very long time since I made use of such a pen.

I was able to find out from this site:
Esterbrook.net, that the pen is (may be?) a J-series pen, which date from around 1948.

I checked the pen, testing it with water before ink, and it works very well. The pen is slimmer than many of the others I own, but fits well in the hand.

The nib is in excellent condition. This pen was well looked after.

I need to further investigate the Recife. It looks like a "demonstrator" pen, given the translucence of the barrel. But it has no converter, nor reservoir within, so I am not certain what to do regarding inking it. It is possible it can take a Waterman cartridge.

Below is an example of how the Esterbrook writes. It is a pleasure to use.

Many thanks, Va.

Halfway there, and not...

2010-11-15T08:06:00.001-08:00

November 15th and 25 thousand words should be in sight. And they are. Have I mentioned I'm longsighted?

I made up a good deal of ground over the weekend, Saturday in particular. There's more ground to cover. So far, the story is hanging together. Again, as with last year's NaNoWriMo novel, the story perspective shifts between the major characters.

I can already see some of the revision I will have to do - sharpen the focus on the main character. She does, however, come into her own in the latter half of the story. You know, the half (and some) that I haven't written yet.

Still, I have reached (or passed ) one milestone. I've filled one writing pad already and have begun the second. There will be two others filled before this exercise is done.

In other news, I filled in a survey on participating in NaNoWriMo run by Evolve Journal. They published my responses in Question and Answer form at Evolve Journal.

Onward.

The Dark came in on the Heels of the Rain

2010-11-07T19:42:00.001-08:00

Well, perhaps Daylight Savings Time ended in a less apocalyptic fashion - but then, I never liked rain.

Out and about, dancing from puddle to puddle, between raindrops and far more serious rainshowers. Errands to run and a new MacBook Air to lust over. No, I haven't bought one. But I'd like to, for I remain a sucker for good design. Another time, when I have more money and better excuses.

Errands to run indeed. And a NaNoWriMo novel to avoid writing (sigh). I, for all my good intentions and preparation, am behind. Plenty of time yet to catch up - and isn't that the most seductive thing you ever heard? Well, not really, but you get my point.

As a further, and creative if I say so myself, approach to procrastination, I gave my blog a facelift yesterday. Nothing extreme, it's still recognizable, but a cleaner look was the goal.

I did get some writing done in the late afternoon, while listening to mournful Celtic medieval music. It turned out to be the perfect atmospheric background. I don't know what I'd do if I ever decided to try write comedy.

I hope all my American friends enjoyed their additional hour. I know I did.

Ready? Set! You gotta be kidding me...

2010-10-31T23:32:00.000-07:00

And November is just over the hill - a little under half an hour from now (here on the "Left Bank", that is). Thirty days of writing like crazy. Not really so much for those who have been writing constantly every day.

Sigh. I am not among them. Certainly not anything like writing 1,666.6666 recurring words a day. I had also planned that I'd have an outline ready on which to build this year's story. So Kevin, how'd that work out for you?

Well, I've still got about 30 minutes left, OK?

I have something. Not a full outline. Ideas, some scenes, some thoughts on characters, some background.

I used a package, Index Card, on the iPad to get some ideas together. It can export to RTF (no, not RTFM, that's something else entirely) so I'll pick it up in Scrivener on the Mac and create additional structure. It's been exported so I'll get to it. Just as soon as I finish this blog post, honest.

As the month goes by I'll expand on the structure, taking into account where the actual writing has taken the story.

I have the start, some ideas about how things progress and what backstory is needed, and a vague idea of how it ends (the good guys win - what else? Although...not all may survive.)

One thing I hope not to do this year is repeat last year's performance. Writing more than a third of the 50,000 words in the last weekend is not a good idea. This year I'll have to be more disciplined. Oh dear.

I'll be writing on paper with a fountain pen again this year. I have a stack of new pads and my Visconti Homo Sapiens pen. It has a fine nib that writes unlike any fine nib I've ever used. It's a joy to write with.

In other news...I received my revised Assignment 1 back from my novel-writing course instructor. Seems having two beginnings, middles and ends is not a problem. The idea and plot seem sound but work on depth and structure is required. Some of the questions my instructor asked have enabled me to see how I can build up my main character, and antagonist, to get a better-told story. I'm looking forward to how things develop.

One thing my instructor did say - this is the first time she's engaged with a student who had an entire first draft of the story already under his belt.

Let's see where this takes us.

To all who are engaging in the craziness that is National Novel Writing Month - Andiamo!

The bones of the world...

2010-10-24T22:13:00.000-07:00

...or of story, at least.

I am, or have been, what some call a "pantser". Not "chancer" - although I have been called that also (and probably accurately at that) but "one who writes by the seat of his/her (his in this case) pants".

This is as opposed to those who plan, outline, stories prior to writing. There's a line from the book, and the film, "Starting Out in the Evening" by Brian Morton, that goes "I follow my characters around until they do something interesting."

And so it is. Certainly I've approached any short fiction I have written this way. I may have an idea for a character, possibly an idea for a situation, and - sometimes - an idea of the ending. But mainly I like to be surprised where "things" go.

The two first drafts I wrote for NaNoWriMo 2008 and 2009 were also approached this way. And I was surprised by some things the characters did and both drafts did get to where I had an idea they would reach.

However, it strikes me that this approach may not be enough. In truth, my opinion is that ONE way is seldom if ever sufficient.

I've read a number (nine?) of novels by Peter F. Hamilton. The most recent five are a story told over two novels and another story, in the same universe but set 1,000 years later, told over three novels.

The books are "Pandora's Star", "Judas Unchained" and the three books in the "Void" series ("The Dreaming Void", "The Temporal Void" and "The Evolutionary Void").

