Irrationally Exuberant

Username:	Password:
Forgot your password?	Remember Me

I Don't Know If It Sucks Or It's Just Sad...
...or both, that I can only see the photos posted on Jess Goode's remembrance page on Facebook if I'm not actually logged into Facebook. The reason being that the four pages of photos (at this writing) were posted by the friend of mine whose jealous boyfriend is convinced that I wanted to be "more than friends" with her--one result being that she ended up blocking me on Facebook.

I can still see the pictures, though (they're mostly from a class trip to the Everglades). That's what matters.

Current Mood: grateful

More About Jess, And Not
Jess' death has also driven home an important lesson for me.

I was once somebody who got to be close friends with a lot of students here at Ferrum College. But as a few of you know, that has been changing over the past couple of years. It was a series of sad frustrations, little heartbreaks: People graduate, for example, and go away, and often they fade out of your life. There was also the case a few months ago of a student / alum who I thought was among my closest friends here, someone I'd come to trust completely, suddenly turning on me and hurting me very badly in the process.

So especially after the latter incident, I was shutting down. I was shutting people out. I wasn't letting them get close. And if I'd had my way I would never have gotten to know Jess.

I only knew her for a few months, and not all that well compared to more than a few mutual friends. That not knowing her well...that was my fault. That was me keeping her at a distance along with so many other people.

The thought that I might have missed knowing her at all is horrifying.

But. I could have known her better. And I refused to.

And that's something I can't forgive myself for, at least not now. Maybe not for a long time.

I suppose there's a risk of me shutting down even more from this worst of all the heartbreaks. But I think in the long run that won't happen. Because I have the feeling that whenever I realize I'm doing it, I'm going to think of Jess and how much friendship I robbed myself of.

I need to start opening up again. It used to be easy.

I'm sorry, Jess. I wish I'd been a better friend to you.

I'm probably not going to respond to comments on this entry either.

Current Mood: Rotten

Jess Goode, 1986-2009: An Opening Story

The first time I met Jess is apparently a characteristic story about her.

Though as it was, I almost didn't meet her because I was in a bad mood and intent on keeping it that way.

In fact, I never told her that the first time I met her she annoyed me--though that was completely a reflection on me, not her. It was at the campus fitness center and not only do I tend to be a solitary exerciser, but I was also in a bad mood and didn't want to talk to anyone. Or even take the chance of talking to anyone. So when I finished my gym jogging and headed for an elliptical I was disappointed to see someone on the elliptical next to it, and I briefly considered skipping that part of the workout routine.

But I didn't. And almost immediately she started talking to me. And I thought, "Who is this person and why is she talking to me?" I answered politely, if a little curtly I'm afraid. If she was put off at all by my being brusque she didn't show it. She just kept on talking. And I answered a bit more, and she talked a good bit more. It took her about five minutes to wear me down, but I shot right past my one mile mark and ended up doing two instead, spending the extra ten or so minutes chatting with her.

I learned quite a lot about her then, too--her love of exercise, her absolute love of the outdoors (particularly hiking in the woods and camping, which obviously caught my attention), the campus Coffeehouses (she remembered me reading my poetry there), and some of the friends she had here. She studied environmental science. Oddly enough about the only thing I didn't find out was that she was from the Shenandoah Valley--Winchester, Virginia to be precise. She was an upperclassman; I wondered how it was that I'd never run into her before. But suffice it to say I wasn't in a bad mood by the time I finally got off the elliptical.

Yesterday, two weeks away from her graduation, she was looking around a local creek for turtles for a class project when a hunter mistook her for a deer, and shot and killed her.

I still have a message from her in my Inbox.

Her last status message on Facebook is exactly her: "Study hard, work out hard, play hard...for the rest of time, amen!" Her bio reads "♥ on my sleeve right where it should be".

There's not much more I can say. There's not much more I want to say. I've only talked about Jess with a very small number of people, consisting of Laurie and a few people who knew her.

