Back in the Sixties someone came up with a bumper sticker which read: Life Sucks. And then you die.
Sometimes I think they weren't half wrong.
Once again I was temporarily without my email account. Sometimes I think technology was invented to drive me nuts. It certainly has speeded things up. A long time ago it would have taken a lot longer for me to get this close to the bottom.
Fortunately, my email is working again and so I am not cut off from sanity and joy. I don't talk with people face-to-face much anymore. Haven't for years. So having online people to talk with is my only real interaction with the world at large.
Listening to Richard Harris singing MacArthur Park. What a beautiful song. Wish I could sing that. Sing it well, I mean.
Anyway, I'm not dead. Not yet. Plenty of time for that. Meanwhile, I'm kind of in limbo. I'm here where I have to be because there is no place I want to be that I can be. Did you follow that? Being a person of inspiration I am waiting. Halfheartedly, I attempt various things, but in truth I am waiting for the sign, the indicator, of what to do next. Until then I am frozen in a prison of my own making, waiting for the Keymaster to present me with instructions on what to do, where to go, and how to achieve. Better people keep moving. But I am not better. I am waiting, and like the obedient child I once was I look for what I do not know.
Perfect song. Aerosmith's, Dream On, just began. Catch you later.
Showing posts with label Inspiration. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Inspiration. Show all posts
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
The Tortoise and the Hares
So I got the bicycle and have been riding. Put in eleven miles and seventy-five minutes yesterday. Paying for it today. Not feeling well at all. Will probably stay off the bike (probably not) and just do treadmill today.
Getting sick from riding too much reminded me of the one and only bike-a-thon I was part of. Did that back in the mid-70s. When I was nineteen or twenty.
It was Randy's idea to participate. He invited Stephen, who invited me. We met some others, including a co-worker of mine at the pizza shop, at the starting point and took off as a group of six or seven. Randy was in training. He wanted to do the 100-mile Ironman later that summer. This particular ride was fifty miles. For charity. You got people to pledge so much a mile. I didn't get many pledges. Asking people for anything is difficult for me, but asking them for money is a nightmare. So I would just make it known I was involved and let them offer to pledge. Think I got ten or fifteen dollars for the thing.
Anyway, being young and feeling "macho", we got into a competition before we even started. The deal was, who could go the longest before they had to get off their bike and walk, or just plain stop and take a rest? There were allowances. For instance, there were about a half dozen checkpoints for the bikers. These would typically be at fast-food restaurants or convenience store filling stations. Getting off one's bike to purchase food or drink, or to use the facilities didn't count. But between checkpoints did.
We started out together and reached the first checkpoint as a group. Same with the second. That was where we got food and drink. I avoided the food and went only with the drink. Didn't want to get sick.
On the third leg we began to spread out. And all but three of us got off their bikes to walk up the nightmare hill. I felt like I was biking straight up into the air. I had a Raleigh bike with ten speeds. Stephen's bike was even better. (I had got my Raleigh from Stephen. Traded a Chevy Vega for it. I got the best part of the deal.) I made it to the top without stopping going on sheer willpower and pride. You see, Stephen didn't stop either. Neither did my co-worker. Silly macho pride kept us going. After that hill I was convinced I would do not worse than tie for the longest ride.
After the final checkpoint we had several uninteresting miles to cover in order to finish. We had begun early in the morning and now it was late afternoon. I was wiped. The furthest I had ever biked in a single day before was maybe thirty miles. Randy, who was hoping to bike 100-miles in just a couple of months had to take several rests. So did nearly everyone else. Even my co-worker finally looked at me and gave up, conceding my willpower over his. That left just Stephen and me. I knew we would finish together.
Except by now we were spreading out into a long line separated by huge gaps. I had been in the middle or near the front all day, but I had fallen behind. Stephen decided he would rather finish first and I told him to go ahead and he was soon out of sight, too. I plodded.
Then, I passed my co-worker. He was laying on the ground beside his bicycle taking a nap. One by one I passed the others, including Randy. I planned on telling Stephen about it, but then I found Stephen laying beside the road, too. I had won.
Now I could have got off right then and taken a rest, but for whatever reason I decided I wouldn't. It was only five miles to finish and I was going to make it without stopping. I plodded.
Then Stephen passed me. Looking fresh. Not long after that Randy passed me. One-by-one they all did. My co-worker passed me with two miles to go.
I came into the last stretch ready to fall over and die. I had forgotten what things were like at the end. When we began it was fun. A long ride down a hill. Now it was reversed. A horrendous climb which lasted nearly a half mile. And it was sandy.
It was so tempting to give up at the end. Why is that? When the end was twenty, ten, or even five miles away I was determined to finish. Now, with the finish line in my sights, I wanted to give up and quit. Why?
I would have quit, too - except for Stephen, Randy, and the others. I saw them. They were standing at the finishing line cheering me on as though it were some big deal. I struggled with finding a suitable gear to climb a sandy hill but made it. I didn't stop until I was sure I had put the finish line behind me. I finished a half hour behind the one in front of me. But I had done something none of them had: never stopped.
I had to work that night. So did my co-worker. He lived three miles from work. I was more like fifteen. Stephen brought me home and I got dressed and hurried to the pizza place. I was late by an hour. When I got there the owner was there. He was not happy. What surprised me was that my co-worker was not there. The owner followed me to the back where I punched in and took an apron.
"You're late!" (as if I hadn't figured that out on my own)
"I know. It was the bike-a-thon. It took a lot longer than I thought."
"Jeff was late, too. I sent him home. Maybe I should send you home, like I did him."
I was too exhausted to argue or be afraid. I was fluffing out my apron to put it on (you know the way you do) and instead let it drap over the counter. I looked at him.
"Are you sending me home?"
He wanted to. I could tell that. But I was his best cook (next to his son, Rich). And he had already sent Jeff home. If he sent me home, too, that would mean he would have to stay and cook, and Norm just wasn't that good. He'd never be able to keep up with a supper rush. He knew that. So he just grumbled at me and left.
I wish he had sent me home. I could hardly move.
Eleven miles is a far cry from fifty, but at my age, weight, and general physical condition it will do. My blood just isn't used to having to move like that anymore. I'm dizzy when I stand up and I even had to bend over the toilet for a bit. But don't worry. This tortoise is going to keep plodding. I don't know how to do anything else. That's what we tortoises do.
Oh. And Randy did enter the Ironman later that summer. At seventy-five miles he stopped and called Stephen to come and bring him home. He didn't make it, and he was ever crabby after that. I could have told him he went farther than I had guessed, but some things you don't say to good friends. They must be a best friend, I guess. Stephen and I would have said.
Getting sick from riding too much reminded me of the one and only bike-a-thon I was part of. Did that back in the mid-70s. When I was nineteen or twenty.
It was Randy's idea to participate. He invited Stephen, who invited me. We met some others, including a co-worker of mine at the pizza shop, at the starting point and took off as a group of six or seven. Randy was in training. He wanted to do the 100-mile Ironman later that summer. This particular ride was fifty miles. For charity. You got people to pledge so much a mile. I didn't get many pledges. Asking people for anything is difficult for me, but asking them for money is a nightmare. So I would just make it known I was involved and let them offer to pledge. Think I got ten or fifteen dollars for the thing.
Anyway, being young and feeling "macho", we got into a competition before we even started. The deal was, who could go the longest before they had to get off their bike and walk, or just plain stop and take a rest? There were allowances. For instance, there were about a half dozen checkpoints for the bikers. These would typically be at fast-food restaurants or convenience store filling stations. Getting off one's bike to purchase food or drink, or to use the facilities didn't count. But between checkpoints did.
We started out together and reached the first checkpoint as a group. Same with the second. That was where we got food and drink. I avoided the food and went only with the drink. Didn't want to get sick.
On the third leg we began to spread out. And all but three of us got off their bikes to walk up the nightmare hill. I felt like I was biking straight up into the air. I had a Raleigh bike with ten speeds. Stephen's bike was even better. (I had got my Raleigh from Stephen. Traded a Chevy Vega for it. I got the best part of the deal.) I made it to the top without stopping going on sheer willpower and pride. You see, Stephen didn't stop either. Neither did my co-worker. Silly macho pride kept us going. After that hill I was convinced I would do not worse than tie for the longest ride.
After the final checkpoint we had several uninteresting miles to cover in order to finish. We had begun early in the morning and now it was late afternoon. I was wiped. The furthest I had ever biked in a single day before was maybe thirty miles. Randy, who was hoping to bike 100-miles in just a couple of months had to take several rests. So did nearly everyone else. Even my co-worker finally looked at me and gave up, conceding my willpower over his. That left just Stephen and me. I knew we would finish together.
Except by now we were spreading out into a long line separated by huge gaps. I had been in the middle or near the front all day, but I had fallen behind. Stephen decided he would rather finish first and I told him to go ahead and he was soon out of sight, too. I plodded.
Then, I passed my co-worker. He was laying on the ground beside his bicycle taking a nap. One by one I passed the others, including Randy. I planned on telling Stephen about it, but then I found Stephen laying beside the road, too. I had won.
Now I could have got off right then and taken a rest, but for whatever reason I decided I wouldn't. It was only five miles to finish and I was going to make it without stopping. I plodded.
Then Stephen passed me. Looking fresh. Not long after that Randy passed me. One-by-one they all did. My co-worker passed me with two miles to go.
I came into the last stretch ready to fall over and die. I had forgotten what things were like at the end. When we began it was fun. A long ride down a hill. Now it was reversed. A horrendous climb which lasted nearly a half mile. And it was sandy.
It was so tempting to give up at the end. Why is that? When the end was twenty, ten, or even five miles away I was determined to finish. Now, with the finish line in my sights, I wanted to give up and quit. Why?
I would have quit, too - except for Stephen, Randy, and the others. I saw them. They were standing at the finishing line cheering me on as though it were some big deal. I struggled with finding a suitable gear to climb a sandy hill but made it. I didn't stop until I was sure I had put the finish line behind me. I finished a half hour behind the one in front of me. But I had done something none of them had: never stopped.
I had to work that night. So did my co-worker. He lived three miles from work. I was more like fifteen. Stephen brought me home and I got dressed and hurried to the pizza place. I was late by an hour. When I got there the owner was there. He was not happy. What surprised me was that my co-worker was not there. The owner followed me to the back where I punched in and took an apron.
"You're late!" (as if I hadn't figured that out on my own)
"I know. It was the bike-a-thon. It took a lot longer than I thought."
"Jeff was late, too. I sent him home. Maybe I should send you home, like I did him."
I was too exhausted to argue or be afraid. I was fluffing out my apron to put it on (you know the way you do) and instead let it drap over the counter. I looked at him.
"Are you sending me home?"
He wanted to. I could tell that. But I was his best cook (next to his son, Rich). And he had already sent Jeff home. If he sent me home, too, that would mean he would have to stay and cook, and Norm just wasn't that good. He'd never be able to keep up with a supper rush. He knew that. So he just grumbled at me and left.
I wish he had sent me home. I could hardly move.
Eleven miles is a far cry from fifty, but at my age, weight, and general physical condition it will do. My blood just isn't used to having to move like that anymore. I'm dizzy when I stand up and I even had to bend over the toilet for a bit. But don't worry. This tortoise is going to keep plodding. I don't know how to do anything else. That's what we tortoises do.
Oh. And Randy did enter the Ironman later that summer. At seventy-five miles he stopped and called Stephen to come and bring him home. He didn't make it, and he was ever crabby after that. I could have told him he went farther than I had guessed, but some things you don't say to good friends. They must be a best friend, I guess. Stephen and I would have said.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Stories, Heroes, Writing, Critiques
Supposed to talk about writing assignments today. Nothing new to say about them save that Quest is moving along nicely. Too nicely, in a way. I tried writing with Spouse and Son offering up one interruption after another. It's hard to keep focus when one is being inundated with a host of questions. I wound up skipping a mess of idea and not thinking others through.
The stories are posting on Legions of On-Line Super Heroes. If you haven't visited the blog, or haven't in a couple of days, I highly recommend it for good light reading. Fun reading. There are five stories up now, with others scheduled for Wednesday, Thursday, Saturday, and Monday. There's some very good writing there. And my stuff is there, too.
What a pity there's no money in blogging. I'd be doing just fine. But then, we all blog. How does that phrase of W.S.Gilbert go?
When everyone is somebody, then no one's anybody.
Been invited to bring something to read to tonight's Writers' Group. There was only a single submission to be critiqued. I gave it my best, but the writer happens to write a lot better than I, and it's Chapter Eight of a story which I haven't read before. I thought about bringing what I have of Quest, but as Quest is a sequel to Apprentice, and this group has already reviewed Apprentice, I thought to bring something new. So, I'm bringing my opening to The Animal Kingdom. It's only six pages.
The Animal Kingdom is one of my unfinished works. The premise is this:
There is an alternative reality where animals from this world can go to get away from humans and the struggles there are to survive here. How the journey is made is unknown to humans, but animals can make the journey easily.
The Animal Kingdom is a kingdom of peace. No animal preys on another for food. Those which feel the need must return to our world in order to get their meals. And therein is the story. A hog is found slaughtered near the border of the cats. Eschae, the Kingdom Mare, calls upon Sparks, her German Shepherd inspector, to solve the crime before the kingdom is undone and all predators must be banned.