They are all densely plotted with a myriad of characters, ranging across many planets and a variety of species. Hamilton even has time to deal with the practical implications for society of functional immortality.

Multiple viewpoints, interleaved and interlocking stories, and a grand narrative going on beneath leading to a satisfying conclusion.

This was not done by the seat of Hamilton's pants. I don't know this, of course, but it's a fairly safe bet.

I don't know how to do this. How to create the architecture for such a story. But it is a wonder to behold and a joy to read.

I'm all about the "intuitive". I play chess that way - meaning I lose more often than I win. Though I remember one particular win...such joy. (I was asked, "But, what if THIS has happened THERE?" I had no answer - because "this" wasn't going to happen "there". It simply wasn't - and didn't.)

I have an intuitive grasp of computer programming and software architecture, and sometimes have to backtrack from my solution to explain "how" I got there to others. Of course, that isn't "how" I got there. But it is how someone else might.

And so with writing. Except, for something as wide-ranging and limitless as a novel...some architecture, some "bones" need to be in place. Certainly if I want to tell any large-scale story.

So I need to come up with an intuitive approach to story architecture, something free-flowing but that results in a structure that can bear weight. I'm going to tackle NaNoWriMo 2010 this way. As always, these things are a work in progress. We'll see what happens.

On an entirely different subject (yeah, intuitive with a grasshopper mind - and I want structure??)

My Aurora Europa came back from having the nib re-ground and the ink flow increased. The pen had been problematic since I bought it. Now, it just glides over paper.

Gorgeous.

The things you hear...

2010-10-17T22:22:00.000-07:00

As the train rolled towards San Jose on Thursday, it rolled to a stop. I and others were already standing by the door ready to disembark. It was too early (I wake up slow) to wonder why we were no longer moving. I was prepared to wait till we finally reached the platform, till someone said what was going (or not going) on, till all would be revealed.

"Ladies and gentlemen," came the announcement, "we are holding here at a signal while trains cross in front of us. Federal law prohibits us from running through a red signal and crashing into another train." Hooray for Federal Law, not to mention common sense.

Sure enough a second train pulls level with us two tracks over and a third, heading north, slips neatly between us. Would that all of life ran so well on rails.

-------------

Two weekends ago we were at a wedding in Kansas City. The bride's mother, Jane, is a very great friend (as is her husband, the bride's father). Jane introduced me to her two sisters. "He tweets in haiku," she said.

I smiled and made my usual excuse that I don't live so exciting a life that I could tweet with any regularity, so I had given myself the challenge of tweeting only (by and large) in haiku.

"And you feel the need to tweet, do you?" asked one of the sisters. There really isn't a good answer to that.

-------------

This evening we were at our "occasion" restaurant for dinner. Excellent food, our usual table by the fire, friendly and knowledgable servers. At the table just over the divider from ours sat a character for my NaNoWriMo novel this year. This woman could talk. She had a dinner companion who served as a sounding board, an occasional monologue spur (she might have regarded it as conversation), a jumping-off point.

"Oh, your calamari didn't come with tartare sauce. Please? We need some tartare sauce here." And then, "Did you want tartare sauce?"

"I know you don't like to do gifts and such but, I just had to get her this from you. It's just like that little Coach purse I have. You know it, don't you?"

And, for me the most perfect...

"How can I not know that name? Is this a trick question?"

I am sure I shouldn't have been listening, but it was all too good to pass up.

Finally - Happy Birthday Dick.

Rhythms and life stages - and crashing cymbals

2010-10-10T00:02:00.000-07:00

Friday started hectic - as the haiku of the day suggested:

Friday dawns hectic
Already feeling behind
Breathe - in, out; repeat

It remained busy as the day progressed, and took a spectacularly good turn as the work day ended and the evening began. Off to the San Francisco Symphony were we, with a great Italian meal to be had before it. The music program was one of contrasts - two highly percussive pieces (by Mexican composer Revueltas and French composer Varèse) with a bassoon and string orchestra work by Brazilian composer Villa-Lobos sandwiched between.

That latter work was one of great beauty. The orchestra returned after the intermission for a performance of Beethoven's Seventh Symphony. Even today, that work is running round my head. The conductor and Musical Director is Michael Tilson Thomas (MTT). We are very fortunate to have a musician of his caliber leading the Symphony. Just glorious.

Speaking of which, last Saturday we had the pleasure of attending the wedding of Dick's goddaughter in Kansas City, MO. Glorious again. The bride, Brie, was beautiful, as brides are. The groom, Josh, handsome as can only be the case on such days. But she has been beautiful, and he handsome, on any day I've ever seen them. Weddings are good for the heart, for the soul.

My very best wishes to both of them in this new stage of their lives together.

Time marches on, it would seem.

2010-09-28T19:20:00.001-07:00

We received our first Christmas card today. Perhaps, were I living in the southern hemisphere, I might be able to think of Christmas in this heat. But I'm not, and today was not "Christmas-y cool". So, not today.

Our good friend, the Lady C, has no such limitations. Now I think of it, the Lady C is quite short of limitations. She was, however, shocked (shocked, I tell you!) to see Christmas cards already for sale in Dublin, Ireland.

I mean, there's Thanksgiving yet, not that they celebrate it there. But Halloween too. And they celebrate that there. It's her favorite holiday. Says it's the only day she can go out as herself, and nobody notices.

Don't ask.

None of this, of course, stopped her buying one. She included the receipt with the date circled so we would know it really was bought in September. She also ringed the price so we'd know we were worth several Euro to her. Quite what she has planned for the Crayola Gigantic Colouring Set, also on the receipt, I don't know.

Another "don't ask" moment.

Still it's nice to be thought of. And to be thought of by her, ah well...

I've based three characters on the Lady C. And it will take many more to do more than hint.