I'm dedicating The Great Valley to her, for what it's worth. (Now I feel like I have to get it published.) It's the one small thing I can do for her now. The main character in the final chapter, a young lady named Zoe Evans, is the woman that Jess should have been allowed to become. Her last FB status message above will be in the dedication.

If all goes as planned and the weather is good, there's going to be a memorial hike up to McAfee's Knob on the Appalachian Trail which I plan to attend.

And that's...pretty much all I can say about Jess now. Except that I miss her terribly. And that I hope I can keep close to me just half the utter excitement over life she felt.

(By the way, I won't turn comments to this entry off, but I probably won't respond to them either.)

Current Mood: sad

"Going Home", by Mary Fahl

They say there's a place
where dreams have all gone
They never said where
but I think I know
It's miles through the night
just over the dawn
on the road that will take me home

I know in my bones
I've been here before
The ground feels the same
though the land's been torn
I've a long way to go
The stars tell me so
on this road that will take me home

Love waits for me 'round the bend
Leads me endlessly on
Surely sorrows shall find their end
and all our troubles will be gone
And I'll know what I've lost
and all that I've won
when the road finally takes me home

And when I pass by
don't lead me astray
Don't try to stop me
Don't stand in my way
I'm bound for the hills
where cool waters flow
on this road that will take me home

Love waits for me 'round the bend
Leads me endlessly on
Surely sorrows shall find their end
and all our troubles will be gone
And we'll know what we've lost
and all that we've won
when the road finally takes me home

I'm going home
I'm going home
I'm going home

Current Mood: sad

Getting Back To Business
Finally, after a few days of Teh Seeck and then nearly throwing my back out this past Saturday because I didn't know my own strength, I'm back at the writing computer.

PROGRESS REPORT FOR 11/15 AND 11/16/09

New Words: 2700 -- 1900 on the last pages of "Aztlan", and then the 800-word opening scene of Chapter 3 ("The Hardscrabblers, 1929") of The Great Valley.

Total Words: "Aztlan" -- 13200. Book -- 117150.

Reasons For Stopping: Work / Work, but wanting to take Laurie to lunch before work. Also my back started aching a bit.

Book Year: 1929.

Mammalian Assistance: None.

Exercise: Walked around campus yesterday with Laurie and the dogs / None.

Stimulants: None.

Other Cool Writing-Related Stuff: I got interviewed for the campus paper. :)

Today's Opening Passage(s):

Yesterday: “But there is one thing you must know: Many of these, erm, diplomats are children.”

I looked at the seven-foot-high cackling bird and was not reminded of Sesame Street.

Today: Amelia, making one of her rare trips away from the bedroom that had been her sickroom for the past decade, told Jackson later she thought the wedding was absolutely beautiful. That a more handsome groom and more lovely bride had never been seen. Jackson needed his wife to tell him this because he saw so little of it himself. He spent most of that day afraid for his fortune, his family, and the world.

Darling Du Jour: I unwisely said the first thing that sprung to mind. “Aztlan is in a pincer between two greater armies. One is overrunning our territory now. I want these armies to leave us be.”

The bird hopped up and down; I tried to ignore Don Pablo’s look of alarm. “Give me twenty minutes,” he said, and then ran into a rock.

I don’t mean he collided with it. He vanished into it. “Oh dear,” the trickster muttered. “He seemed altogether too eager to please.”

Whatever he was doing took somewhat longer than twenty minutes. I would have been satisfied if it had taken much, much longer. I saw the glow from the south first, which was followed shortly afterward by a ribbon of light crossing the sky south-to-north. There was another glow then from the northwest and a fainter ribbon coming from that way. The bird was still dancing when it reappeared from the rock.

“They will leave you alone now.” He made each syllable a cutting diamond. “They have other things to worry about.”

Non-Research / Review Books In Progress: Creation by Gore Vidal.