I like the idea. I even remember a lot of what I wanted to do with it. Just never finished it. If there's time at the meeting tonight I'll present it and see what everyone thinks of it. Maybe I will finish it after all.
Other than that, not much going on. Mostly recovered from my cold. Slight headache today with slight congestion. But only a few coughs.
Take care.
The stories are posting on Legions of On-Line Super Heroes. If you haven't visited the blog, or haven't in a couple of days, I highly recommend it for good light reading. Fun reading. There are five stories up now, with others scheduled for Wednesday, Thursday, Saturday, and Monday. There's some very good writing there. And my stuff is there, too.
What a pity there's no money in blogging. I'd be doing just fine. But then, we all blog. How does that phrase of W.S.Gilbert go?
When everyone is somebody, then no one's anybody.
Been invited to bring something to read to tonight's Writers' Group. There was only a single submission to be critiqued. I gave it my best, but the writer happens to write a lot better than I, and it's Chapter Eight of a story which I haven't read before. I thought about bringing what I have of Quest, but as Quest is a sequel to Apprentice, and this group has already reviewed Apprentice, I thought to bring something new. So, I'm bringing my opening to The Animal Kingdom. It's only six pages.
The Animal Kingdom is one of my unfinished works. The premise is this:
There is an alternative reality where animals from this world can go to get away from humans and the struggles there are to survive here. How the journey is made is unknown to humans, but animals can make the journey easily.
The Animal Kingdom is a kingdom of peace. No animal preys on another for food. Those which feel the need must return to our world in order to get their meals. And therein is the story. A hog is found slaughtered near the border of the cats. Eschae, the Kingdom Mare, calls upon Sparks, her German Shepherd inspector, to solve the crime before the kingdom is undone and all predators must be banned.
I like the idea. I even remember a lot of what I wanted to do with it. Just never finished it. If there's time at the meeting tonight I'll present it and see what everyone thinks of it. Maybe I will finish it after all.
Other than that, not much going on. Mostly recovered from my cold. Slight headache today with slight congestion. But only a few coughs.
Take care.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Not on My Best Day
Judayl sent me an email with this in it. Asked me if I could do this. (Read post title.) I just had to include it on my blog. Don't ever say again that jumping rope is for sissies. This took incredible athletic talent as well as choreographic talent as well as physical endurance. Amazing.
Tried this at home and nearly killed myself. No. Just kidding. I was exhausted just watching. Talk about deserving a standing ovation.
Tried this at home and nearly killed myself. No. Just kidding. I was exhausted just watching. Talk about deserving a standing ovation.
Friday, April 10, 2009
Hi J.
I'm trying to do something of importance, but I'm going to need some help and direction - at least sometimes. If you can comment and help me stay on track, thanks.
Oh. It's at Faith in Forgiveness.
Oh. It's at Faith in Forgiveness.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Of Mice and Men - Bevie Style
Spouse and I just made a big decision. It wasn't the kind of decision one gets all happy and excited about, because our decision was NOT to go forward with a dream. Yet it wasn't really a difficult decision. It came down to money. We don't have any. That made choosing easy.
Another couple may have chose other than how we did. They may have felt reckless, bold, confident, lucky, whatever. But Spouse and I are Midwesterners through-and-through. We both come from Scandanavian descent. Her roots are mostly from Germany. I have heavy German ancestry through my maternal grandfather, but I can also lay claim to Scottish, Dutch, and Jewish (just a smidgeon) blood. Mostly, I think I have Danish ancestry. (Based on my Daddy's appearance I've sometimes wondered if I don't have Native American roots. But as I have yet to find any documenation on his daddy - my daddy was illigitimate - I'm not sure.)
What was our decision?
Well, I had come up with the clever idea of operating a bookstore. I had found a distributor of overstock books, taken from stores which simply wished to get rid of an inventory, or which had gone out of business. Books could be purchased by the pound or, in some cases, for a dollar apiece. Children's hard-cover books would be a dollar each. But that's a good price! Think of it. One thousand hard-cover books for one thousand dollars. Each of those books would cost around ten dollars in the big time book stores such as Barnes and Noble and Borders. Even Amazon.com would charge near that. But we could sell them for two dollars each and do just fine. We could probably stock a store for less than $10,000 in inventory.
We also sell gift items, which includes toys. Having a children's book section which also had toys for sale would be wonderful, I think. We sell wooden trains, made in Vermont (which means no lead in the paint and such), musical dolls made in Iowa, and a variety of other toys. Since Spouse has spent the last five years working retail almost exclusively, we figured we would do well with such an enterprise. The problem would be money.
Since we already have the gift business we are registered with the State of Minnesota and have a Tax ID and everything. We're so small that we only have to submit sales tax in January of each year, but we're still considered a business. So, every week we get at least one phone call about advertising on-line, being listed in a phone directory, or offered a new deal on someone's new product. Lately, we have also been getting included on the stimulus package calls. Until this week I've ignored the automated calls and informed the real people who call that we are just a home business which is not very active any more. (We sell a few toy items through one of the retail stores Spouse works for. They get a 10% commission on everything we sell. We made $380 in December, $80 in January, $150 in February, and $150 in March. Before this we went two years without selling more than $400 total. Like I said, we're kind of inactive.)
But this past Monday I pushed the "magic button" on the telephone to get us hooked into the stimulus package money. Perhaps we could get a loan and start up a nice little business and hire a couple of people to work. Life would be great.
I soon found myself in telephone conversations with a fast-talking salesman from a company which helps businesses connect to Foundations which are giving away money. Not loans. Grants! I confess that I wasn't hopeful, because NOTHING we have tried since my job was eliminated (with half the department) back in 2002 has worked. Nothing. Everything has failed, even when it seemed there was no way it could fail. Pity.
Well yesterday the guy calls me all excited. He's been in contact with a couple of Foundations which like our idea. The total package: $76,000.
A lot of money, although realistically not so much as we would need as a startup company. Still, $76,000. Talk about a shot in the arm!
But there's always a catch, isn't there? And the catch this time was that in order for this company to help us "close the deal" with these Foundations we would have to "retain" them, much like one does a lawyer. The cost: $2,400. The catch? We're broke.
We got $3,000 back in taxes this year and shoved it into a new savings account to use when we find a new place to live. (Our house has been sold at sheriff's auction, and the only way we can continue living here past August is if we win the lottery or something.) But that is ALL of the money we have. If we retained this company, we would only have $600 left. Not enough to find any place anywhere. Should the Foundations choose against us, we would have virtually nothing with no way to get more.
We didn't even bother considering who might loan us the money. We're not that cruel anymore. We let my sister TWICE give us money - totalling more than $10,000 - to catch up on house payments, only to see the effort lost. The jobs I got to replace the one which was eliminated were also eliminated in massive reductions in staff. (Being the new boy on the block isn't always a good thing.) Now she doesn't have the money and in five months we won't have the house. She could lose her house because she was so generous to us. God I hope that does not happen. We won't let someone else make the same mistake. We shouldn't have let Judayl. I feel creepy every time I think about it. I can just imagine my thoughts toward someone else had I heard of this instead of lived it. Hypocrite, I am.
So saying no was easy. We need the money to find a place to live. That a Foundation is interested in us is no guarantee. For those of you who write, think of it like this: Telling the Foundations about us was like sending a query letter. Them being interested in us is like an agent/editor requesting the full manuscript. The book can still be rejected. There are no guarantees. Life doesn't give many good ones.
The sad thing, too, is that I really don't even know if this guy I talked with is on the up-and-up, or is part of a scam. There are news reports all the time now of scammers contacting people facing forclosure and telling them they can help if the homeowners will just give them so much money. The homeowners give the money and the scammers leave town. Many family have found themselves on the street because of these scammers. That's what's happened in our world. It's a predator feeding frenzy right now.
That also factored in our decsion. Contacting the Better Business Bureau proved to be of no help. They knew nothing of this company, which claims to have been in business since 1997. Well, anyone can claim anything. Maybe they're legit. Maybe not. It doesn't matter. We're not giving them our money.
So, we still have our $3,000, and that's good. But nothing's improved. And that's a pity.
Another couple may have chose other than how we did. They may have felt reckless, bold, confident, lucky, whatever. But Spouse and I are Midwesterners through-and-through. We both come from Scandanavian descent. Her roots are mostly from Germany. I have heavy German ancestry through my maternal grandfather, but I can also lay claim to Scottish, Dutch, and Jewish (just a smidgeon) blood. Mostly, I think I have Danish ancestry. (Based on my Daddy's appearance I've sometimes wondered if I don't have Native American roots. But as I have yet to find any documenation on his daddy - my daddy was illigitimate - I'm not sure.)
What was our decision?
Well, I had come up with the clever idea of operating a bookstore. I had found a distributor of overstock books, taken from stores which simply wished to get rid of an inventory, or which had gone out of business. Books could be purchased by the pound or, in some cases, for a dollar apiece. Children's hard-cover books would be a dollar each. But that's a good price! Think of it. One thousand hard-cover books for one thousand dollars. Each of those books would cost around ten dollars in the big time book stores such as Barnes and Noble and Borders. Even Amazon.com would charge near that. But we could sell them for two dollars each and do just fine. We could probably stock a store for less than $10,000 in inventory.
We also sell gift items, which includes toys. Having a children's book section which also had toys for sale would be wonderful, I think. We sell wooden trains, made in Vermont (which means no lead in the paint and such), musical dolls made in Iowa, and a variety of other toys. Since Spouse has spent the last five years working retail almost exclusively, we figured we would do well with such an enterprise. The problem would be money.
Since we already have the gift business we are registered with the State of Minnesota and have a Tax ID and everything. We're so small that we only have to submit sales tax in January of each year, but we're still considered a business. So, every week we get at least one phone call about advertising on-line, being listed in a phone directory, or offered a new deal on someone's new product. Lately, we have also been getting included on the stimulus package calls. Until this week I've ignored the automated calls and informed the real people who call that we are just a home business which is not very active any more. (We sell a few toy items through one of the retail stores Spouse works for. They get a 10% commission on everything we sell. We made $380 in December, $80 in January, $150 in February, and $150 in March. Before this we went two years without selling more than $400 total. Like I said, we're kind of inactive.)
But this past Monday I pushed the "magic button" on the telephone to get us hooked into the stimulus package money. Perhaps we could get a loan and start up a nice little business and hire a couple of people to work. Life would be great.
I soon found myself in telephone conversations with a fast-talking salesman from a company which helps businesses connect to Foundations which are giving away money. Not loans. Grants! I confess that I wasn't hopeful, because NOTHING we have tried since my job was eliminated (with half the department) back in 2002 has worked. Nothing. Everything has failed, even when it seemed there was no way it could fail. Pity.
Well yesterday the guy calls me all excited. He's been in contact with a couple of Foundations which like our idea. The total package: $76,000.
A lot of money, although realistically not so much as we would need as a startup company. Still, $76,000. Talk about a shot in the arm!
But there's always a catch, isn't there? And the catch this time was that in order for this company to help us "close the deal" with these Foundations we would have to "retain" them, much like one does a lawyer. The cost: $2,400. The catch? We're broke.
We got $3,000 back in taxes this year and shoved it into a new savings account to use when we find a new place to live. (Our house has been sold at sheriff's auction, and the only way we can continue living here past August is if we win the lottery or something.) But that is ALL of the money we have. If we retained this company, we would only have $600 left. Not enough to find any place anywhere. Should the Foundations choose against us, we would have virtually nothing with no way to get more.
We didn't even bother considering who might loan us the money. We're not that cruel anymore. We let my sister TWICE give us money - totalling more than $10,000 - to catch up on house payments, only to see the effort lost. The jobs I got to replace the one which was eliminated were also eliminated in massive reductions in staff. (Being the new boy on the block isn't always a good thing.) Now she doesn't have the money and in five months we won't have the house. She could lose her house because she was so generous to us. God I hope that does not happen. We won't let someone else make the same mistake. We shouldn't have let Judayl. I feel creepy every time I think about it. I can just imagine my thoughts toward someone else had I heard of this instead of lived it. Hypocrite, I am.
So saying no was easy. We need the money to find a place to live. That a Foundation is interested in us is no guarantee. For those of you who write, think of it like this: Telling the Foundations about us was like sending a query letter. Them being interested in us is like an agent/editor requesting the full manuscript. The book can still be rejected. There are no guarantees. Life doesn't give many good ones.
The sad thing, too, is that I really don't even know if this guy I talked with is on the up-and-up, or is part of a scam. There are news reports all the time now of scammers contacting people facing forclosure and telling them they can help if the homeowners will just give them so much money. The homeowners give the money and the scammers leave town. Many family have found themselves on the street because of these scammers. That's what's happened in our world. It's a predator feeding frenzy right now.
That also factored in our decsion. Contacting the Better Business Bureau proved to be of no help. They knew nothing of this company, which claims to have been in business since 1997. Well, anyone can claim anything. Maybe they're legit. Maybe not. It doesn't matter. We're not giving them our money.
So, we still have our $3,000, and that's good. But nothing's improved. And that's a pity.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Works in Progress
Today is "Writing Assignments" day. Originally, it mean Evil Editor exercises. That was when I didn't really have any other writing projects on my active burners. In fact, last fall my active burners were suffering from a noticeable loss of fuel supply.