Insert Knob A into Hole B...

2010-09-20T23:05:00.000-07:00

...with all due respect to Isaac Asimov. If you have not read his story whose title this entry borrows - please do.

Sometimes I need to remind myself how much of a geek I am. My Mac Mini, which I use for writing and little else, was woefully short of memory - although I had doubled the base amount when I bought it.

But then, there was the upgrade to the operating system, the imposition (sorry, installation) of Microsoft's Word program, and sundry other writing tools. I suppose the final straw was a speech recognition program - because typing in sixty thousand words takes longer than writing them by hand in the first place. At least for me.

Apple didn't make the Mac Mini (the vintage I own) particularly easy to upgrade. The genius at the Apple Store suggested I find instructional videos on the web - and watch them two to three times before attempting anything.

I procrastinated, as I do, but finally took the plunge. On foot of a special offer from a discount web store I must admit, else I'd still be procrastinating. Waiting turned out to be good as firmware upgrades and the declining price of memory meant I was able to take my Mini from 2GB to 8GB for surprisingly little. Hardly such a mini now.

The video I found online was excellent. Detailed, descriptive, not too frightening. Far from Asimov's "blurred and ambiguous" instructions. Still, removing a casing with a putty knife, lifting out an entire drive assembly, popping out the existing memory, reassembling everything and having the machine still work (somewhat more rapidly given the additional memory)...it seems the boy's still got it! Whatever "it" actually is.

With the new, more speedy, computer I was able to create my revised Assignment 1 for my novel-writing course. Two novel ideas, describing who, where, what, etc. The first of the ideas has a beginning, middle and end. Two of each as it turns out. Let's see what my Instructor thinks of that.

The second has an end also - it's in the second book of the series. The first book does come to a conclusion - somewhat in the spirit of those end-of-season cliffhangers TV series. I mentioned, in the letter accompanying the assignment, that I am half way through creating another story (some thirty thousand words into it) so we have a fallback position if needed.

It'll be interesting to see what comes back in the next couple of weeks.

Still hearing voices - trying to listen more carefully

2010-09-17T15:29:00.000-07:00

For some time now I have been a member of the #fridayflash crowd, a crowdsourced exercise in building a writing community created by J. M. Strother. I even made it into the The Best of Friday Flash - Volume One, for which I thank the editors and compilers of the anthology.

But I'm going to take a break for a while. (*See, he's run out of ideas!*)

No, I haven't - and please be quiet. I ask you, how could I run out of ideas with the voices I hear around me all the time?

I want to get back to focusing on longer pieces, short as opposed to short-short, stories. There's a little more time to create a world, a set of characters - and let them play. So, a little stretching of those muscles is in order.

In addition, earlier this year I completed a writing course created and run by the LongRidge Writers Group - "Breaking Into Print". I learned a great deal, not least of which was how much I didn't know when I decided to take my writing more seriously. A valuable course, for that insight alone, but it gave me far more than that.

So, I decided to give them even more money(!) and signed up for a course of theirs on the writing of novels. Given I have the drafts of two of those beasts already, and half the draft of a third, it's probable I will learn something.

The course seems to have as a foundation the idea of creating a structure for a novel, to know where it starts, what happens, how it ends - before finger is put to keyboard or ink to paper (as in my case).

The very idea scares me witless. And that's a good enough reason to go there.

I've already had my first assignment returned to me - with a request from the instructor to try again. That didn't happen on my previous course. I think I'm going to like this (quite what that says about me I don't care to examine right now).

I'll continue my Goldberg Variations project, because I want to finish that. So, from time to time, a #fridayflash will turn up.

And haiku will continue to flow. Every once in a while I feel I should have written them down. But, no. There is something oddly attractive about these little seventeen-syllable musings being ephemeral.

I will, however, continue (nay increase) my reading of the #fridayflash stories. That's too much pleasure to miss out on.

By Babylon's streams, there we sat, oh we wept...

2010-09-11T22:03:00.000-07:00

My father was to have flown home from San Francisco that day.

My cousin was flying home to New York that day.

My brother was downtown that day.

My father remained longer with us before travelling. My cousin spent time among kindly strangers in Canada. My brother walked through the city, as did so many others, but not without first having seen what no one should see.

This day is an ache in my soul each year. Maybe the ache is easing. I cannot tell.

I listened to John Adams' On the Transmigration of Souls today, written in commemoration of the day. I caught it on the radio as I drove about, quietly, doing errands.

More than once today my eyes were wet.

Is that all I can do? Weep?

Yes.

With the psalmist, with Lord Byron, I sit by the streams, the rivers, and weep. Weep for loss. Weep for lack of understanding. Weep for we foolish humans who willfully cast aside the call to be better.

Not do better. Be better.

Perhaps, one day, there will be more I can do.

But for now, I sit and stare at the horror that we can be - and weep.

Sorry - the "Guest" account is disabled...

2010-09-02T00:02:00.000-07:00

"I can help the next guest..."

Pardon? Is this a fast food restaurant providing prepackaged pablum in lieu of real food and "now serving guest #42"?

Or perhaps you're going to turn down the bed linens and leave one of those little chocolates on the pillow?

No, you're a bank. And I, I believe, am a customer here to transact business. I am also fairly certain that Miss Manners would look askance at "guests" being left standing in a roped off area, like unwelcome paparazzi at a red carpet affair.

Guest? I do understand you provide coffee on occasion and candy at Hallowe'en and have brightly colored balloons on display at other occasions. But, you remain a place of business dealing with customers who pay for the privilege of you locking up their money.

Guest?

I know. I'm being pedantic. But, as I explained to someone at work recently, it's part of my charm.

Delicate Balance

2010-08-28T00:19:00.000-07:00

"Tell me, Ruth."