Current Mood: restless
Current Music: "Smile, Darn Ya, Smile!" ala Billy Cotton

Money Policy I Can Get Behind
Seen this past weekend on a $10 bill, with the first line written in and part of the second pre-printed line scratched out:

AUDIT THE
FEDERAL RESERVE ~~NOTE~~

I'll be happy to put my money where their mouth is.

Current Mood: amused
Current Music: "Tutti-Frutti", by Chuck Barry

My Thoughts On Hitler Comparisons, Abridged
To people who compare any American president and/or his programs to Hitler:

You are idiots.

On the other hand, if you criticize a president and as a result said president arrests you and has you executed, I'll personally apologize to you.

Current Mood: annoyed
Current Music: "The Benny Hill Theme"

Kill 'Em All And Let Capitalism Sort 'Em Out
MOVEMENT BORN TO COMPLETELY PRIVATIZE GOVERNMENT
DEFENSE CONTRACTOR THINKS "TAX AND SPEND" SHOULD BE CHANGED TO "TAX AND BUY"

by S. Fox

Vivarium Press
"The best news ever subcontracted."

November 12, 2009

ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA: When President Ronald Reagan said "The nine most terrifying words in the English language are, 'I'm from the government and I'm here to help'", lifelong conservative Chuck Culling couldn't agree more. When George W. Bush argued for privatizing Social Security and increasing the number of mercenaries to bolster the U.S. military's presence in Iraq and Afghanistan, Culling lobbied in favor of both. When a tea party protesting federalized health care plans an event in the D.C. Metro area, he always joins in.

But he thinks none of them go far enough.

"Everything government touches it messes up somehow," he points out. "Look at Amtrak. Look at the way the Fed has ham-handedly dealt with Wall Street. Look at the health care debacle. Everything they do is guaranteed to make operations less efficient than private business and cost vastly more. So the solution is simple: outsource the entire government to private companies."

Culling admits he is a little biased; the 44-year-old lifelong D.C. Metro resident is a project manager for a major defense contractor. But he says that in the back of his mind, he has always felt this way.

"Private business simply does things better. We should shut down the FDA, for one example, and farm out the medical research to hospitals and for-profit research firms. Yes, insurance firms too--the insurance companies don't want to get caught liable for big premium payments if some drug they OK'd comes up with nasty side effects, so they'll be a lot more thorough than the government testers, for example. I'm even willing to be bipartisan, work with liberals. Say, eliminate the Department of the Interior and turn over the national parks to environmental groups. Let them see if they can deal with land ownership and management."

Culling is willing to put his money where his mouth is. Literally. Last month, inspired by Tea Party protest signs decrying "Nazi Health Care", he applied some of his considerable personal fortune towards founding GASP, an acronym for Government Agencies Should Privatize.

"Private industry knows what things cost, should cost. When your local grocery store needs a hammer it isn't going to pay $5,000, after all, the way the Pentagon will. There's not one thing government does that private firms can't do better, especially cost. Can you name one area where they do?"

The military, perhaps? Should that be privatized?

"Absolutely!" Culling insists. "This would be to everyone's benefit, the soldiers' especially. Look, private mercenaries like the guys who work for Xe"--the company formerly known as Blackwater--"and Triple Canopy make five times the average U.S. soldier. In fact it's become a catch phrase--when a soldier leaves the military to become a mercenary it's said he 'Blackwatered out'. Why should our soldiers be making X when they could making X times 5? And still with health benefits, too."

That goes for the Department of Homeland Security, he says, the FBI, the CIA, the National Security Agency, the Department of Education--including its student loans and grants and No Child Left Behind--and every other facet of government. "I challenge my conservative--and liberal!--friends to tell me where I'm wrong. If you tell me the government corrupts anything it touches, then what justification could we possibly have for not privatizing its entire operation? It's simply the logical conclusion to a long-standing conservative argument, and I for one embrace it proudly."