Since the end of last October, when I began blogging with a single blog, A Voice in the Wind, things have changed, and changed again. The presence of new friends to fill the void which had become far larger than I realized has thawed the flow of fuel to my heart and mind and stories are once again jumping about like the sunfish on Little Wabanna Lake at dusk.
Only I am not so foolish as to try writing them all right away. There were a couple of ideas I got and talked about writing too soon. One was The Power of Music, but I jumped the gun on that one. It needed to "cook" a bit more before taking it out. So right now I've only got two active writing assignments - self-assigned. One is the write the query for Traitor. I've got a rough copy right now. I'll rework it after I finish my final reading. The other is Quest, which is my sequel to Apprentice. That was begun yesterday, but I got nothing done on it today. Too many interruptions. (Spouse was home. Sump pump burned out and the basement began to flood. I've been sick for three days. Put together three boxes of books.)
Got some potentially good news today, too. Not ready to post about it, though. One may turn out to be nothing and the other could turn out to be a hundred times worse than good if things go bad. Isn't that just the way life is right now? All new endeavors have become high risk.
Cest La Vie.
Since the end of last October, when I began blogging with a single blog, A Voice in the Wind, things have changed, and changed again. The presence of new friends to fill the void which had become far larger than I realized has thawed the flow of fuel to my heart and mind and stories are once again jumping about like the sunfish on Little Wabanna Lake at dusk.
Only I am not so foolish as to try writing them all right away. There were a couple of ideas I got and talked about writing too soon. One was The Power of Music, but I jumped the gun on that one. It needed to "cook" a bit more before taking it out. So right now I've only got two active writing assignments - self-assigned. One is the write the query for Traitor. I've got a rough copy right now. I'll rework it after I finish my final reading. The other is Quest, which is my sequel to Apprentice. That was begun yesterday, but I got nothing done on it today. Too many interruptions. (Spouse was home. Sump pump burned out and the basement began to flood. I've been sick for three days. Put together three boxes of books.)
Got some potentially good news today, too. Not ready to post about it, though. One may turn out to be nothing and the other could turn out to be a hundred times worse than good if things go bad. Isn't that just the way life is right now? All new endeavors have become high risk.
Cest La Vie.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Whale Watching
NOTE: Created a Watch Page for tracking my weight.
The goal is for me to drop my weight down to 230-250 pounds. I will post my daily weight (DW) and trend weight (TW) here. You then can monitor my progress and call me when my "trend" weight begins to move in the wrong direction.
The key is to watch "trend" and not "daily" weight.
NOTE: Trend weight shows how my weight is progressing over time. It's a semi-complicated formula I came across a number of years ago. That I weigh more today than yesterday does not matter, as long as it is still below the trend weight.
Let the counting begin!
Date. . . . . . . . . . . Daily Wt . Trend Wt
Monday, April 6, 2009 . . .378.8 . . .380.0
Sunday, April 5, 2009. . . 379.8. . . 380.2
Saturday, April 4, 2009 . .378.2 . . .380.2
The goal is for me to drop my weight down to 230-250 pounds. I will post my daily weight (DW) and trend weight (TW) here. You then can monitor my progress and call me when my "trend" weight begins to move in the wrong direction.
The key is to watch "trend" and not "daily" weight.
NOTE: Trend weight shows how my weight is progressing over time. It's a semi-complicated formula I came across a number of years ago. That I weigh more today than yesterday does not matter, as long as it is still below the trend weight.
Let the counting begin!
Date. . . . . . . . . . . Daily Wt . Trend Wt
Monday, April 6, 2009 . . .378.8 . . .380.0
Sunday, April 5, 2009. . . 379.8. . . 380.2
Saturday, April 4, 2009 . .378.2 . . .380.2
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
So, I've Got This Idea
Well, I get to brag myself up a bit. No, I mean it! I won something. Came in second place in a writing contest, and it means cookies for my belly. (If I can get to the mail before Son and Spouse do.)
Kiersten had a contest honoring her one year anniversary of blogging. The task was either to write why I visited her blog, or the first paragraph of her biography. I chose the latter and posted it on The Great Sea.
The contest reminded me of stories I used to write, beginning when I was in junior high and continuing to the 1990s. I also posted about that. See A New Hero Has Arisen.
What I'm thinking of doing is to create a weekly exercise - for myself and for any writers interested in participating. The idea is to create a SuperHero persona for ourselves (in my post, I suggested those with Avatar names like FairyHedgeHog and LaughingWolf already have these), and then write scenes in which our SuperHero is in action.
What I'm curious about is reader interest? How much is there? I've been writing these kinds of things off and on for more than thirty years and I get kick out of them. What do you think?
Oh, here is the site to get your SuperHero picture.
NOTE: Since everyone has assumed I am female, I decided to go with a female superhero. Here is mine:
Kiersten had a contest honoring her one year anniversary of blogging. The task was either to write why I visited her blog, or the first paragraph of her biography. I chose the latter and posted it on The Great Sea.
The contest reminded me of stories I used to write, beginning when I was in junior high and continuing to the 1990s. I also posted about that. See A New Hero Has Arisen.
What I'm thinking of doing is to create a weekly exercise - for myself and for any writers interested in participating. The idea is to create a SuperHero persona for ourselves (in my post, I suggested those with Avatar names like FairyHedgeHog and LaughingWolf already have these), and then write scenes in which our SuperHero is in action.
What I'm curious about is reader interest? How much is there? I've been writing these kinds of things off and on for more than thirty years and I get kick out of them. What do you think?
Oh, here is the site to get your SuperHero picture.
NOTE: Since everyone has assumed I am female, I decided to go with a female superhero. Here is mine:
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Remembering My Sister
So, I took a day off in order to let everyone catch up. I'll try to keep myself in check and avoid multiple post days in the future. Can't promise anything. Sometimes I just get carried away.
It's Saturday, which means I'm scheduled to writer either about Daddy or Stephen. But I found something I want to post instead. It's something I wrote shortly after Lynahr passed away. My siblings asked me to write something about her to be read at the service. I had thought to read it myself, but instead we had the pastor read it. That worked out best. He wasn't crying.
Lynahr
My first recollections of my sister begin when I was around five and she thirteen. Being younger I missed a lot of her life.
Helvie and I were the youngest, and often we were looked after by our older siblings, Mickey, Lynahr, and Judayl. Each did a fine job in their own right.
But there was one thing in particular about Lynahr’s approach which I have never forgotten: it was her instinctive knowledge of how to talk and deal with toddler age children. I saw this again when she lived with Spouse, Son, and me for several months when Son was two. Lynahr knows how to make toddlers feel happy again when things go wrong.
When I was a young toddler, I fell at least as often as anyone. Some say more. None say less. I don’t recall. Too many landings on my head, I guess.
But when I fell and was hurt and came looking for comfort and care, Lynahr was quick to help. And she had a special way of doing it. Lynahr had the “magic button.”
Actually, I wore the “magic button” on my little polo shirt. But I remember crying, and then watching in wondrous awe as Lynahr informed me that the “magic button” would make me feel better.
“And there it is!” she cried. “On your shirt!”
She reached out with her finger and rubbed the button on my shirt. And as I watched, she very carefully touched the elbow, or knee, or whatever had been bumped, and gently rubbed the magic in to make it feel better.
And amazing as it may sound, it worked! Nearly every time.
She told me the magic was with me always in that button. But I knew better. I knew it was the combination of Lynahr and that button which brought healing. No one else could do it. I remember trying it. I remember others trying it. But only when Lynahr was there could it work.
I have another recollection of Lynahr. This time the years have passed and I am now the thirteen-year-old. Lynahr is twenty-one and going through some tough times of her own. Tough times seemed to hunt Lynahr. But they can’t get her now. She’s safe.
But this was the summer when our house burned down. We lost virtually everything. The Red Cross helped us (added later: No, they didn’t. They gave us two boxes of chips and some water. I didn't realize this at the time and only found out at the funeral service when my family jumped all over my case for complimenting them for doing nothing. My family has never had good luck with "offiicial" organizations. It was the neighbors who gave us all the food and things.) And local residents made a collection and gave us some money to help buy clothing and things. And dad’s work made a collection of over a thousand dollars. I remember he was so proud of that.
Well, we went shopping. All of us. Even dad. We got new clothes. We got blankets and sheets for the bed. We got other things. We even got a few groceries to make supper. Then we went to the house which our builder rented to us while we rebuilt.
We were just settling in when a knock came at the door. I was coming up from the basement and saw it was Lynahr. She was carrying a box of groceries. She said she had more in the car. You see, Lynahr had the gift of helps. It was a treasure God gave her and she used it to bless the rest of us.
As Helvie went out and I took the box from Lynahr, Daddy reached into the box and pulled out some toilet paper and cried out, “Lynahr! Lynahr! Lynahr! You are a lifesaver. We completely forgot to buy toilet paper.”
I have no doubt we would have thought about that in time, but Lynahr took care of the need before it was too late.
These are things which I shall never forget about Lynahr. I think they speak volumes about who she is, and why when we think of her we think of a wonderful and caring woman.
But Lynahr wants us to remember her for her faith. I know this because she and I talked several times about what kind of “legacy” we would wish to leave. Lynahr’s was, and is, Christ. And I think that those of us who knew her even slightly would agree that her faith is very much something we think of when we think of Lynahr – before, and now, and later.
At the hospital, after she had left, we stood about her bed with a hospital chaplain. He asked if Lynahr had a favorite passage and we really weren’t sure what it would be. But there was a passage I wanted read for her, and I gave him this:
“For I am already on the point of being sacrificed; the time of my departure has come. I have fought the good fight. I have finished the race. I have kept the faith. Henceforth there is laid up for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous judge, will award to me on that Day, and not only to me but also to all who have loved his appearing.” 2 Timothy 4:6-8
I know it isn't always nice to push my faith on this blog - especially now that I created one expressly to do just that. (Faith in Forgiveness, if you're interested.) But it was part of what I wrote back in 2001, and it was what Lynahr wanted most to be rememberd for. Even people who had no regard for God remarked with appreciation how she held her faith to the last. I'll try to be better about this, too.
Lynahr died on September 11, 2001, from complications of a necrotized pancreas, two hours after the first tower fell in New York City. I comforted myself by saying all of those people needed a "Magic Button", and only Lynahr could make it work. She suffered for nine months before going home at last.
It's Saturday, which means I'm scheduled to writer either about Daddy or Stephen. But I found something I want to post instead. It's something I wrote shortly after Lynahr passed away. My siblings asked me to write something about her to be read at the service. I had thought to read it myself, but instead we had the pastor read it. That worked out best. He wasn't crying.
Lynahr
My first recollections of my sister begin when I was around five and she thirteen. Being younger I missed a lot of her life.
Helvie and I were the youngest, and often we were looked after by our older siblings, Mickey, Lynahr, and Judayl. Each did a fine job in their own right.
But there was one thing in particular about Lynahr’s approach which I have never forgotten: it was her instinctive knowledge of how to talk and deal with toddler age children. I saw this again when she lived with Spouse, Son, and me for several months when Son was two. Lynahr knows how to make toddlers feel happy again when things go wrong.
When I was a young toddler, I fell at least as often as anyone. Some say more. None say less. I don’t recall. Too many landings on my head, I guess.
But when I fell and was hurt and came looking for comfort and care, Lynahr was quick to help. And she had a special way of doing it. Lynahr had the “magic button.”
Actually, I wore the “magic button” on my little polo shirt. But I remember crying, and then watching in wondrous awe as Lynahr informed me that the “magic button” would make me feel better.
“And there it is!” she cried. “On your shirt!”
She reached out with her finger and rubbed the button on my shirt. And as I watched, she very carefully touched the elbow, or knee, or whatever had been bumped, and gently rubbed the magic in to make it feel better.
And amazing as it may sound, it worked! Nearly every time.
She told me the magic was with me always in that button. But I knew better. I knew it was the combination of Lynahr and that button which brought healing. No one else could do it. I remember trying it. I remember others trying it. But only when Lynahr was there could it work.
I have another recollection of Lynahr. This time the years have passed and I am now the thirteen-year-old. Lynahr is twenty-one and going through some tough times of her own. Tough times seemed to hunt Lynahr. But they can’t get her now. She’s safe.
But this was the summer when our house burned down. We lost virtually everything. The Red Cross helped us (added later: No, they didn’t. They gave us two boxes of chips and some water. I didn't realize this at the time and only found out at the funeral service when my family jumped all over my case for complimenting them for doing nothing. My family has never had good luck with "offiicial" organizations. It was the neighbors who gave us all the food and things.) And local residents made a collection and gave us some money to help buy clothing and things. And dad’s work made a collection of over a thousand dollars. I remember he was so proud of that.
Well, we went shopping. All of us. Even dad. We got new clothes. We got blankets and sheets for the bed. We got other things. We even got a few groceries to make supper. Then we went to the house which our builder rented to us while we rebuilt.
We were just settling in when a knock came at the door. I was coming up from the basement and saw it was Lynahr. She was carrying a box of groceries. She said she had more in the car. You see, Lynahr had the gift of helps. It was a treasure God gave her and she used it to bless the rest of us.
As Helvie went out and I took the box from Lynahr, Daddy reached into the box and pulled out some toilet paper and cried out, “Lynahr! Lynahr! Lynahr! You are a lifesaver. We completely forgot to buy toilet paper.”
I have no doubt we would have thought about that in time, but Lynahr took care of the need before it was too late.