Ruth looked at her Aunt Anna. "Tell you what, Tante?"

Anna shook her finger at her niece. "You know what I'm talking about. Go on, you may as well tell me."

Ruth glanced quickly around the room and then back to Anna. "I--"

Her aunt held up her hand. "Relax child. There's nothing to worry about. I may not be able to do much, but I can tell when someone's making you happy."

She smiled. "So, who is it?"

Ruth relaxed and an infectious grin crept over her face.

"Jenna," she said. "Her name is Jenna."

Anna raised her eyebrows. "Does my sister know of this...Jenna?"

"Soon," said Ruth. "I'll tell her soon."

"Be sure you do." Anna's smile turned a little grim. "Your mother doesn't like surprises."

"I will, Tante. I'll tell--" Ruth stopped speaking suddenly, lifting her eyes to stare at the wall behind her aunt.

Anna turned. A patch of darkness was growing on the wall.

"Tante--" Ruth began. Anna held up her hand.

The patch grew still more and suddenly coalesced into a man. He was tall, lean and sharp-featured. His casual open-necked shirt and faded jeans belied the sense of power that accompanied him.

"Who are you and what are you doing in my home," Anna asked as soon as she found her voice.

The man glanced at her briefly and turned his gray eyes to the younger woman.

"You must be Ruth," he said. His voice, pitched low, seemed to fill the whole room.

Ruth stood, holding his eyes with her gaze. "How do you know me?"

The man nodded, though the gesture seemed not directed at her. "Jenna told me you were strong," he said.

"Jenna?" said Ruth.

Anna spoke again. "You will leave my home at once."

The man turned to her. "Old lady," he said. "Sit there and be quiet. I have no wish to harm you." He turned his attention back to Ruth.

"Jenna and I are...distantly...related." He lowered his voice still more till it was almost a caress. "She has no idea how powerful you are."

"Leech!"

The man turned to Anna. "So, you know something after all. I thought with all these--" A sweep of his arm encompassed the cluttered room. "--crystals and trinkets that you were just another old woman dreaming of being more than you are."

Anna's voice was a whisper. "Leave my home. Leave it now."

"Not until I have what I came for." He held up his hand, his voice taking on the ring of command. "Now sit, old woman, and do not move."

Anna rose smoothly to her feet. Ruth's face blanched.

"You are a fool," said Anna, her voice sharp and hard. "You know nothing."

"Tante--" Ruth's voice held a note of strain.

"It's too late, child. You can no longer hold me. So don't try."

The man looked at Anna, his eyes widening in fear.

"These crystals," Anna said, "they are here to concentrate her and her mother's power. To keep me in check." Anna moved toward the man who tried to back away. He found he couldn't move.

"They chained me with them because I am too dangerous." She laughed quietly. "You upset the balance."

The man looked around the room. An intense white light was streaming from every crystal. The light stopped short of Anna as if meeting a wall.

Anna raised her hand and the man slammed back against the wall. He slid up till he was suspended halfway between the ceiling and the floor.

"Now it is time for you to go," said Anna.

Darkness began to form around the man. Anna closed her fist and the darkness folded itself into a small ball, taking the man with it. Both Anna and Ruth heard a scream of terror before the ball of darkness winked out of existence.

Anna turned to Ruth.

"Find this Jenna, child. Find her. Before I do."

Verbal volleyball

2010-08-25T01:07:00.000-07:00

I provided the setup – but she drove it home!

So there I was, at work, outside the secured door at work, heading back in. Another, a woman whom I had seen the previous day in the office, and earlier in the day also, arrived at the door at about the same time.

"Oh," she said, "I forgot my badge. Can you let me in?"

I knew she was an employee but, being funny (or a smart-aleck, you pick), I trotted out a line that has amused others in this situation.

"Are you really who you are?" I asked. Hey, I said I thought it funny, not that it made sense.

"I think so," she answered, "but I can check my underwear tags."

Gorgeous. The best I could muster was "No, I don't think that'll be necessary" and badged us both in.

I really like people with quick minds. They leaven the world around them and we are all the better for knowing them.

Seeking Adventure

2010-08-20T20:49:00.001-07:00

"You really can't stay there all day," said the Small Bright Creature.

It stood looking down at a pile of leaves.

"If you're not careful, someone might not know you're there and trip over you."

The pile of leaves shivered and a small black nose poked out. It was followed by a long narrow snout and two small bright eyes.

"There you are," said the Small Bright Creature, smiling. "You see? It's a very nice day."

The eyes blinked in the sunlight and the leaves moved again as a tiny hedgehog emerged from the pile.

The Small Bright Creature cheered. "I knew you could do it. Now, we really should start off the day's adventures. I can't tell you how many I've had already."

The hedgehog moved forward, one or two leaves sticking to the quills on its back. It looked around cautiously. A rustling could be heard off in the distance.

The Small Bright Creature continued talking.

"There's nothing to be worried about. I've met only the kindest creatures in my adventures here."

It smiled at the hedgehog. "I should tell you about the cat I met."

The hedgehog looked up, its eyes wide with horror.

"Oh, it was a very nice cat," said the Small Bright Creature. "Very, very helpful. It saved me all the trouble of walking home by carrying me."

The Small Bright Creature smiled, remembering.

The hedgehog shivered.

The rustling was getting closer.

"Are you cold?" asked the Small Bright Creature. "You should come out of the shade into the ...eeeek!"

The hedgehog curled up into a ball and one of its quills poked the Small Bright Creature.

A snake slid out from behind a bush.

"Oh," said the Small Bright Creature. "Hello again," and it waved a glossy black magpie feather.

The snake stopped, looked at the feather and slid off into the undergrowth.