Culling's premise is simple: The three elected branches of government would remain as they are, and taxes would still be collected, but the money would pay private companies to do the work that government agencies were previously engaged in.

"Instead of 'tax and spend' it will be 'tax and buy'," he says. "Instead of throwing money at problems we'll be buying investments in America."

Culling adds, "It also dovetails neatly with conservative philosophy, in that with costs going down exponentially now that government is out of the picture, taxes would go down too. And on top of that, adding so much wealth back into private markets would be the major boost the economy needs to get back on its feet. It's a win/win scenario for everyone--except liberals and bureaucrats. But at least the bureaucrats could be retrained to work in the private sector."

On top of all this, he says another benefit will be that "All those wasteful government programs will dry up and blow away. Capitalism, and our newly strengthened economy, will decide what is useful and what isn't. A program won't continue to exist because some bureaucrat wants it to--or some Congressman who is out of touch with reality either."

Culling and his supporters understand that they have a monumental task ahead of them--one requiring convincing the Federal government itself to give up its legions of bureaucracies, something unprecedented any time in history. But he believes grass roots support is the key.

"If a common-folk frontier state politician like Sarah Palin can win and hold the national spotlight," he points out, "anything is possible."

Chuck Culling can be contacted at chuckcullingGASP at yahoo dot com.

Current Mood: rushed
Current Music: John Philip Sousa

Don't Hate Me Because I'm Invisible
"NON-CORPOREAL LOVE" GROUP MEETS IN NEW ORLEANS
PLANS TO DISCUSS OPTIONS OF RECOGNIZING LIVING / SPIRIT MARRIAGES

by S. Fox and A.P. Flower

Vivarium Press
"Never any ghostwriting in our investigative pieces."

November 12, 2009

NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA: Rusty Maxwell lost the love of his life over arguments whether or not they should get married. She wanted to; he did too, but knew it wasn't allowed and feared the consequences. But the barrier for Rusty and his would-be bride wasn't that they were homosexual, or different races, or from different countries. He was living, and she was--well, not.

Maxwell, a 34-year-old insurance adjuster and part-time mystic from Long Beach, California, initially met his beloved, Salvatora de Castilliano, on a session with the Ouija board in college. He'd bought the board at a local game store a few weeks before but wasn't satisfied with most of the "people" he met on it, and was about to get rid of it in frustration when Salvatora appeared. She said she had been lurking for some while, watching him closely, and finally could not resist the temptation to talk to him. She lived in 19th century Spain, she explained, dying when she was accidentally trampled by a bull in Pamplona in 1856 at the age of twenty-seven. Soon the attraction between Maxwell and Salvatora was mutual.

"My story might sound strange but it isn't so uncommon," Maxwell explains. "With the rise of mediumship in the last few decades, living, corporeal beings have been making contact--and falling in love--with spirits for quite some time now. It may come through a Ouija board like it did with me, or automatic writing, or a seance, or even a straight-up apparition. Poets have known for years that death was no barrier to love--this is just a new spin on an ancient idea."

Just don't call them "ghosts". Advocates prefer the term "Non-Corporeals", or simply NCs.

Maxwell and approximately two-hundred other anti-corporeal love advocates are gathering this weekend in New Orleans, Louisiana--America's most haunted city according to Maxwell--to share their stories, the frustrations about the separation between living and dead, and plan advocacy strategies for politically legitimizing their preference.

"This is an idea whose time has come," Maxwell insisted. His manner of speaking is generally quiet when discussing anything else, even politics and religion--when he's not tying either subject to non-corporeal love. But when it comes time to speak of love with unfleshed entities it becomes louder, more animated, more assertive. "People all over the world are recognizing that there should be no boundaries to love between consenting adults, no matter who those adults are. We just take the idea one step farther, and insist that you don't need to still be 'in the flesh' in order to enjoy this greatest benefit of being a human being."

"We" is Corpor4real (e-mail: corpor4real at yahoo dot com), the organization Maxwell chartered amid mourning the breakup of his 10-year relationship with Salvatora. It boasts about 4,000 members nationwide; the gathering in New Orleans is its first annual meeting.