These are things which I shall never forget about Lynahr. I think they speak volumes about who she is, and why when we think of her we think of a wonderful and caring woman.
But Lynahr wants us to remember her for her faith. I know this because she and I talked several times about what kind of “legacy” we would wish to leave. Lynahr’s was, and is, Christ. And I think that those of us who knew her even slightly would agree that her faith is very much something we think of when we think of Lynahr – before, and now, and later.
At the hospital, after she had left, we stood about her bed with a hospital chaplain. He asked if Lynahr had a favorite passage and we really weren’t sure what it would be. But there was a passage I wanted read for her, and I gave him this:
“For I am already on the point of being sacrificed; the time of my departure has come. I have fought the good fight. I have finished the race. I have kept the faith. Henceforth there is laid up for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous judge, will award to me on that Day, and not only to me but also to all who have loved his appearing.” 2 Timothy 4:6-8
I know it isn't always nice to push my faith on this blog - especially now that I created one expressly to do just that. (Faith in Forgiveness, if you're interested.) But it was part of what I wrote back in 2001, and it was what Lynahr wanted most to be rememberd for. Even people who had no regard for God remarked with appreciation how she held her faith to the last. I'll try to be better about this, too.
Lynahr died on September 11, 2001, from complications of a necrotized pancreas, two hours after the first tower fell in New York City. I comforted myself by saying all of those people needed a "Magic Button", and only Lynahr could make it work. She suffered for nine months before going home at last.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Inspired to Flight
Sorry if this is boring you, but the walk down memory lane is just so refreshing (to me). I just came across a letter I wrote which confirms most of the earliest Swords of Fire work no longer exist.
This post ideally belongs on SOF - The People, and I actually started it there, but it ties closely to my earlier post on this blog, I Saved the Knife. The letter appears to be a dedication. I'm going to transcribe part of it. (If you think I'm dramatic now, wait until you read this.) NOTE: The Endos are an obsolete idea.
The organizing and compiling of the records of Madatar and the Endo family began in the year 1974. Ten years later they were still nothing more than fragmented thoughts within my mind, having no way to escape their prison and so find themselves in print in one form or another. Several times I tried to begin the tedious work of putting the many differnt thoughts down on paper, but always I would give up and cease the work, destroying the efforts which I had labored over. I lacked the necessary motivation to finish a work with the required energy and drive. I doubted the interest of others in the records of Madatar and the Endos.
Then, nearly ten years after their beginnings, the records were subjected to yet another effort of will to be written once for all. An interesting twist came about this time, however, and I found myself with a reader who eagerly sought to learn more about the Endos and how their lives became intertwined with that of Madatar's. The records themselves could not be altered, but [I was given*] considerable aide in helping me to present the records in readable form. Thus, from simple outlines of rough copy, [I was*] helped (me) to share with any who held interest the fascinating world of The Great Sea. [The*] eagerness to hear me tell a tale of history was the needed motivation to put me on the road to finishing the work and completing and fulfilling a lifelong dream: to be a writer.
* = replacement text added today
My first reaction to this letter is that it is horribly written. My second reaction is that I owe a lot to the one who became the catalyst for so much of what I have written and aspired to write. Before this, the only work I can remember finishing was The Monsters, which I wrote a bit about on The Great Sea, What Came Before May Be What Comes Next. This work became one of the many destroyed pieces of my creativity.
When the friendship died, so (apparently) had my creativity. I talk about working for thirty years on Swords of Fire, but the truth is after 1988 I let it sit unattended for a good many years. I made myself content to live a dull life doing a dull job until such time that I just quietly died myself.
And then Stephen found me again.
Within a year of his return I was writing. I picked up Swords of Fire and tried correcting the flaws I found. It was hard. I had never done this work alone before, but all attempts at enlisting past help were met with excuses - or silence. Yet I had Stephen, and while he was no help whatsoever in helping me improve my story, he was still inspirational. I was happy to have him back in my life. I think I spent the first six months of our reunion apologizing for letting so many years pass. Finally, he told me to knock it off. He got the message.
When he died, once again my creativity went to sleep. But Stephen had left me with something to keep me going. Stephen made the rounds with all of his friends in the last month before his death, leaving each with their own private admonition. The last words he spoke to me went thus:
"Bevie, I want you to remember your friends. Never forget your friends. And keep writing, Bevie. Don't ever quit writing. Ever."
Stephen died by accident on April 4, 2000. Lynahr died on September 11, 2001. It would take until 2003 before I would again take up the keyboard. Stephen is not around to inspire, but his words remain. There is a phrase I said about myself back in the early 90s. I said it then as sarcasm. Now I think it is true.
I Am an Eagle. It's Time I Learned to Fly!
This post ideally belongs on SOF - The People, and I actually started it there, but it ties closely to my earlier post on this blog, I Saved the Knife. The letter appears to be a dedication. I'm going to transcribe part of it. (If you think I'm dramatic now, wait until you read this.) NOTE: The Endos are an obsolete idea.
The organizing and compiling of the records of Madatar and the Endo family began in the year 1974. Ten years later they were still nothing more than fragmented thoughts within my mind, having no way to escape their prison and so find themselves in print in one form or another. Several times I tried to begin the tedious work of putting the many differnt thoughts down on paper, but always I would give up and cease the work, destroying the efforts which I had labored over. I lacked the necessary motivation to finish a work with the required energy and drive. I doubted the interest of others in the records of Madatar and the Endos.
Then, nearly ten years after their beginnings, the records were subjected to yet another effort of will to be written once for all. An interesting twist came about this time, however, and I found myself with a reader who eagerly sought to learn more about the Endos and how their lives became intertwined with that of Madatar's. The records themselves could not be altered, but [I was given*] considerable aide in helping me to present the records in readable form. Thus, from simple outlines of rough copy, [I was*] helped (me) to share with any who held interest the fascinating world of The Great Sea. [The*] eagerness to hear me tell a tale of history was the needed motivation to put me on the road to finishing the work and completing and fulfilling a lifelong dream: to be a writer.
* = replacement text added today
My first reaction to this letter is that it is horribly written. My second reaction is that I owe a lot to the one who became the catalyst for so much of what I have written and aspired to write. Before this, the only work I can remember finishing was The Monsters, which I wrote a bit about on The Great Sea, What Came Before May Be What Comes Next. This work became one of the many destroyed pieces of my creativity.
When the friendship died, so (apparently) had my creativity. I talk about working for thirty years on Swords of Fire, but the truth is after 1988 I let it sit unattended for a good many years. I made myself content to live a dull life doing a dull job until such time that I just quietly died myself.
And then Stephen found me again.
Within a year of his return I was writing. I picked up Swords of Fire and tried correcting the flaws I found. It was hard. I had never done this work alone before, but all attempts at enlisting past help were met with excuses - or silence. Yet I had Stephen, and while he was no help whatsoever in helping me improve my story, he was still inspirational. I was happy to have him back in my life. I think I spent the first six months of our reunion apologizing for letting so many years pass. Finally, he told me to knock it off. He got the message.
When he died, once again my creativity went to sleep. But Stephen had left me with something to keep me going. Stephen made the rounds with all of his friends in the last month before his death, leaving each with their own private admonition. The last words he spoke to me went thus:
"Bevie, I want you to remember your friends. Never forget your friends. And keep writing, Bevie. Don't ever quit writing. Ever."
Stephen died by accident on April 4, 2000. Lynahr died on September 11, 2001. It would take until 2003 before I would again take up the keyboard. Stephen is not around to inspire, but his words remain. There is a phrase I said about myself back in the early 90s. I said it then as sarcasm. Now I think it is true.
I Am an Eagle. It's Time I Learned to Fly!
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
The Insanity of a Dream - Why the H*ll Not
Came across something else in The Archives I find interesting. It's a copy of a PERSONAL APPRAISAL test I took back in 2000. Basically, it's a test which indicates the kind of work a person should be doing in order to fulfill themselves.
I find these tests interesting because I've taken six or more of them over the years, and the kinds of work which show up in positions two and beyond always change based on what's going on in my life at any given moment. Position one, however, has not changed since I was sixteen years old and took the first of these. According to all of these tests, what I really want to do with my life is: be in entertainment. This particular test lists five areas of entertainment for me:
Rhythmics: dancing, ballet; precision of movement (What? Are they out of their minds?)
Amusment/Entertainment: physical, gymnastics, sports (Not with this body.)
Musical, Creative: compose, arrange, improvise (If only I could.)
Creative Writing: author; imagination, vocabulary (Now we're talking.)
Instructive, Fine Arts: drama, art, music (Yes, yes, yes.)
I really think I missed my calling in life. I should have cast fear aside and set out to establish a career in entertainment when I was young and had no financial (or physical) needs. Now, it's going to be much harder. But it's what I'm going to shoot for. There isn't much I have left to lose by trying. Right? As long as Spouse and Son stay with me I'll be fine. And I need to keep my Archives. Got to keep The Archives.
As I indicated above, the current state of my body makes some of those artistic possibilities impossible. It's a bit late to be learning about music, but I have my bass. And I plan to buy another harp one day (when I can afford it). I never should have sold the one I had. Found my harp music, too! I kept it! Good going, Bevie. I did look into what I have to do to become an "extra" in commercials and films. Did that last year. The big block is that I have to pay dues. Monthly dues. Based on the rate of pay for being an extra I would only have to work on four or five commercials/films in a year to pay the dues, but the likelihood of getting that many jobs in a year is incredibly slim. (They were honest and admitted that flat out up front. Especially since I'm not exactly beautiful anymore. It could be as much as six months between jobs until such time - if ever - that one was "discovered" and used with greater and greater frequency.) In all honesty, if I could afford the monthly dues I'd do it anyway. But we can't afford that kind of dreaming.
Which leaves me with my writing. Which is just fine with me. I like to write stories. (Just go look at the list of books and plays I listed from The Archives on The Great Sea over the past two days. And I've found another list even longer today! At one time I had over 100 books, short stories, and plays on tap to write. Then I put them in The Archives and they were mostly forgotten. Until now. That was the beginning of The Sad Days, which lasted for years, until this year, when things have begun to turn around wonderfully. I have friends again! Did you know that? Of course you do. That's who you are. Sorry. I'm babbling.)
I'm going to try and earn some money selling things I write. In the meantime, I have to find something else some company (and my body) will allow me to do for money. Duluth has several small theatre companies. I'm going to contact some of those and see if they are hiring for anything. Anything. To be near a theatre - and be paid for it - would be wonderful. In time, I might even find myself auditioning for a play or two. Who knows? Might even see one I wrote show up on stage. Probably not Broadway, but maybe Duluth? (Actually, Minneapolis is a bit of a hotbed for theatre, too. We have The Guthrie, and Chanhassen Dinner Theatre - I can cook, and The Orpheum. A long drive to get to work, but it would be worth it. Up to now I've been afraid to even try. But now that I've nothing to lose, what the h*ll? Right? I can only hear them laugh while I'm there.)
Who knows? Crazy thoughts? Perhaps. But remember: I'm old and poor now. It's all right for me to be a little crazy. Right?
I find these tests interesting because I've taken six or more of them over the years, and the kinds of work which show up in positions two and beyond always change based on what's going on in my life at any given moment. Position one, however, has not changed since I was sixteen years old and took the first of these. According to all of these tests, what I really want to do with my life is: be in entertainment. This particular test lists five areas of entertainment for me:
Rhythmics: dancing, ballet; precision of movement (What? Are they out of their minds?)
Amusment/Entertainment: physical, gymnastics, sports (Not with this body.)
Musical, Creative: compose, arrange, improvise (If only I could.)
Creative Writing: author; imagination, vocabulary (Now we're talking.)
Instructive, Fine Arts: drama, art, music (Yes, yes, yes.)
I really think I missed my calling in life. I should have cast fear aside and set out to establish a career in entertainment when I was young and had no financial (or physical) needs. Now, it's going to be much harder. But it's what I'm going to shoot for. There isn't much I have left to lose by trying. Right? As long as Spouse and Son stay with me I'll be fine. And I need to keep my Archives. Got to keep The Archives.
As I indicated above, the current state of my body makes some of those artistic possibilities impossible. It's a bit late to be learning about music, but I have my bass. And I plan to buy another harp one day (when I can afford it). I never should have sold the one I had. Found my harp music, too! I kept it! Good going, Bevie. I did look into what I have to do to become an "extra" in commercials and films. Did that last year. The big block is that I have to pay dues. Monthly dues. Based on the rate of pay for being an extra I would only have to work on four or five commercials/films in a year to pay the dues, but the likelihood of getting that many jobs in a year is incredibly slim. (They were honest and admitted that flat out up front. Especially since I'm not exactly beautiful anymore. It could be as much as six months between jobs until such time - if ever - that one was "discovered" and used with greater and greater frequency.) In all honesty, if I could afford the monthly dues I'd do it anyway. But we can't afford that kind of dreaming.
Which leaves me with my writing. Which is just fine with me. I like to write stories. (Just go look at the list of books and plays I listed from The Archives on The Great Sea over the past two days. And I've found another list even longer today! At one time I had over 100 books, short stories, and plays on tap to write. Then I put them in The Archives and they were mostly forgotten. Until now. That was the beginning of The Sad Days, which lasted for years, until this year, when things have begun to turn around wonderfully. I have friends again! Did you know that? Of course you do. That's who you are. Sorry. I'm babbling.)