The hedgehog's nose peeped out from the ball of quills it had become. The snake was nowhere to be seen.

"We met before, that snake and I," remarked the Small Bright Creature. "It's very ticklish and you have to be careful - sometimes it forgets how strong it is and hugs you too tightly."

The hedgehog looked up at the other in wonder.

"Now," said the Small Bright Creature. "Are you ready for an adventure?"

Life Lessons from Mom

2010-08-13T17:14:00.000-07:00

"Ruth?" Anna Goldberg stood at the bottom of the stairs. "Ruth? Come down here."

"Yeah Mom." Ruth's voice sounded from her room. "What?"

"Come down here. We need to talk. I'll be in the kitchen."

Anna waited, listening to her daughter as she made her way noisily downstairs.

Ruth looked at the diagrams and medical texts on the kitchen table. "Mom! Do we have to do this?"

"We do," said Anna. "Sit. You need to know this."

Ruth sat and glanced at the diagrams in front of her. "We covered this stuff in biology."

Anna shook her head. "There are things you still don't know. Things they won't teach you."

She patted her daughter's arm. "Now. You told me, this boy, he's interested in you?"

Ruth made a face and nodded her head. "Yeah, he's been nosing around me all week. Every time I turn around, he's there."

Her mother pursed her lips. "Well, remember that girl, Jenna? We can't let him do to you what he did to her. Can we?"

Ruth shook her head. She was too busy studying the diagrams in front of her to answer. "These," she said pointing to what had caught her interest, "these are--"

"--pressure points," said Anna. "And these," she continued, her finger touching several points on the diagram, "are paralysis points. You need to press carefully though. Do it too harshly, you leave bruises."

"That wouldn't be good," said Ruth.

"No," said Anna. "There's little value in getting caught."

She pointed to another diagram.

"See here? If you inject enough air, it can kill. It's difficult though. It can take a lot of air to get the bubble just right."

She pointed to other vulnerable areas. "Here, a little and you can cause a stroke. There can cause severe tissue damage."

Ruth grinned. "Oh, he wouldn't like that, not there."

She continued looking through the information in front of her.

"Slivers of glass? We actually have some?"

"Yes," said Anna, "we have. It takes time, you need to be patient. But, one of those in the bloodstream...one day it reaches the heart." She shrugged.

Ruth looked up. "Dad," she said. "He died of a heart attack, didn't he?"

Anna spoke quietly. "Yes, Ruth. He did. It was necessary."

She pulled her shawl more closely around her and looked at her daughter.

"Now you know how black widows got their name."

Hace mucho tiempo, Salamanca

2010-08-11T16:53:00.000-07:00

Last Monday marked 33 years since I left Salamanca, Spain. In truth, Sunday was the anniversary of my leaving there. It was a late, overnight, train from there to Madrid and then a plane to Dublin, via London. So Monday was the anniversary of my arrival back from Salamanca.

Thinking of my, almost non-existant, sense of direction I marvel at having made the journey successfully. It included a change of trains, somewhere in the region of 2:00AM in terms of time and who knows where in terms of locale.

To this day I have fond memories of the city, and of the countryside around it. Even the farm land though, for years, I had an aversion to lentils that bordered on phobia. Perhaps it was something to do with bending over and walking backwards for two weeks as we harvested field after field...after field...after field...after...

Still, that May I saw more sunrises over open countryside that I had before in my life. And possibly since.

I walked around the city late that night, waiting for the train. Sometime after 9:30PM the Plaza Mayor began to fill with families, all the way down to wee little ones, out for their evening meal. Of course, a lens three decades deep can lend a romantic cast to the whole place, and that evening in particular. But just because it's romantic doesn't make it untrue.

Years later, when Spain was running an advertising campaign under the heading: "Spain, everything under the sun", I ran across a two page spread in National Geographic - of the Plaza Mayor, Salamanca.

I almost wept.

Tengo que irme allá.

We are Healers, Ruth

2010-08-06T23:23:00.000-07:00

The house was still, cold and silent. The only light came from the single candle carried down the long hall and into the room at the heart of the house.

Anna Goldberg sat and placed the candle before her on a long, wooden table. The candle's light served more to deepen the darkness around her than brighten the room in which she sat.

Her breath misted the air and her voice, rusted from lack of use, barely sounded.

"I understand, Ruth, why you felt you needed to go." Anna paused, clearing her throat. "You may not believe me, but I do understand. For I was like you with my own mother."

Anna looked deeper into the light of the candle, her eyes becoming unfocused as she looked back through time.

"We are healers, Ruth, you know that now. You've always known it." She shook her head sadly.

"I know how hard it is to accept what cannot be seen, touched, proven. But now, in the years to come, you will learn." Anna placed her hands flat on the table before her. "As I learned with you."

She stopped speaking and silence again filled the house. The candlelight shone on her silver hair and glinted in her deep, dark eyes.

Outside the circle of light shadows moved, almost forming the shapes of all the women of the Goldberg line.

***

Half a world away Dr. Ruth Goldberg lay sweating, her face twisted in a grimace as another contraction swept through her.

Nurse Janna squeezed her hand in support.

"Dr. Goldberg, I've seen the miracles you perform in the surgery. But this, this is the true miracle of life."

Ruth shook her head fiercely. "No," she said. "That's just training and good luck. And this--" she paused for breath, "--this is just biology."

Her doctor looked up at her. "You're doing great, Ruth," she said. "Almost there, the baby's crowned."

She smiled. "One more good push and you'll be there."

Ruth grunted as another contraction came.

"Now," said her doctor. And Ruth pushed. The baby slid from her body into the doctor's waiting hands.

"Congratulations, Ruth. It's a baby girl!"

***

Anna smiled as she lit a second candle.

"Of course it is."

Language as art - Audible...Visual...