"Yet," Maxwell admits, "most of the membership is too afraid or ashamed to come forward. You can see we still have a long way to go."

Even Maxwell admits they have good reason to be cautious.

"Most religions don't speak to this sort of thing, if the spiritual significant other isn't a devil or demon or some sort," he says, "and this isn't necrophilia. But many members have reported to me that their priest, imam, and so forth either specifically forbid the relationship to continue, or tried most thoroughly to discourage it. One person got excommunicated from his church when he asked the priest's blessing for their marriage. Others left their church, temple, synagogue or so forth because their loved one wasn't able to cross the threshold, and was thus made to feel unwelcome.

"Families often don't understand either," he continues.

Invisibility is a major obstacle to family acceptance. "A corporeal S.O. has the advantage that they can just come in the house, meet the parents, have dinner. With an NC, sometimes the family can't even see the new girlfriend or boyfriend, or viewing is spotty. Or they may not be willing to have conversation with a Ouija board, or a special cassette tape, or the lights flicking on and off in Morse Code, or with the new S.O. speaking through their family member. Certainly NCs can't share dinner or a beer. They interfere with electronic images, making it problematic to watch football with the Dad. This is compounded if the family doesn't believe in 'ghosts'--then they won't see the new S.O. at all. And fuzzy white spots on Polaroid pictures won't convince the most hardcore disbelievers."

What sort of intimate relations can flesh and spirit have? Not many, Maxwell admits; his with Salvatora were comprised mostly of "tingling", "the hairs on the back of my neck standing up", and "an occasionally chilly shiver". Others have reported some success with autoerotic possession. "But," Maxwell is quick to add, his voice raising yet again, "there are so many intellectual and other rewards."

Another thorny issue, one even Maxwell is reluctant to bring up, are ghosts who died young. "This really is a point of contention within Corpor4real. The physical entity may have been under 18 at the time of death--but what if the passing over was 500 years ago? Does this mean the NC is a consenting adult or not? We've had a lot of arguments over this."

But while NC advocates have been suffering persecution, Maxwell takes it in stride. "How is this different from the way we used to punish homosexuals? Or mixed-race couples? It will take 100 years, but we will be accepted into the mainstream." He believes the New Orleans conference will be an excellent start.

Despite all the hardships, though, there are some advantages. "For one thing," Maxwell says, "you'll never have to argue with your boss about getting your spouse on your health insurance. And you don't need to fret about who will die first. Both of those things are worth a lot, if you ask me."

Current Mood: chipper
Current Music: "Alley Cat"

For Veterans' / Armistice / Remembrance Day
ANTHEM FOR DOOMED YOUTH
by Wilfred Owen

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, –
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

* * *

FOR THE FALLEN
by Laurence Binyon

With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.

Solemn the drums thrill: Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres.
There is a music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears.

They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncountered:
They fell with their faces to the foe.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.

They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables at home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England's foam.

But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the Night;

As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain;
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end they remain.

Current Mood: grateful
Current Music: Silence

Checking My Cynical Meter - Yep, Still On The Red Line
I heard the news this morning that today is D.C. Sniper John Muhammad's execution date, and that the execution will happen since the Supreme Court refused to grant a stay. The commentators were a little surprised that the Court did this without explanation, and were wondering what their motives might be in not discussing the refusal.

This is when Cynical Danny kicked in and mentally muttered, There are just so many ways you can formally write 'We want that sucker dead, dead, dead'. (Though I would like to know how you say this in Latin.)

Cynical Danny is wondering if SCOTUS seems to go harder on those who might, shall we say, have an impact on the Supremes themselves. They live in D.C. much of the year, and most were around the region in 2002 when the snipers were busy. If any of them wanted to pump gas, or go shopping, they could have wound up the target.