I'm going to try and earn some money selling things I write. In the meantime, I have to find something else some company (and my body) will allow me to do for money. Duluth has several small theatre companies. I'm going to contact some of those and see if they are hiring for anything. Anything. To be near a theatre - and be paid for it - would be wonderful. In time, I might even find myself auditioning for a play or two. Who knows? Might even see one I wrote show up on stage. Probably not Broadway, but maybe Duluth? (Actually, Minneapolis is a bit of a hotbed for theatre, too. We have The Guthrie, and Chanhassen Dinner Theatre - I can cook, and The Orpheum. A long drive to get to work, but it would be worth it. Up to now I've been afraid to even try. But now that I've nothing to lose, what the h*ll? Right? I can only hear them laugh while I'm there.)
Who knows? Crazy thoughts? Perhaps. But remember: I'm old and poor now. It's all right for me to be a little crazy. Right?
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Defining Me, If It is at All Within My Power to Do
Who am I? What have I been and where have I been? Where am I now and where am I going? Am I who I want to be? What changes must I make to achieve my goal of being "a right person before God"?
These are questions I think we all (or at least most of us) ask ourselves in various ways at various times in our lives. I happen to be at an interesting intersection of life in which so many questions about myself have raised themselves and insist upon an answer. Some answer require some serious thought. They all require serious honesty, and not flippant answers of correctness.
We are told by God that he will "shake the heavens and the earth" (Hebrews 12:26-27). I believe this will ultimately be fulfilled literally at some future date, but I also believe it speaks about other things. Us, for one. Who are we, and what do we really believe? You see, I have found in my past that it is easy to say I believe a great many things when there is no pressure to believe, only to find out my behavior changes dramatically when I found myself "put to it".
There have been times (more than I am comfortable admitting to) that I boasted of my bravery in standing fast and true for a friend, or cause. Then, when I found myself personally threatened by such bravery, I abandoned my friend or cause in order to save my own skin. Strangely enough, I have also found the opposite to be true. I have assured friends NOT to count on me should such and such occur, and then find myself at the forefront of disaster in order to help. This kind of behavior puts both my bravery and cowardice in question. I'm not sure what I am.
What I can say is being older helps. Having survived various calamities in my past, I can face current calamities with a different perspective. Some see this new attitude of mine as foolish, lazy, stupid, and childish. Others see it as a form of wisdom, strength, courage, or faith. I don't know what it is. I just know that what we believe will one day be tested for its truth.
Probably the most frightening thing to have tested is faith. The three women who wrote The Faith Club, Ranya Idliby, Suzanne Oliver, and Priscilla Warner, found this to be true, although they did not go through it at the same time. It was like each had her turn, and the other two became the support for the one in challenge.
I have had my own testing of faith. That is part of what I have been going through for these past seven years. Actually, it is what has been going on all of my life, but these past seven years seem to have put special focus on what I believe about God. Particularly with regard to his love for me, and whether he does, in fact, make "all things work together for good".
It is frightening to wonder about one's faith. I mean really wonder, not just wonder. It's kind of like what Peter said to Jesus when more and more disciples deserted him.
From that time many of His disciples went back and walked with Him no more. Then Jesus said to the twelve, "Do you also want to go away?" But Simon Peter answered Him, "Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life." John 6:66-67 New King James Version
If we do not believe in God, then what is there to believe in that matters?
I read another portion of the Quran this morning, and while what I read does not explicitly address this, it does point to a part of my character I find disturbing. Hypocrisy. I wrote about it on Faith in Forgiveness. But this is what I read this morning.
2- The Heifer (Al-Baqarah)
[2:99] We have sent down to you such clear revelations, and only the wicked will reject them.
[2:100] Is it not a fact that when they make a covenant and pledge to keep it, some of them always disregard it? In fact, most of them do not believe.
I do not wish to be a hyprocrite, but it sometimes seems so hard not to be. I preach a level of love, forgiveness, and acceptance which I do not always live up to. Particularly when it comes to family.
Examples:
My mother is recovering from cancer surgery. She lives alone in an apartment building reserved for the elderly. She has many physical restrictions upon her. She called me earlier this week to request that I come and do some driving errands, as well as do her laundry. I didn't do it. My excuse? A forty mile drive to get there, and a forty mile drive to get home. It would be cheaper, and make more sense, for her neighbors (who are falling over themselves to help her) to do these errands. Which is what happened. But the truth is, I did not want to do these things for my mother. A family history (which I will not go into now) has conditioned me to instinctively keep my distance. (Hence, I live forty miles away.) Not exactly loving, am I?
Spouse's father died on Thursday. The funeral services were today in Milwaukee. We didn't go. It was Spouse's decision, but that decision was based partly on me. You see, while I was perfectly content to drive to Milwaukee, spend the night in a hotel, and drive home the following day; or even drive to Milwaukee, attend the funeral, and then drive home the same day, there was something I was not willing to do. Spend the night in the home of an in-law. Not that I don't like them. In fact, I think some of them are the most wonderful people I know. But they don't particularly like me. Never have. And during the past seven years they have made that quite clear. In fact, I would not have been spending the night in my in-law's house. Spouse and Son would have. My in-law's plan was that I spend the night in a hotel. I got angry and made a scene. (This was done at home, without in-law knowledge.) After I apologized to Spouse, Spouse decided not to go. Wanted to avoid the inevitable confrontation between siblings and me (when it became clear none of us would be spending the night in her home). Not exactly forgiving and accepting, am I?
Why do I confess these things?
Because one of my big fears is that I am nothing more than a hypocrite. I have watched more than one preacher rail against this sin or that, and then be exposed for it himself/herself. It's disgusting. I don't want to be disgusting. But I kind of think I am sometimes.
So what about faith in general and my faith in particular? This is what I believe.
Faith is like an ocean. Rivers of fear pour into it. We are creatures of water who can abide in either fresh water or salt water. But brakken is difficult. Where faith meets fear is the estuary of brakken. We must choose to go one way or the other. We always choose the side which is strongest. When fear is stronger, we flee to the Rivers of Fear. When faith is stronger, we dive into the Ocean of Faith. Both faith and fear are tested in the Waters of Brakken. It's an awful place to be, but necessary if we are to grow.
Having been there regarding my faith in God I can say I chose the ocean. The base tenents of my faith are what I believe. God loves us. God forgives us. God paid the price for our sins (I believe through Jesus's death on the cross, but I accept others believe God used a different means) to do this. God loves and forgives everyone, so we should, too. That's easy for me to say. But then I have the issues with my mother and my in-laws.
It turns out I do not preach from above, but rather from below.
These are questions I think we all (or at least most of us) ask ourselves in various ways at various times in our lives. I happen to be at an interesting intersection of life in which so many questions about myself have raised themselves and insist upon an answer. Some answer require some serious thought. They all require serious honesty, and not flippant answers of correctness.
We are told by God that he will "shake the heavens and the earth" (Hebrews 12:26-27). I believe this will ultimately be fulfilled literally at some future date, but I also believe it speaks about other things. Us, for one. Who are we, and what do we really believe? You see, I have found in my past that it is easy to say I believe a great many things when there is no pressure to believe, only to find out my behavior changes dramatically when I found myself "put to it".
There have been times (more than I am comfortable admitting to) that I boasted of my bravery in standing fast and true for a friend, or cause. Then, when I found myself personally threatened by such bravery, I abandoned my friend or cause in order to save my own skin. Strangely enough, I have also found the opposite to be true. I have assured friends NOT to count on me should such and such occur, and then find myself at the forefront of disaster in order to help. This kind of behavior puts both my bravery and cowardice in question. I'm not sure what I am.
What I can say is being older helps. Having survived various calamities in my past, I can face current calamities with a different perspective. Some see this new attitude of mine as foolish, lazy, stupid, and childish. Others see it as a form of wisdom, strength, courage, or faith. I don't know what it is. I just know that what we believe will one day be tested for its truth.
Probably the most frightening thing to have tested is faith. The three women who wrote The Faith Club, Ranya Idliby, Suzanne Oliver, and Priscilla Warner, found this to be true, although they did not go through it at the same time. It was like each had her turn, and the other two became the support for the one in challenge.
I have had my own testing of faith. That is part of what I have been going through for these past seven years. Actually, it is what has been going on all of my life, but these past seven years seem to have put special focus on what I believe about God. Particularly with regard to his love for me, and whether he does, in fact, make "all things work together for good".
It is frightening to wonder about one's faith. I mean really wonder, not just wonder. It's kind of like what Peter said to Jesus when more and more disciples deserted him.
From that time many of His disciples went back and walked with Him no more. Then Jesus said to the twelve, "Do you also want to go away?" But Simon Peter answered Him, "Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life." John 6:66-67 New King James Version
If we do not believe in God, then what is there to believe in that matters?
I read another portion of the Quran this morning, and while what I read does not explicitly address this, it does point to a part of my character I find disturbing. Hypocrisy. I wrote about it on Faith in Forgiveness. But this is what I read this morning.
2- The Heifer (Al-Baqarah)
[2:99] We have sent down to you such clear revelations, and only the wicked will reject them.
[2:100] Is it not a fact that when they make a covenant and pledge to keep it, some of them always disregard it? In fact, most of them do not believe.
I do not wish to be a hyprocrite, but it sometimes seems so hard not to be. I preach a level of love, forgiveness, and acceptance which I do not always live up to. Particularly when it comes to family.
Examples:
My mother is recovering from cancer surgery. She lives alone in an apartment building reserved for the elderly. She has many physical restrictions upon her. She called me earlier this week to request that I come and do some driving errands, as well as do her laundry. I didn't do it. My excuse? A forty mile drive to get there, and a forty mile drive to get home. It would be cheaper, and make more sense, for her neighbors (who are falling over themselves to help her) to do these errands. Which is what happened. But the truth is, I did not want to do these things for my mother. A family history (which I will not go into now) has conditioned me to instinctively keep my distance. (Hence, I live forty miles away.) Not exactly loving, am I?
Spouse's father died on Thursday. The funeral services were today in Milwaukee. We didn't go. It was Spouse's decision, but that decision was based partly on me. You see, while I was perfectly content to drive to Milwaukee, spend the night in a hotel, and drive home the following day; or even drive to Milwaukee, attend the funeral, and then drive home the same day, there was something I was not willing to do. Spend the night in the home of an in-law. Not that I don't like them. In fact, I think some of them are the most wonderful people I know. But they don't particularly like me. Never have. And during the past seven years they have made that quite clear. In fact, I would not have been spending the night in my in-law's house. Spouse and Son would have. My in-law's plan was that I spend the night in a hotel. I got angry and made a scene. (This was done at home, without in-law knowledge.) After I apologized to Spouse, Spouse decided not to go. Wanted to avoid the inevitable confrontation between siblings and me (when it became clear none of us would be spending the night in her home). Not exactly forgiving and accepting, am I?
Why do I confess these things?
Because one of my big fears is that I am nothing more than a hypocrite. I have watched more than one preacher rail against this sin or that, and then be exposed for it himself/herself. It's disgusting. I don't want to be disgusting. But I kind of think I am sometimes.
So what about faith in general and my faith in particular? This is what I believe.
Faith is like an ocean. Rivers of fear pour into it. We are creatures of water who can abide in either fresh water or salt water. But brakken is difficult. Where faith meets fear is the estuary of brakken. We must choose to go one way or the other. We always choose the side which is strongest. When fear is stronger, we flee to the Rivers of Fear. When faith is stronger, we dive into the Ocean of Faith. Both faith and fear are tested in the Waters of Brakken. It's an awful place to be, but necessary if we are to grow.
Having been there regarding my faith in God I can say I chose the ocean. The base tenents of my faith are what I believe. God loves us. God forgives us. God paid the price for our sins (I believe through Jesus's death on the cross, but I accept others believe God used a different means) to do this. God loves and forgives everyone, so we should, too. That's easy for me to say. But then I have the issues with my mother and my in-laws.
It turns out I do not preach from above, but rather from below.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
It Seems to Say the Same Thing
Ek het jou lief
Ana Behibak (to a male)
Ana Behibek (to a female)
Ngo oi ney
Wo ie ni (Manderin, Cantonese)
Jeg elsker dig
Ik hou van jou
Je t'aime
Ta gra agam ort
Ich liebe Dich
aNEE oHEIVET oTKHA (female to male)
aNEE oHEIV otAKH (male to female)
Ani ohev at (man to woman)
Ani ohevet atah (woman to man)
taim i' ngra leat
Kimi o ai shiteru
Ayor anosh'ni
Muje se mu habbat hai
Techihhila
I love you
Those are just a few of the many ways to say "I love you". Each way is from a different language. Some I knew (very few), and some I don't know that I can even pronounce accurately. But they all say the same thing.
What's my point?
I started reading an English translation of the Quran this morning. I got it from this website. The translator is one Dr. Rashad Khalifa, who is supposed to have done an excellent job. (But then what would they advertise, right?) I don't know. I am willing to trust he is until told otherwise.
For those of you familiar with the Quran, please forgive a fool's efforts to speak.
I didn't read far before I recognized that the messages in 1- The Key (Al-Fatiha) and 2- The Heifer (Al-Baqarah follow the same teaching as in my Bible. The Quran just says it differently.
I confess I only read to 2:39, but I found myself comforted by the familiarity of the messages. The Key acknowledges God and his greatness, majesty, and holiness.