2010-08-02T18:19:00.000-07:00

I had a thought a few years ago, after attending a performance of Bach's Goldberg Variations, that it should be possible to do something similar with language. To take a theme, develop it, and then spin out a number (30? - oh dear) of variations on it. Not something infrequent in music, but in writing?

I wasn't aware of such being done before. And, for a while, I forgot my maxim: "There are only six good ideas in the Universe." It's true, there are - else what is Noah's Flood doing in the middle of Gilgamesh, I ask you?

Well anyway, after much deliberation - in truth, once I got over being scared of the idea - I began a series of flash pieces on this blog, tagged with GoldbergVariations so I can keep track of them.

Of course, no sooner had I begun these than I learned of Raymond Queneau who, after attending a performance of Bach's Art of the Fugue, set about writing a simple theme - and producing 99 variations on it.

The result is a book titled "Exercises in Style". The book was written in French and translated into English in the 50s by Barbara Wright - who knew the author. It is witty, erudite, crazy-making. There's even a variation that is a Haiku. How could I not love it?

So, yet another "not-unique" idea, KjM. Maybe so, but I am in great company.

In great company, even more than I thought. Right around the other side of the globe, Rayna M. Iyer who blogs at Coffee Rings Everywhere began a series of Drabbles (exactly 100-word stories) using a painting by Van Gough - Cafe Terrace at Night 1888. Each one is a gem. To read the eight of them - go here.

There is a pleasure I take in not being unique - this time. I like the idea of inspiration, modes of expression, approaches, from one art form being applied to another. Will it all work? Who knows?

What's the Bard have to say on this - "Things won are done. Joy's soul lies in the doing."

And the award goes to...

2010-07-28T15:10:00.000-07:00

...well, me as it turns out. Most surprising.

Some time ago, longer than I should have let it go without acknowledgment, Gracie Motley (who proclaims herself no Cerridwen - but who's to say?) of Crone's Cauldron Publications signaled out my blog for not one, but two awards. Perhaps I can attribute the delay in writing about this to shock - rather than my persistent procrastination problem.

The awards: The Versatile Blogger and One Lovely Blog.

These awards come from someone who writes fantasy like few others and is currently writing a serialized story that you must go (right now) and read. It may be found at: Fire and Water

You can come back when you're done. Should you have come back (or not have left because you, no more than I, do not take instruction well) I will continue and mention that these awards come with rules. The first one I can do, and happily, which is to thank, and link back to, the person who gave the awards.

The other rules, ah well, here we run up against my not taking instruction very well.

I will content myself, and hopefully appease the universe, with being very, very pleased with Gracie's graceful thinking of my blog.

And some days it's a feast...

I participate in the #fridayflash meme - more Fridays than not, I write a flash fiction story and publish it on my blog. The idea is Jon Strother's of Mad Utopia- and he has witnessed it flower into a force of its own. Recently it has attracted over 80 stories each Friday, from all around the world.

Jon has now created the Fabulous Flash Award. And Laura Eno, herself a flash fiction writer extraordinaire who publishes her #fridayflash at A Shift in Dimensions, saw fit to give me this award.

I am glad Laura had already received the award from another, for she should be so recognized.

The writers to whom I would pass this award on have already received it from others. And rightly so.

In all, a very pleasing July it has turned out to be, full of generous people.

Were I humble, I would stand humbled. But no one would believe me - and, worse, they would be correct.

May I simply say a heartfelt thanks.

A good, strong name

2010-07-23T15:39:00.000-07:00

"I would have called her Ruth."

"Sorry Ma'am?" The checkout clerk looked up from swiping Anna's few purchases across the scanner.

"Ruth," said Anna, pointing to the young woman's name-tag. "That was the name I had picked out for her."

"Oh," said the young woman, her hand suspended in the air, holding a box of camomile tea.

"It's a good, strong name," said Anna. Her voice turned wistful. "She died before she was born."

Another 'bip' from the scanner as Ruth swiped the tea across it.

"I'm sorry, Ma'am," she said.

Anna waved a slight hand in the air. "It was a long time ago," she said.

She eyed the bright patterns inked into Ruth's left arm, the three silver rings in her left eyebrow.

"Did getting those hurt?"

Ruth glanced down at her tattoos and shook her head. "It felt...intense when I was getting them done, but it was OK."

She looked up again. "I'm really sorry about your daughter."

Anna smiled. "Thank you, Ruth." She gave a slight shrug. "There was nothing anyone could do. She had a hole in her heart."

Her voice turned wistful again. "She left one in mine too."

Ruth reached out and touched Anna's arm. Anna smiled and patted the young woman's hand.

"I'm sorry, my dear. You musn't mind an old woman like me." She looked down at her purchases. "How much do I owe you?"

Ruth glanced at the screen. "Twelve dollars, seventy-two cents," she said. "Are these all to go?"

Anna nodded. "Yes, thank you." She paused as she opened her purse. "Except perhaps the strawberries. Maybe I'll sit and eat a few before I go home." She handed Ruth a twenty dollar bill.

Ruth made the change and gave it to Anna with her purchases.

"I hope you have a good day, Mrs.--"

"Goldberg," said Anna. "Thank you dear. You have been very kind." She looked at the young woman before her. "Ruth. Yes, it is a good name."

Anna took her purchases and sat outside the store at one of the tables there. She stayed a while, the sun warming her face, remembering what might have been.

Hungover cats

2010-07-20T19:02:00.000-07:00

One of us developed a small rash - that itched madly - along the upper arm, right where it can be easily scratched. Not good, because scratching is bad and almost autonomic.

Not being fond of fond of prescription ointments and unguents, the decision was made to try a simple, old-fashioned remedy. Oil of cloves. Soothing, cooling, cocaine for cats.