Granted I'm against the death penalty in most cases, though I also have to admit I'd be a hypocrite to complain a lot (more) about SCOTUS in this matter. One of the D.C. Snipers' victims was a woman at a gas station in Manassas who was gunned down an hour after I pumped gas there.

I've nearly died a handful of times through my own stupidity, but when it's somebody else who might be doing the targeting through no fault of my own, I tend to take some offense at that and have fewer qualms with punishment. I try to be a good person but I don't know if I'm that good a person.

Current Mood: warm
Current Music: The Hackensaw Boys

Body Gauging By Dream
It's not all that unusual for my dreams to tell me how my body is doing during the night (usually to inform me that I need to use the bathroom), but I had two back to back last night that definitely win the prize for being the most...thorough.

Here are two facts about the past three days: I've had some sort of bug, though by last night it was improved. Still some aches, a bit of missing thermo-regulation, the occasional hard cough, that sort of thing. I've also been reading Gore Vidal's historical novel Creation, set in the 5th century B.C. and narrated by a character extremely familiar with both the Greek and Persian worlds, including their militaries.

I dreamed of Greeks and Persians last night, but apparently for once there was a method to the madness...not to mention these two dreams were extremely vivid and among the most convoluted I'd ever had.

First I was the leader of a Greek army that had managed to find itself trapped in a vast forest, so I decided that the best thing to do would be to hunker down in this incredibly inhospitable terrain, use the landscape the best I could, and prepare as solid a defense as I could. Once that was done, including myself with sword out and pressed against a boulder, I woke up--woke up feverish. I groggily pulled myself out from under the covers, laid on top of them, and went back to sleep.

The dream that followed this had me back in the same forest but now as the leader of a Persian force. We weren't trying to make a defense in the woods, though, but an escape. Through the course of this long dream I knew there was an enemy force lurking within, so I started giving out orders to flank them, not for an attack but to prevent them attacking our flanks or rear. The ground was still as treacherous as the first dream and the way uncertain, but through twists and turns we managed to eventually get through. Once I came to a sunlit meadow and was aware that the danger was past, I woke up again.

This time I was shivering--not from chills, though, but due to being sweat-drenched, and my fever had broken. I was vaguely aware that my body had turned some corner in fighting the illness. My next dream was a perfectly "normal" one set in the here and now. And when I finally got up this morning (I say finally as I didn't wake up until after 10:30!) I felt immensely better. Aches almost completely gone, my thermo-regulating seems mostly back to normal, and while my coughs are still hard I've only had three coughing spasms since I got up (as opposed to three every twenty minutes or so the day before).

Another odd bit about both martial dreams is that while I usually dream in color, both of these were black and white. When my normal dreaming resumed, it resumed in color.

All a good reminder that I really ought to be paying more attention to my dreams.

Current Mood: curious
Current Music: The opening theme to *Rome*

Typecasting Myself
I realized last night that I am the kind of person who, whenever moving into a new house, will check the place as thoroughly as possible to see if there are any secret passages, hidden wall safes, or other nooks or crannies squirreling away treasure or adventure.

(And yes, I've done this with apartments, too.)

If I don't find any I then go about wondering if I can create any such thing myself.

It doesn't help that I once did live in a place (a circa 1860 farmhouse) with a walled-in room that contained (as my roommate discovered when he moved in a few years before) a 19th century rifle. Or that I had a friend whose grandparents' Virginia farmhouse contained an honest-to-goodness secret passage. I'm one of these people who thinks "Hey, if it happened once..."

Current Mood: optimistic
Current Music: "Bowie In Space", by Flight of the Conchords

The News Keeps Finding My Corner Of Virginia
Apparently it wasn't enough for the universe that my hometown--Vinton, Virginia--made the national news a few weeks ago by having the book The Perks of Being a Wallflower challenged at my high school alma mater.

Now it turns out that the Fort Hood shooter actually spent part of his 20s living in Vinton too. (He's also the same age as me, though we went to different high schools.)