1:1] In the name of GOD, Most Gracious, Most Merciful.
[1:2] Praise be to GOD, Lord of the universe.
[1:3] Most Gracious, Most Merciful.
[1:4] Master of the Day of Judgment.
[1:5] You alone we worship; You alone we ask for help.
[1:6] Guide us in the right path:
[1:7] the path of those whom You blessed; not of those who have deserved wrath, nor of the strayers.
Does this not provide the same (or at least similar) message as Psalm 8?
O LORD, our Lord. How excellent is Your name in all the earth. Who have set Your glory above the heavens! Out of the mouth of babes and nursing infants You have ordained strength. because of Your enemies, that You may silence the enemy and the avenger. When I consider Your heavens, the work of Your fingers, the moon and the stars, which You have ordained, what is man that You are mindful of him, and the son of man that You visit him? Psalm 8:1-4
Early in The Heifer we find the message of faith.
2:1] A.L.M.
[2:2] This scripture is infallible; a beacon for the righteous;
[2:3] who believe in the unseen, observe the Contact Prayers (Salat), and from our provisions to them, they give to charity.
[2:4] And they believe in what was revealed to you, and in what was revealed before you, and with regard to the Hereafter, they are absolutely certain.
[2:5] These are guided by their Lord; these are the winners.
[2:6] As for those who disbelieve, it is the same for them; whether you warn them, or not warn them, they cannot believe.
[2:7] GOD seals their minds and their hearing, and their eyes are veiled. They have incurred severe retribution.
During our family Bible time this morning we read the same message in 1 Corinthians.
For what man knows the things of a man except the spirit of hte man which is in him? Even so no one knows the things of God except the Spirit of God. Now we have received not the spirit of the world, but th Spirit who is from God, that we might know the things that have been frely given to us by God. These things we also speak, not in words which man's wisdom teaches but with the Holy Spirit teaches, comparing spiritual things with spiritual. But the natural man does not receive the things of the Spirit of God, for they are foolishness to him; nor can he know them, because they are spiritually discerned. 1 Corinthians 2:11-14
The Quran is for the Muslim faith. The Psalms come from the Jewish faith. Corinthians comes from the Christian faith.
It is comforting to me to read from each of these faiths and discover the message is the same. We are siblings. Even if we don't always get along. But isn't that just like siblings?
Praise be to God. To Yahweh. To Allah.
If I have offended by trespassing where I ought not to have gone, please forgive me. But let me know, too. My intent is simply to show we belong together as a healthy family which supports all members, and not as warring factions out to kill each other.
Ana Behibak (to a male)
Ana Behibek (to a female)
Ngo oi ney
Wo ie ni (Manderin, Cantonese)
Jeg elsker dig
Ik hou van jou
Je t'aime
Ta gra agam ort
Ich liebe Dich
aNEE oHEIVET oTKHA (female to male)
aNEE oHEIV otAKH (male to female)
Ani ohev at (man to woman)
Ani ohevet atah (woman to man)
taim i' ngra leat
Kimi o ai shiteru
Ayor anosh'ni
Muje se mu habbat hai
Techihhila
I love you
Those are just a few of the many ways to say "I love you". Each way is from a different language. Some I knew (very few), and some I don't know that I can even pronounce accurately. But they all say the same thing.
What's my point?
I started reading an English translation of the Quran this morning. I got it from this website. The translator is one Dr. Rashad Khalifa, who is supposed to have done an excellent job. (But then what would they advertise, right?) I don't know. I am willing to trust he is until told otherwise.
For those of you familiar with the Quran, please forgive a fool's efforts to speak.
I didn't read far before I recognized that the messages in 1- The Key (Al-Fatiha) and 2- The Heifer (Al-Baqarah follow the same teaching as in my Bible. The Quran just says it differently.
I confess I only read to 2:39, but I found myself comforted by the familiarity of the messages. The Key acknowledges God and his greatness, majesty, and holiness.
1:1] In the name of GOD, Most Gracious, Most Merciful.
[1:2] Praise be to GOD, Lord of the universe.
[1:3] Most Gracious, Most Merciful.
[1:4] Master of the Day of Judgment.
[1:5] You alone we worship; You alone we ask for help.
[1:6] Guide us in the right path:
[1:7] the path of those whom You blessed; not of those who have deserved wrath, nor of the strayers.
Does this not provide the same (or at least similar) message as Psalm 8?
O LORD, our Lord. How excellent is Your name in all the earth. Who have set Your glory above the heavens! Out of the mouth of babes and nursing infants You have ordained strength. because of Your enemies, that You may silence the enemy and the avenger. When I consider Your heavens, the work of Your fingers, the moon and the stars, which You have ordained, what is man that You are mindful of him, and the son of man that You visit him? Psalm 8:1-4
Early in The Heifer we find the message of faith.
2:1] A.L.M.
[2:2] This scripture is infallible; a beacon for the righteous;
[2:3] who believe in the unseen, observe the Contact Prayers (Salat), and from our provisions to them, they give to charity.
[2:4] And they believe in what was revealed to you, and in what was revealed before you, and with regard to the Hereafter, they are absolutely certain.
[2:5] These are guided by their Lord; these are the winners.
[2:6] As for those who disbelieve, it is the same for them; whether you warn them, or not warn them, they cannot believe.
[2:7] GOD seals their minds and their hearing, and their eyes are veiled. They have incurred severe retribution.
During our family Bible time this morning we read the same message in 1 Corinthians.
For what man knows the things of a man except the spirit of hte man which is in him? Even so no one knows the things of God except the Spirit of God. Now we have received not the spirit of the world, but th Spirit who is from God, that we might know the things that have been frely given to us by God. These things we also speak, not in words which man's wisdom teaches but with the Holy Spirit teaches, comparing spiritual things with spiritual. But the natural man does not receive the things of the Spirit of God, for they are foolishness to him; nor can he know them, because they are spiritually discerned. 1 Corinthians 2:11-14
The Quran is for the Muslim faith. The Psalms come from the Jewish faith. Corinthians comes from the Christian faith.
It is comforting to me to read from each of these faiths and discover the message is the same. We are siblings. Even if we don't always get along. But isn't that just like siblings?
Praise be to God. To Yahweh. To Allah.
If I have offended by trespassing where I ought not to have gone, please forgive me. But let me know, too. My intent is simply to show we belong together as a healthy family which supports all members, and not as warring factions out to kill each other.
Friday, February 20, 2009
The Way Sports Are Meant to be Played
I'm supposed to write about books, movies, or music today, but since I hardly ever stick to the schedule anyway why should today be different?
I came across something which I would like to share. Perhaps you are already aware of it. It is a news story out of Milwaukee, WI. It is about something that took place during a high school basketball game. Here is the link to the story I read.
For those of you who can't read the link here is what happened.
The Dekalb, IL, boys basketball team went to Milwaukee, WI., to play a basketball game. The game was held up an hour by reason that the mother of one of the Milwaukee players had died that day of cervical cancer. The coach was going to cancel the game, but the boy said he wanted his teammates to play. So the game went on.
In the second quarter the boy who's mother had died came to cheer his teammates on. The game was delayed while many hugs and well-wishes were expressed. Then the coach offered to let the boy sit on the bench and watch. He asked if he could play. This created a problem. According to the rules, that would be a technical foul, and Dekalb would be granted two free throws. The coach didn't care. He put the boy in.
But Dekalb didn't want the free throws. Not for this. So their coach argued with the referees. The referees were in a bad spot. Making exception for rules is not in the rule book. The foul had to be assessed and the free throws taken.
This is what happened according to the news link:
Something else was on Dave Rohlman's (coach of Dekalb) mind when he asked for a volunteer to shoot two free throws awarded his team on a technical foul in the second quarter. His senior captain raised his hand, ready to go to the line as he had many times before.
Only this time it was different.
"You realize you're going to miss them, don't you?" Rohlman said.
Darius McNeal nodded his head. He understood what had to be done.
He went alone to the free throw line, dribbled the ball a couple of times, and looked at the rim. His first attempt went about two feet, bouncing a couple of times as it rolled toward the end line. The second barely left his hand.
It didn't take long for the Milwaukee players to figure out what was going on. They stood and turned toward the DeKalb bench and started applauding the gesture of sportsmanship. Soon, so did everybody in the stands.
This is the way I remember sports being played when I was young. You played to win. Always. You did your best. Except when making statements such as this. At times like this, your best was actually to fail.
For some, perhaps, the gesture was meaningless. If it is for you, then I expect you don't really understand what took place.
In our culture now, and in most cultures where sports heroes reign as gods (such as our own), winning is everything. It doesn't matter how it is done. Take steroids. Ignore the rules. Maim and hurt. Do anything you can to win. Nothing else matters any more in sports. If you are a sports god, you can break civil laws left and right - until your godly powers fade. Then you are tossed away.
This is what is taught at every level of sport in our country. But not everwhere.
What the Dekalb team was saying with their gesture of missed free throws was that this hateful attitude of sports was not part of their game. They understand. A teenage boy and his mother are more important than winning. And that brings tears to my eyes, just knowing that that spirit is still alive at least someplace in this country.
I understand neither team will finish the season with a winning record. And for the winning-conscious, that is all the proof they need that good sportsmanship is a waste of time. If it doesn't help you win, then why do it?
But these boys did win. All of them. On both teams. Coaches, too. And the referees, scorekeeper, and the people who sat in the bleachers watching. They all won.
"They may not remember our record 20 years from now, but they'll remember what happened in that gym that night." Dave Rohlman, head coach of the opposing DeKalb team on what his players will take away from this experience.
I came across something which I would like to share. Perhaps you are already aware of it. It is a news story out of Milwaukee, WI. It is about something that took place during a high school basketball game. Here is the link to the story I read.
For those of you who can't read the link here is what happened.
The Dekalb, IL, boys basketball team went to Milwaukee, WI., to play a basketball game. The game was held up an hour by reason that the mother of one of the Milwaukee players had died that day of cervical cancer. The coach was going to cancel the game, but the boy said he wanted his teammates to play. So the game went on.
In the second quarter the boy who's mother had died came to cheer his teammates on. The game was delayed while many hugs and well-wishes were expressed. Then the coach offered to let the boy sit on the bench and watch. He asked if he could play. This created a problem. According to the rules, that would be a technical foul, and Dekalb would be granted two free throws. The coach didn't care. He put the boy in.
But Dekalb didn't want the free throws. Not for this. So their coach argued with the referees. The referees were in a bad spot. Making exception for rules is not in the rule book. The foul had to be assessed and the free throws taken.
This is what happened according to the news link:
Something else was on Dave Rohlman's (coach of Dekalb) mind when he asked for a volunteer to shoot two free throws awarded his team on a technical foul in the second quarter. His senior captain raised his hand, ready to go to the line as he had many times before.
Only this time it was different.
"You realize you're going to miss them, don't you?" Rohlman said.
Darius McNeal nodded his head. He understood what had to be done.
He went alone to the free throw line, dribbled the ball a couple of times, and looked at the rim. His first attempt went about two feet, bouncing a couple of times as it rolled toward the end line. The second barely left his hand.
It didn't take long for the Milwaukee players to figure out what was going on. They stood and turned toward the DeKalb bench and started applauding the gesture of sportsmanship. Soon, so did everybody in the stands.
This is the way I remember sports being played when I was young. You played to win. Always. You did your best. Except when making statements such as this. At times like this, your best was actually to fail.
For some, perhaps, the gesture was meaningless. If it is for you, then I expect you don't really understand what took place.
In our culture now, and in most cultures where sports heroes reign as gods (such as our own), winning is everything. It doesn't matter how it is done. Take steroids. Ignore the rules. Maim and hurt. Do anything you can to win. Nothing else matters any more in sports. If you are a sports god, you can break civil laws left and right - until your godly powers fade. Then you are tossed away.
This is what is taught at every level of sport in our country. But not everwhere.
What the Dekalb team was saying with their gesture of missed free throws was that this hateful attitude of sports was not part of their game. They understand. A teenage boy and his mother are more important than winning. And that brings tears to my eyes, just knowing that that spirit is still alive at least someplace in this country.
I understand neither team will finish the season with a winning record. And for the winning-conscious, that is all the proof they need that good sportsmanship is a waste of time. If it doesn't help you win, then why do it?
But these boys did win. All of them. On both teams. Coaches, too. And the referees, scorekeeper, and the people who sat in the bleachers watching. They all won.
"They may not remember our record 20 years from now, but they'll remember what happened in that gym that night." Dave Rohlman, head coach of the opposing DeKalb team on what his players will take away from this experience.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
What's in a Plan
Ever since I was young I have been fascinated with floor plans. I recall being irritated with doll houses because their floor plans made no sense. Also, they only had three walls. At an early age i began drawing floor plans of houses I would like to build. Some were quite stupid. Others even more elaborate than the stupid plans. On a couple of occassions I even attempted creating models of my plans, succeeding once. But that house was burned. By me. Another story.
Apparently I vision rooms, buildings, whatever, differently than most people. Once I went to a store devoted to doll houses and doll house furniture. My plan was to get wallpaper. It was frustrating because I could never find more than three sheets of any pattern (in the inexpensive area). Eventually, one of the store clerks (reps/associates - I can't keep up) came to offer me assistance. She seemed amazed that I would want four sheets of paper. After all, doll houses only had three walls. I explained that my doll house would have four walls. Trying to avoid calling me a complete nitwit, she (and a customer) mocked me saying, people don't think of rooms from the ceiling. I responded with equal incredulity: yes, they do. Who do? I do. You're thinking of this store as though seeing it from above? Yes.