Our two bengals went berserk. Something to behold, though once is quite enough. Maybe we should have known. Some years ago we discovered that the scent of throat lozenges, the ones with eucalyptus oil, could cause them to go from sleepy cats to bottle-tailed crazies in seconds.

That was nothing compared to what the scent of oil of cloves accomplished. Instant mayhem. Instant fluffy tails. Instant battle of the nine lives (eighteen actually, they were both high as kites).

Rubbing alcohol removed the oil, no telling what it did for the rash, and the cats came down eventually.

Catnip is for wusses. Real pusses go for clove oil.

They were a lot quieter today.

Return to Titan

2010-07-16T22:31:00.000-07:00

The thought occurs that I should not continue foisting my "Goldberg Variations" on #fridayflash readers. There is a risk of annoying readers, not something any writer should do. I'll continue to have the debate with myself about this and, in the meantime, here is another in the series.
______________________________

Ruth loaded the last transmission from her mother and pressed "Play". Her mother's voice sounded from the speakers.

"Lunar Launch Control, this is TS Zero Zero Five, Goldberg commanding."

Ruth drew her breath in sharply, as she had done every time before, when she saw her mother's drawn face, blood inexpertly cleansed from her right temple.

"Regret to inform result of last system mod/repair failed to meet success criteria."

Ruth shook her head watching her mother's mouth twist in wry humor.

"It was a bust, guys. Ruth, your system re-route nearly did it." Her mother shook her head. "But there was too much damage from the earlier explosion. The remaining couplings couldn't take the strain."

Her mother cleared her throat, flecks of blood appearing at the side of her mouth.

"We're implementing evac plan beta, with some modifications. We can fit almost all the survivors in the backup pod. Someone needs to stay behind — me."

Ruth closed her fists tight, feeling her fingernails digging into her palms.

"Don't listen to the Psych boys, OK? This isn't some 'captain has to go down with her ship' deal. I may be brave, but I'm not foolish."

Her mother paused for breath, clearly fighting pain.

"I have to manually trigger the main engine, what's left of it. That, and the thrusters, will kick the pod into a stable return trajectory. Just pick up my crew. Get them home, OK?"

Ruth looked away as her mother's report was interrupted by a bout of coughing. When she looked again, she could not believe how old her mother looked.

"This transmission will reach you in —" her mother looked away, at some dial or other, "— 78 minutes. By then TS Zero Zero Five will be well on the way to giving Titan a small crater."

Ruth lifted her hand to the screen just as her mother did the same.

"Ruth? Jenna's OK, banged up but OK. And I'm OK too." She smiled. "Just a little more banged up. When you, or your daughters, get to Titan, I'll be here."

Her mother's face resumed its normal controlled self.

"This is TS Zero Zero Five ending transmission. Telemetry will continue to be broadcast for as long as possible. Goldberg out."

Ruth froze the image on the screen. Short, dark hair, shot through with gray. Dark, wide-set eyes. Mouth firm. Almost a mirror-image of herself, these days.

"We'll be there, Mom. Jenna made it back. It took us a while, but we're coming back to Titan."

"Commander Goldberg." The intercom on her desk sounded. Ruth pressed the contact.

"Goldberg here."

"Commander. We rendezvous with Titan within the hour."

"On my way. Goldberg out."

Jimmy Carter - Poet

2010-07-13T11:11:00.000-07:00

I wrote a Haiku yesterday, several indeed. It's how I roll, or tweet as the case may be.

I wrote recently that some of them are bad, some of them are really bad and then, some... Some can be what I strive for when I write Haiku, or anything for that matter.

This one from yesterday:

The moon's tidal pull / Heartbeat of the Pacific / Our cockleshell lives

I quite liked. I should. I stole it.

Not consciously. Not intentionally. Not that that matters.

Ex-President Jimmy Carter is a writer, a poet, and many, many other things. I own a book of poetry of his, Always a Reckoning and other poems, published in 1995.

It contains the following:

Fuji humbles us—
its strength and lasting beauty—
our own fleeting lives.

I remember the impact it had when I first read it. It seems the impact went deeper than I thought.

So, ignore my Haiku. The source of that one is so much better. And sincere apologies to Mr. Carter.

A Generation Apart

2010-07-09T22:29:00.000-07:00

The front door slammed.

"I've told you before, don't slam--"

"Sorry," said Ruth, "it's windy out. If all the windows weren't open..."

I turned to her, brushing my gray-streaked hair out of my eyes.

"You're not in your fancy air-conditioned college--"

"Don't I know it," she said, tossing her coat on the kitchen table and opening the fridge door.

"Don't eat too much," I said automatically, "you'll spoil your dinner."

Ruth took a soda can from the fridge and stood up. Light shone on dark, dark hair. Her eyes were as dark.

"Yeah, well," she said, "I think I'm going out with friends. Jenna--"

I let out an exasperated sound. I just couldn't help it.

"It would've been nice to let me know earlier. Who is this Jenna anyway? And where will you be going?"

Ruth slammed the fridge door.

"I didn't know earlier. Anyway, Jenna's at school with me. You'd know if you ever listened."

"Don't talk to me like that, young lady."

"Then don't treat me like a child," she retorted. "I've grown up. You need to learn to deal with it."

I nodded. "I can see you're all grown up. In fact--" I eyed the neckline of her top, "--the whole world can see how grown up you are."

It was Ruth's turn to make an exasperated sound. "Oh Mom, like the world doesn't already know women have breasts."

"If they didn't, they do now."

"I've seen photos of you when you were young," Ruth said. She glanced down where the tops of her breasts were showing. "This is nothing compared to some dresses you wore. When did you get so old?"

I opened my mouth to answer, but her phone rang.

"That sounds like a dirge," I said.