And on top of that, a fellow named Chris Gaubatz who is being sued by the Council on American-Islamic Relations for stealing / photocopying 12,000 CAIR documents for his father's book Muslim Mafia, claimed as his cover story, that he attended the college I work for. (He didn't, though I'm curious to know how he picked us.)

I guess all of this is one facet of the saying that in the 21st century, there really aren't any "isolated" places in the world anymore.

Current Mood: curious
Current Music: "Mother Uckers", by Flight of the Conchords

Longer Than I Meant It, With A Little Yet To Go
Today I finally managed to drag some music with me to the campus fitness center--the soundtrack to Star Trek, since its variations in music speed matches well with slows-and-fasts on the elliptical for me. I've discovered now that listening to it increases my speed by about 1 mph (to an average of 7 mph) and my heart rate by around 20 bpm, up to the 160s. At some of the faster points of "Enterprising Young Men" I consistently hit 7.6-7.8 mph. Must remember this for future reference.

PROGRESS REPORT FOR 11/3-4/09

New Words: 1800 (1000 / 800) on "Five Visions of Aztlan".

Total Words: Including a bit of cutting today, 11300. Longer than I meant; but as usual, I'll finish the draft first and then cut.

Reason(s) For Stopping: Work / lunch.

Mammalian Assistance: None. And I tricked Friday into not banging on the Writing Room door by letting him go down into the basement, which for some reason is a big cat treat.

Exercise: A one-way walk from campus to home / Fifteen minutes on the elliptical (a little over 1.5 miles) with a five-minute cooldown.

Stimulants: None.

Today's Opening Passage:

Yesterday: It seemed the farther we got from Glen Canyon—from the nexus of Aztlan—the more distant it became in memory and soul, increasingly easy to pass off as a sun-blanched hallucination so common to wanderers in the desert. I felt more wanderer than monk now, or Vicepresidente. And news coming through Wisdom Wind’s shortwave all the way to the Texas Panhandle was as pleasing as a cotton field full of boll weevils.

Today: The warriors lining the other rim didn’t move except to track our progress with our eyes. “They’re not joining us?”

“They’ll hear everything they need to,” Seven Stars told us.

Darling Du Jour: His laugh rose into a wind of its own that echoed across the canyon walls, magnifying into a coyote howl until the maelstrom around us was the wail of a banshee screaming for buffalo meat. Then we were all of us—Aztlan, Indians, Mexicans, Americans—inside a ring of standing stones...no, figures, some human, some animals, and some not quite either, like the wild-haired restless shadows of the Kokopelli, the Hopi spirits who seemed to speak through their flutes.

(And yes, there is a Hunter S. Thompson reference in the above paragraph.)

Non-Research / Review Books In Progress: Capote.

Current Mood: restless
Current Music: "Enterprising Young Men", from *Star Trek*

Snatches And Spirits
PROGRESS REPORT

New Words: 2300 on "Five Visions of Aztlan".

Total Words: 9800. Four "visions" down (Taos, NM; Flagstaff, AZ; El Centro, CA; and Glen Canyon Dam, AZ) and one (Palo Duro Canyon, TX) to go. This story is making me remember how much I love the Southwestern U.S. and is cementing my desire for my next multigenerational historical novel to be Arizona.

Reason For Stopping: Work, and finished the fourth "vision".

Mammalian Assistance: None. This was written in snatches at work.

Exercise: Three jogged laps around the gym, stretching, a mile (averaging 6 mph) on the elliptical with a 5 minute cooldown, then Ze Ab Kruncher.

Stimulants: I think I had a nip of Sprite.

Today's Opening Passage:

If you mean literally, I rewrote the story's opening first...

My name is Lazaro de Tormes--or that's close enough so as not to matter. I am a picaro, a scoundrel named for a scoundrel. I am a sinner, a liar, and a politician, but at least I am not a historian.