I wound up leaving the store without making a purchase.
But it's true. When I am in a room, I often try to see it as though I were the ceiling, placing the room in pattern with the other rooms which surround it. What's above it? What's below? What's on the other side of that unusual corner? Why does it have to be that way?
None of this, of course, has anything to do with anything. It's just that I've been a bit dark with some of my postings, and then I took a couple of days off with nothing to say. I decided to post something light. What I decided to post is Sovereign Odelmaar's house, as it was when Khirsha visited it in the year 352, which coincides with the year Swords of Fire: Book I takes place.
I've actually drawn more than a dozen floor plans for the houses, halls, shops, which exist in Swords of Fire. This includes some cave dwellings in Book II. I chose Sovereign Odelmaar's house because it is probably the most elaborate - after the fortress which gets built some time after Book IV.
To put it simply, Odelmaar's house is cool. It started out as a large square with the southeast corner chopped at forty-five degrees. Then tower additions were placed at the remaining corners. The center area also raises to a tower. The house is huge and the rooms are huge. It was very expensive in Odelmaar's time. It would be frightfully pricey now, I think.
A monstrous porch wraps around the house's southeastern side. Entering, you find yourself in a foyer area. Before you are double doors leading to the main library. To the left is the way to Pulich's apartments. The right way leads to Ovaer's apartments. Upstairs is Odelmaar and Taylich's private quarters. This includes another large library and a large study.
Pulich and Ovaer's apartments are virtual mirror images of each other. They are basically houses within a house. The formal dining room is behind the library to the north. The parlor/lounge and small study are behind the library to the west. The kitchen is beside the dining room.
In the back of the house, private, are Tavaar's apartments. Tavaar modified the floor plan to better accomodate her private attendant, Hetahna, who her father bought for her just before the birth of her first child. Yes, I said bought. In Swords of Fire, the so-called good people are far from perfect. Not only is Hetahna Tavaar's slave, but she traces her ancestry back to the same pair of twins. She's family. That's part of the struggle in Swords of Fire, although it is only hinted at in Book I.
Here, though, is a sample of my floor plans. I'm not sure how the picture is going to look on the blog, so here is a small legend.
Blue areas are beds
Brown areas are fireplaces
Yellow areas are bureaus, dressers, chevereaus.
Green areas are tables.
Striped areas are stairs.
Grey areas (kitchen) are shelving and cupboards
Apparently I vision rooms, buildings, whatever, differently than most people. Once I went to a store devoted to doll houses and doll house furniture. My plan was to get wallpaper. It was frustrating because I could never find more than three sheets of any pattern (in the inexpensive area). Eventually, one of the store clerks (reps/associates - I can't keep up) came to offer me assistance. She seemed amazed that I would want four sheets of paper. After all, doll houses only had three walls. I explained that my doll house would have four walls. Trying to avoid calling me a complete nitwit, she (and a customer) mocked me saying, people don't think of rooms from the ceiling. I responded with equal incredulity: yes, they do. Who do? I do. You're thinking of this store as though seeing it from above? Yes.
I wound up leaving the store without making a purchase.
But it's true. When I am in a room, I often try to see it as though I were the ceiling, placing the room in pattern with the other rooms which surround it. What's above it? What's below? What's on the other side of that unusual corner? Why does it have to be that way?
None of this, of course, has anything to do with anything. It's just that I've been a bit dark with some of my postings, and then I took a couple of days off with nothing to say. I decided to post something light. What I decided to post is Sovereign Odelmaar's house, as it was when Khirsha visited it in the year 352, which coincides with the year Swords of Fire: Book I takes place.
I've actually drawn more than a dozen floor plans for the houses, halls, shops, which exist in Swords of Fire. This includes some cave dwellings in Book II. I chose Sovereign Odelmaar's house because it is probably the most elaborate - after the fortress which gets built some time after Book IV.
To put it simply, Odelmaar's house is cool. It started out as a large square with the southeast corner chopped at forty-five degrees. Then tower additions were placed at the remaining corners. The center area also raises to a tower. The house is huge and the rooms are huge. It was very expensive in Odelmaar's time. It would be frightfully pricey now, I think.
A monstrous porch wraps around the house's southeastern side. Entering, you find yourself in a foyer area. Before you are double doors leading to the main library. To the left is the way to Pulich's apartments. The right way leads to Ovaer's apartments. Upstairs is Odelmaar and Taylich's private quarters. This includes another large library and a large study.
Pulich and Ovaer's apartments are virtual mirror images of each other. They are basically houses within a house. The formal dining room is behind the library to the north. The parlor/lounge and small study are behind the library to the west. The kitchen is beside the dining room.
In the back of the house, private, are Tavaar's apartments. Tavaar modified the floor plan to better accomodate her private attendant, Hetahna, who her father bought for her just before the birth of her first child. Yes, I said bought. In Swords of Fire, the so-called good people are far from perfect. Not only is Hetahna Tavaar's slave, but she traces her ancestry back to the same pair of twins. She's family. That's part of the struggle in Swords of Fire, although it is only hinted at in Book I.
Here, though, is a sample of my floor plans. I'm not sure how the picture is going to look on the blog, so here is a small legend.
Blue areas are beds
Brown areas are fireplaces
Yellow areas are bureaus, dressers, chevereaus.
Green areas are tables.
Striped areas are stairs.
Grey areas (kitchen) are shelving and cupboards
Saturday, January 31, 2009
A Short Collection
I've started going through the Archives, searching for papers which can be tossed. It's time to start packing. Came across some poems. These are reasonably recent - within the year. They all tend toward "darker" moods, so if you're not in the mood yourself you might just want to skip today's post.
The first lacks true meter. It's less of a poem and more just a couple of sentences.
LOSS
Acknowledging loss may hurt
worse than suffering loss
So it seems to me right now
The peace of death blows soft and slow
Yet can loss occur when nothing existed
Can nothing be taken away
To have believed awhile that love was mine
My heart, awhile, did shine
This second is actually less dark. One could even say bright.
A PLACE TO LIVE
If not a home then
. . . . . . A cave so cold
. . . . . . A place together
. . . . . . We’ll grow old
If not a cave
. . . . . . I’ll take whatever
. . . . . . For my love for you
. . . . . . Will never sever
Just be with me
. . . . . . Through day and night
. . . . . . I’ll be with you
. . . . . . You are my light
This last is just another variation of a poem I have written many times.
VALLEY OF SORROWS
In the Valley of the Sorrows there are tears I have not wept.
They are for my sad remembrance of pain that I have kept.
To be despised is one thing. To be hated is another.
When the two join together it is really quite a bother.
The future is a place that I am destined once to go.
Whatever shall I find there? When I get there I will know.
The future hides beyond the river’s winding, twisting, bends.
And there I’m doomed to go for the current there it sends.
The future may be bright and cherry or as dark as deepest night.
Although I want the former I can never make things right.
The truth should be more friendly but often it seems cruel.
For to speak the truth aloud is when I play the fool.
I’m beaten, sad, and lonely, and my health is fading fast.
But the truth I still will cling to even when I breathe my last.
I once strongly though I’d be here when the Lord comes back one day.
Now I’m just a piles of pieces. And where I’ll be I cannot say.
The first lacks true meter. It's less of a poem and more just a couple of sentences.
LOSS
Acknowledging loss may hurt
worse than suffering loss
So it seems to me right now
The peace of death blows soft and slow
Yet can loss occur when nothing existed
Can nothing be taken away
To have believed awhile that love was mine
My heart, awhile, did shine
This second is actually less dark. One could even say bright.
A PLACE TO LIVE
If not a home then
. . . . . . A cave so cold
. . . . . . A place together
. . . . . . We’ll grow old
If not a cave
. . . . . . I’ll take whatever
. . . . . . For my love for you
. . . . . . Will never sever
Just be with me
. . . . . . Through day and night
. . . . . . I’ll be with you
. . . . . . You are my light
This last is just another variation of a poem I have written many times.
VALLEY OF SORROWS
In the Valley of the Sorrows there are tears I have not wept.
They are for my sad remembrance of pain that I have kept.
To be despised is one thing. To be hated is another.
When the two join together it is really quite a bother.
The future is a place that I am destined once to go.
Whatever shall I find there? When I get there I will know.
The future hides beyond the river’s winding, twisting, bends.
And there I’m doomed to go for the current there it sends.
The future may be bright and cherry or as dark as deepest night.
Although I want the former I can never make things right.
The truth should be more friendly but often it seems cruel.
For to speak the truth aloud is when I play the fool.
I’m beaten, sad, and lonely, and my health is fading fast.
But the truth I still will cling to even when I breathe my last.
I once strongly though I’d be here when the Lord comes back one day.
Now I’m just a piles of pieces. And where I’ll be I cannot say.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
When the Rain's Inside
As an author of poetry I leave much to be desired. As Patricial once said to Michelle while they sat at the table with a boy they both wanted (and Michelle was winning), "You could fill a library with what you don't know about theatre." (We were talking about theatre and Michelle made the unfortunate comment that she didn't know much about it.)
Well, they have filled libraries with what I don't know about poetry. I've visited other blogs beyond my normal rounds lately, and I have come across some fantastic poetry. Wish I could write like that. But I can't. Don't.
Even so, I am treating you to one of my poems. This is not actually a recent creation. The truth is, I don't know how old it is. It's the kind of poem I could have written on many occasions. Today would be one of them. I made a couple of minor adjustments. Originally, the poem ended with references to Jesus. I took those out in respect of others. I mention them here in respect of my Lord.
Sadness Revealed
Daylight departs and night darkness begins
The sorrows of a heart beset by its sins
Its weariness to sin and depressing to cry
And a heart left in darkness is doomed but to die
Where is the Light at the end of the line
Where is the Light to close out my time
What happened to joy and what happened to smiles
The darkness will last – but only a while
We error we run and we muddle about
We cry in our darkness and loudly we shout
Like a child done wrong we go running to dad
We never knew all the good that we had
For wisdom was dull and obedience no fun
And so on our own we do roam and we run
But to obey and be wise is better than games
Together they work to keep us from shame
Thanks be for forgiveness and renewal of hearts
Every day that I’m here is a chance to restart
The lessons of life can be hard and be sad
But God always forgives and turns sadness to glad
Bevie James
Well, they have filled libraries with what I don't know about poetry. I've visited other blogs beyond my normal rounds lately, and I have come across some fantastic poetry. Wish I could write like that. But I can't. Don't.
Even so, I am treating you to one of my poems. This is not actually a recent creation. The truth is, I don't know how old it is. It's the kind of poem I could have written on many occasions. Today would be one of them. I made a couple of minor adjustments. Originally, the poem ended with references to Jesus. I took those out in respect of others. I mention them here in respect of my Lord.
Sadness Revealed
Daylight departs and night darkness begins
The sorrows of a heart beset by its sins
Its weariness to sin and depressing to cry
And a heart left in darkness is doomed but to die
Where is the Light at the end of the line
Where is the Light to close out my time
What happened to joy and what happened to smiles
The darkness will last – but only a while
We error we run and we muddle about
We cry in our darkness and loudly we shout
Like a child done wrong we go running to dad
We never knew all the good that we had
For wisdom was dull and obedience no fun
And so on our own we do roam and we run
But to obey and be wise is better than games
Together they work to keep us from shame
Thanks be for forgiveness and renewal of hearts
Every day that I’m here is a chance to restart
The lessons of life can be hard and be sad
But God always forgives and turns sadness to glad
Bevie James
Friday, January 9, 2009
How Do We Make it Better
There have been various times in my life when I have been placed in a position where I had to make a decision about what I believed. The decision was always the same. Was my belief based on words, or actions? What good is a belief system that is not backed up with some kind of active support?
When I was in second grade I had a sometime friend I will call "TA". TA came from a family poorer than my own, and for that reason we had a lot in common and would play together. Unfortunately, TA also frequently stank of urine, and for that reason I would sometimes refuse TA my company. TA also happened to have been of Mexican decent (I hope that's not an incorrect term now - if it is, I apologize - also, correct me - don't leave me in ignorance). Where I grew up that made TA's family one of two I knew of who were not "American". "JP's" family was Korean. They fit in because they dressed like everyone else and talked like everyone else. TA didn't fit in because of "talking funny", wearing ratty clothes and smelling bad. So what did I do for TA? I was friends with TA - when it was convenient for me, and when it cost me nothing. Did I believe in equality as a second grader? Apparently not.
In the summer between my Freshman and Sophomore years our house burned. (Yes, The Old Haunted House.) My family had a new house built on the same site, but while we waited for that to happen we lived in another school district and attended a different school. While at that school I made exactly zero friends. I was too shy to introduce myself to anyone, and the school was too large for anyone to notice me (there were over a thousand in my grade alone). It wasn't too bad. I became a straight "A" student as a result. But it was kind of dull.