"Then I'll play it at your funeral." Ruth answered the phone. "Oh hi Jenna. Just a sec..." She walked out of the kitchen.

When did I get so old? Ha! When did I become my mother? She and I used to argue like this. And probably she with her mother. Back all the way to Eve?

Ruth and I are too much alike. We are sisters a generation apart. There's so little of her father in her, and he's dead a long time.

It's been so lonely, lonelier still since she left for college.

"I gotta go. I'm meeting Jenna," Ruth said as I heard her heading for the door.

"Don't slam--," I began.

The front door slammed.

An Unbroken Chain

2010-07-02T23:15:00.000-07:00

"It sounds like a dirge," I said.

My Ruth, she laughed at me, reaching for her phone.

"It's not a dirge, Mom," she said, "it's a fugue."

She glanced at the phone. "Oh, it's Jenna. I've gotta take this. You mind?"

I shook my head. "No, no. You go ahead."

She had answered already, turning slightly away from me.

"When did you get so grown up?" I asked silently. There she was, so much a grown woman, dark hair swept back from darker eyes. Face alive as she talked with her college friend.

I caught a glimpse of myself in a store mirror. "When did you get so old?" I swept my hand through my own dark hair. I didn't look closer. I already knew where the gray was hiding.

Ruth chatted on. I listened, more to the sounds than the words. You hear more that way. Warm tones. They were close, this Jenna and my Ruth. Making plans for when she returned after the break.

I stepped away, from Ruth, from the mirror. I didn't want either of us to see the expression I could feel on my face. I hoped this Jenna didn't give Ruth any ideas.

I laughed quietly. "Ideas? You think you could prevent her having ideas?"

I could hear my own Mother's voice in my head. Probably as she heard her own in hers. And all the way back, daughter to mother, back to Eve herself.

I looked back at my Ruth's bright, quick face. Her free hand moved as she talked, eyes alive with intelligence and fun.

I fingered a shawl draped over a mannequin's shoulder. A widow's shawl. I nodded.

"Perfect for me." I pulled it off the mannequin and slipped it over my shoulders.

"Bye Jenna," I heard as Ruth finished her call. She turned to me just as I drew myself up and I threw the right end of the shawl dramatically over my left shoulder.

"Oh Mom," she said. "That's perfect for you."

I smiled, took her face in my hands and kissed her forehead. She looked at me, her eyes seeking mine.

"We Goldbergs come from a long line of strong women, Ruth. I cannot put into words how proud of you I am."

I patted her arm as I linked it in mine. "Now, we must buy something special for when you return to your friend Jenna."

With these words I set my daughter on her way to her future.

Time - the simplest thing...

2010-07-01T23:46:00.000-07:00

Clifford Simak will, probably, forgive me for making use of his story title: Time is the Simplest Thing as the title of this entry. It just fits.

There's another title that might do just as well. More of that later.

I have used the photograph to the side of this text before. It is a photo of the clock that hangs on the wall beside the desk where I write. Who knows what it says about my writing, or my writing process. There is the risk that it explains many, many things.

I had thought, up until recently, that it was just me and Dalí sharing a passion for odd clocks. Not so.

My sister, her husband and daughter, visited recently (for a few days before and after our home was actually presentable). My sister took one look at the clock and said, "you too?"

I am the furthest away, out, let's go with furthest west, of all my family and so did not immediately understand her question. It seems we all have likings for strangeness when it comes to clocks.

In parts East we are known as the "wacky Mackeys" because of it. Seems someone has a fondness for rhyme.

So, I come by my wackiness honestly it would seem. I never doubted it.

And the other title? Wacky Mackeys, of course. Now, if you'll excuse me, it's somewhere between 8 and 5 past whatever...

Things we do for love

2010-06-26T00:08:00.000-07:00

Miriam sat down on the edge of the bed, wrapping her robe around her tightly. She looked over at her underwear drawer and rocked back and forth.

"Ah, John, John. I don't think I can do it this year. I don't know if I can."

Hanging from the drawer was one of those open-cup bras he'd liked so much. Silly, impractical -- scratchy -- things. But John had thought them so sexy, had thought her so sexy. So she'd worn them each year on their anniversary.

Even in the years after he was gone.

Her vision blurred as she reached out and pulled the thing to her, turning it over, sticking her fingers through the opening.

"I'm sorry John. I'm sorry. I don't have what it takes anymore."

Miriam held up a breast form. No, it wasn't going to work.

She laughed suddenly, her eyes brimming with tears.

"Can you imagine what the kids would think if this fell into the soup over dinner?"

Miriam put down the form and rubbed the scar where her right breast had been. He'd still love her, she knew that, even though she only had one now.

She laughed again, the tears spilling over. Of course he would. He'd just lavish twice the attention on the remaining one. Silly man. She looked again at the bra, turning it around in her hands.

Miriam stood, slipped her arms through the bra straps and fastened it in front. She adjusted it as best she could and looked down.

"I'm lopsided, John. More than usual. The kids will know what I'm wearing. They'll be horrified, I know it. Well, let them."

Miriam slowly finished dressing and made her way, head held high and back straight, down to where her children and grandchildren waited to take her out to dinner.

A long way from Clare to here...

2010-06-24T23:51:00.000-07:00

Even longer from Dublin to here...in oh so many ways.

Going by the day rather than the date, I stepped off a plane in Oakland seventeen years ago today. In one hundred four degrees of heat - and an overcoat. Given I was arriving with pretty much all I had to my name, it was the easiest way to carry it.

"Easiest" - at least up until that point.

Much had happened to bring me to that place and that time. Yet more has happened since. While I might wish to change some aspects of my life up to that watershed arrival, I would not care to change anything that has transpired since.

A long way - and not only in time and space.