We returned to our regular school right after the Christmas Break. That was when I met "ML". ML was a new student at my regular school. I met him in Art class. It didn't take me long to find out that my classmates had already established a pattern with ML. They would tease him by saying his name as though it were synonimous with stupidity. ML wasn't stupid, but he did have a slight speech impediment. ML took an almost instant liking to me. I don't know if it was because I didn't poke fun at him or if it was because I had already reached 6'2" in height, so when he was with me he seldom was teased. (My sister, Gayanne had reached her final height of 6'4", and Helvie was at 6'0". Helvie and I were still growing. Our classmates might make fun of us, but few dared to do it to our faces. It was a short community. There weren't many boys that tall in this school.) I liked ML. But only in Art class. Before and after class I had nothing to do with him. It was the only class we shared and I didn't look for him away from it. About halfway through the second semester, ML quit coming to school. Eventually I found out why. ML had suffered a complete nervous collapse and was now in an institution. Why did this happen? He had no friends. Twenty-seven weeks of continuous harrassment had taken its toll. I have no idea what happened to him after that. Did I believe in friendship as a tenth grader? The evidence is against it.
Fast forward twenty years. I am second in command in a deparment of programmers. Our current project is behind schedule and the Manager (MGR) has convinced the company owner to hire an entry level programmer to deal with minor things, thus freeing the experienced staff to tackle the stubborn tasks that resist logical solution. The decision on who to hire will ultimately be the Owner's, but MGR and I will have significant input. Owner's expertise is sales., not programming. She is probably going to go with whomever we recommend.
In typical fashion, MGR brings in exactly two candidates. At least the decision process won't take long. MGR ushers me into his office to meet the first candidate. Seeing him, my first reaction is to leave the room. But I remind myself there are only two candidates, and the second candidate might be even worse. To best explain my reaction (which only worsened as the interview progressed) let me just say I'll name the first candidate, "Bozo the Clown". Enter the second candidate.
She was as normal looking and sounding as Bozo was odd. Instead of wearing a cowboy outfit (Bozo really did that - hat an all) she was dressed in a nice dress. She spoke with the right amount of humility and confidence that one expects from entry level applicants. She had manners. Most importantly, she asked the kind of questions that told me she understood her classroom training only took her so far and that she wanted to learn real world application. To me, the decision was clear: do you want intelligence, manners and adaptabilty; or loud, obnoxious and thick as a brick? The candidates were excused while MGR and I discussed our options. I expected a short meeting. I was wrong.
MGR: So, what do you think?
ME: It's obvious. She's the better candidate.
MGR: Really? You think so?
ME: Yeeeaaahhh. You don't?
MGR: (shaking head) I don't know. I see some problems.
ME: What problems? We're hiring entry level. But if you don't think she can cut it, then call in some more candidates?
MGR: What about Bozo? (my name for the clown, not MGR's)
ME: You can't be serious.
MGR: He's not perfect, but I think he would fit better than DD (initials)
ME: No way! Apart from the fact he doesn't know anything, he's loud and obnoxious. The staff will never tolerate someone like that. They like quiet. Well, mostly.
MGR: But he has more in common with the staff than DD.
The lights were beginning to come on at last. At the time, our department staff consisted of 75%white males and 25% white females. DD was not white. To confirm what I was beginning to suspect, I continued my line of arguing. DD was the better candidate, and that should dictate our decision. Skill and experience placed them equal. So it came down to who would work best with the existing staff. I believed that was DD.
MGR: But aren't you concerned about her being -
ME: Being what?
MGR: You know. We don't have any one staff right now.
I felt sick. I had known this man for four years. He had been instrumental in my rise through the ranks. He shared the same faith as me. Always he had demonstrated nothing but intelligence and understanding. But I had no doubt in my heart as to what he was telling me now. His eyes told me he knew I understood his message at last.
MGR: So, what do we tell LS? (the owner)
ME: Well, you tell her whatever you want. I'm going to tell her I recommend DD. Furthermore, I will tell her that even if she doesn't hire DD she should not hire Bozo. And if you recommend Bozo, I will report descrimination.
MGR: Fine! That's what we'll do then.
He was not my friend after that. In fact, he tried to get me fired, but it backfired (no pun intended) and he lost his job instead. I think he tried to make some amends for what he tried to do to me because when the new Manager arrived he showed me my file. It was empty.
So, when I was nearing forty, did I really believe in equality? Maybe. I don't know. I hope so. I do know I made the right decision at least once. But my garnering the courage to finally stand up for what I believe in hardly makes up for TA, ML and who knows how many others I let down because I was too afraid to stand up for what I believe?
My point in relating this is not to make you think better or worse of me. The point has to do with how any of us react when something we believe is wrong happens in front of our face. My inspiration was a post made on a good friend's blog. Apparently some racist fool wrote a book in which she emphasizes Barach Obama's middle name (Hussein), claiming that having been named after such a terrible person means something. My friend wrote that even her five-year-old daughter understood that is ridiculous. Using that logic, we should arrest everyone named John (because John Wilkes Booth committed murder), Adolph and probably every other name under the sun.
People who spew this hateful crap gain power when people like me keep their mouths shut. I don't believe we need to commit acts of violence, or even become violent in our speech. We simply need to let people know we disagree and find the hateful logic silly at best. My friend has this kind of courage, which is one reason among many I am proud to count myself among her friends. And should she find herself in need of a voice, I will not keep silent. I try not to for strangers, to. Whatever we believe, we just need to keep our manners and our cool. But we must be heard.
End of my attempt to say something important. I wish I could have said it better (and shorter).
Tomorrow is Stephen and Dad Day. I should be able to draw upon at least one amusing story.
Take care.
When I was in second grade I had a sometime friend I will call "TA". TA came from a family poorer than my own, and for that reason we had a lot in common and would play together. Unfortunately, TA also frequently stank of urine, and for that reason I would sometimes refuse TA my company. TA also happened to have been of Mexican decent (I hope that's not an incorrect term now - if it is, I apologize - also, correct me - don't leave me in ignorance). Where I grew up that made TA's family one of two I knew of who were not "American". "JP's" family was Korean. They fit in because they dressed like everyone else and talked like everyone else. TA didn't fit in because of "talking funny", wearing ratty clothes and smelling bad. So what did I do for TA? I was friends with TA - when it was convenient for me, and when it cost me nothing. Did I believe in equality as a second grader? Apparently not.
In the summer between my Freshman and Sophomore years our house burned. (Yes, The Old Haunted House.) My family had a new house built on the same site, but while we waited for that to happen we lived in another school district and attended a different school. While at that school I made exactly zero friends. I was too shy to introduce myself to anyone, and the school was too large for anyone to notice me (there were over a thousand in my grade alone). It wasn't too bad. I became a straight "A" student as a result. But it was kind of dull.
We returned to our regular school right after the Christmas Break. That was when I met "ML". ML was a new student at my regular school. I met him in Art class. It didn't take me long to find out that my classmates had already established a pattern with ML. They would tease him by saying his name as though it were synonimous with stupidity. ML wasn't stupid, but he did have a slight speech impediment. ML took an almost instant liking to me. I don't know if it was because I didn't poke fun at him or if it was because I had already reached 6'2" in height, so when he was with me he seldom was teased. (My sister, Gayanne had reached her final height of 6'4", and Helvie was at 6'0". Helvie and I were still growing. Our classmates might make fun of us, but few dared to do it to our faces. It was a short community. There weren't many boys that tall in this school.) I liked ML. But only in Art class. Before and after class I had nothing to do with him. It was the only class we shared and I didn't look for him away from it. About halfway through the second semester, ML quit coming to school. Eventually I found out why. ML had suffered a complete nervous collapse and was now in an institution. Why did this happen? He had no friends. Twenty-seven weeks of continuous harrassment had taken its toll. I have no idea what happened to him after that. Did I believe in friendship as a tenth grader? The evidence is against it.
Fast forward twenty years. I am second in command in a deparment of programmers. Our current project is behind schedule and the Manager (MGR) has convinced the company owner to hire an entry level programmer to deal with minor things, thus freeing the experienced staff to tackle the stubborn tasks that resist logical solution. The decision on who to hire will ultimately be the Owner's, but MGR and I will have significant input. Owner's expertise is sales., not programming. She is probably going to go with whomever we recommend.
In typical fashion, MGR brings in exactly two candidates. At least the decision process won't take long. MGR ushers me into his office to meet the first candidate. Seeing him, my first reaction is to leave the room. But I remind myself there are only two candidates, and the second candidate might be even worse. To best explain my reaction (which only worsened as the interview progressed) let me just say I'll name the first candidate, "Bozo the Clown". Enter the second candidate.
She was as normal looking and sounding as Bozo was odd. Instead of wearing a cowboy outfit (Bozo really did that - hat an all) she was dressed in a nice dress. She spoke with the right amount of humility and confidence that one expects from entry level applicants. She had manners. Most importantly, she asked the kind of questions that told me she understood her classroom training only took her so far and that she wanted to learn real world application. To me, the decision was clear: do you want intelligence, manners and adaptabilty; or loud, obnoxious and thick as a brick? The candidates were excused while MGR and I discussed our options. I expected a short meeting. I was wrong.
MGR: So, what do you think?
ME: It's obvious. She's the better candidate.
MGR: Really? You think so?
ME: Yeeeaaahhh. You don't?
MGR: (shaking head) I don't know. I see some problems.
ME: What problems? We're hiring entry level. But if you don't think she can cut it, then call in some more candidates?
MGR: What about Bozo? (my name for the clown, not MGR's)
ME: You can't be serious.
MGR: He's not perfect, but I think he would fit better than DD (initials)
ME: No way! Apart from the fact he doesn't know anything, he's loud and obnoxious. The staff will never tolerate someone like that. They like quiet. Well, mostly.
MGR: But he has more in common with the staff than DD.
The lights were beginning to come on at last. At the time, our department staff consisted of 75%white males and 25% white females. DD was not white. To confirm what I was beginning to suspect, I continued my line of arguing. DD was the better candidate, and that should dictate our decision. Skill and experience placed them equal. So it came down to who would work best with the existing staff. I believed that was DD.
MGR: But aren't you concerned about her being -
ME: Being what?
MGR: You know. We don't have any one staff right now.
I felt sick. I had known this man for four years. He had been instrumental in my rise through the ranks. He shared the same faith as me. Always he had demonstrated nothing but intelligence and understanding. But I had no doubt in my heart as to what he was telling me now. His eyes told me he knew I understood his message at last.
MGR: So, what do we tell LS? (the owner)
ME: Well, you tell her whatever you want. I'm going to tell her I recommend DD. Furthermore, I will tell her that even if she doesn't hire DD she should not hire Bozo. And if you recommend Bozo, I will report descrimination.
MGR: Fine! That's what we'll do then.
He was not my friend after that. In fact, he tried to get me fired, but it backfired (no pun intended) and he lost his job instead. I think he tried to make some amends for what he tried to do to me because when the new Manager arrived he showed me my file. It was empty.
So, when I was nearing forty, did I really believe in equality? Maybe. I don't know. I hope so. I do know I made the right decision at least once. But my garnering the courage to finally stand up for what I believe in hardly makes up for TA, ML and who knows how many others I let down because I was too afraid to stand up for what I believe?
My point in relating this is not to make you think better or worse of me. The point has to do with how any of us react when something we believe is wrong happens in front of our face. My inspiration was a post made on a good friend's blog. Apparently some racist fool wrote a book in which she emphasizes Barach Obama's middle name (Hussein), claiming that having been named after such a terrible person means something. My friend wrote that even her five-year-old daughter understood that is ridiculous. Using that logic, we should arrest everyone named John (because John Wilkes Booth committed murder), Adolph and probably every other name under the sun.
People who spew this hateful crap gain power when people like me keep their mouths shut. I don't believe we need to commit acts of violence, or even become violent in our speech. We simply need to let people know we disagree and find the hateful logic silly at best. My friend has this kind of courage, which is one reason among many I am proud to count myself among her friends. And should she find herself in need of a voice, I will not keep silent. I try not to for strangers, to. Whatever we believe, we just need to keep our manners and our cool. But we must be heard.
End of my attempt to say something important. I wish I could have said it better (and shorter).
Tomorrow is Stephen and Dad Day. I should be able to draw upon at least one amusing story.
Take care.
Monday, December 1, 2008
'Tish, You Spoke French
Those are famous words spoken by Gomez Addams to Morticia Addams from the short run television series, The Addams Family. Whenever Morticia spoke French, no matter where he was, or what he was doing, Gomez would race to her and declare, "'Tish, you spoke French!" Then he would begin kissing up her arm, beginning at the wrist and ending at the back of her neck. Most of the time Morticia would interrupt him with some practical reason, "Gomez, Uncle Fester now, savoir faire later."
It came to mind just now because of my cat. Firestar (his name is Firestar, in case you failed to pick up on that) was upstairs sleeping on the bed. I initiated a print job from my computer. Firestar loves to watch the printer in action. Two seconds after the printer gave its noisy signal that printing was soon to ensue, Firestar came crashing down the stairs like Gomez Addams racing to Morticia. I chuckle every time he does this. I've seen people do that with telephones, too. Well, before most people began carrying telephones in their pocket.
It came to mind just now because of my cat. Firestar (his name is Firestar, in case you failed to pick up on that) was upstairs sleeping on the bed. I initiated a print job from my computer. Firestar loves to watch the printer in action. Two seconds after the printer gave its noisy signal that printing was soon to ensue, Firestar came crashing down the stairs like Gomez Addams racing to Morticia. I chuckle every time he does this. I've seen people do that with telephones, too. Well, before most people began carrying telephones in their pocket.
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