The story I am about to tell you is not a lie exactly, not exactly truth either, but close enough to truth to benefit all of us.

If you mean starting at the point where I left off on Saturday...

For all the trip north I wondered what a battle between spirit powers would look like to us mere mortals. Would they be throwing lightning bolts and tornadoes around? For a moment I had the odd compulsion to ask Don Pablo, but cast off that idea as foolish.

Yet when we got there, we were surrounded by...Nada.

It’s the best way I can explain. Nothing moved—there was no one to be seen (with one notable exception), no animals, no wind, no sounds. I was a little bothered by the fact that the Colorado River was completely still. I willed myself not to look at the black specks in the air that too much resembled birds in flight.

Not quite like other battlefields I’d tromped over.

Darling Du Jour: “You don’t think anyone will notice us?” I asked Wisdom Wind.

Don Pablo answered. “When the spirit powers fight, they fight outside of time. You can’t see them but they’re here, all around us, and they let us into their little pocket.”

I didn’t say, I don’t like being in anyone’s pocket. Especially not spirits’.

Instead I asked, “Why are we here?”

“To witness,” Wisdom Wind said.

“Witness what?”

He glanced at an old Elgin watch on his wrist. “Lots of things. The end of a battle. The end of the old world...”

“The rise of a new world?”

He smiled almost sheepishly and shrugged. “The spirits will get a rise out of something, one way or another. They always do.”

Or...

What stopped my frivolous speaking was the sudden panorama laid out below. It was ours to savor for that moment of timelessness we had been granted: This is Aztlan. Whether or not you believed the Aztecs or Fort Worth adjunct history professors. It could have been eighty canyons or thousands. It could have been dry or filled with mist. The walls were brown and red and their geological lines stacked one on top of the other, or all sight of them blanketed snugly by lush green and filled with trees. It was a hundred different places all at once, giving rise to a thousand different peoples, if not in this physical place then in the vortex of the cosmos that whirled here and sent spirits into infants throughout the ages of human history.

Non-Research / Review Books In Progress: Capote.

Current Mood: devious
Current Music: "Prince Ali", from Aladdin

In Which Ancient Spirits Whisper To Me On Halloween
I still haven't resumed work on The Great Valley, but I have been writing: A short story (my first and likely only one this year) set in the near future about Aztlan (the version that wants to cut out part of the southwestern U.S. for an Hispanic nation). Actually it's five story ideas compressed into one; Laurie and I were discussing the subject of the Aztlan "historical precedence" argument versus Native American honest-to-goodness historical precedence on Thursday, I mentioned that I'd had miscellaneous story ideas about the topic, then realized I should put them together with one common POV character. The title is "Five Visions of Aztlan".

Originally I intended this to be a straight-up narrative, but knowing me, I should've known better. By Halloween, when I spent half the day writing, I realized that ancient spirits were whispering in my ear and creeping into the story. In fact Trickster himself had already woven his way into the tale without me realizing it until it was too late to extricate him. (Trickster often gets the better of me, though usually there's little or no harm done. He's probably right that his place in the story makes it better.)

So what started out as a near-future tale of an America wrecked by a terrorist EMP attack has transformed into a full-fledged fantasy by Vision #4 ("Glen Canyon Dam, Lake Powell, Arizona"). And thanks to Trickster the only things I need to go back and change in the earlier portions are a bit of foreshadowing.

I also know better than to fight it--Trickster and all his friends have too much practice getting their way.

PROGRESS REPORT FOR 10/29-31/09

New Words: 7500 (1800 / 1700 / 4000) on "Aztlan".

Total Words: 7500.

Reasons For Stopping: Chronologically: Work, exercise, hanging out with Laurie, and my first NCIS DVD from Netflix, received at the urging of an addicted friend who shall go nameless at her own request. :)

Story Year: Near future.

Mammalian Assistance: None, though Friday was chopping at the door again.

Exercise: Walking with Laurie and the dogs most nights. A 45-minute hike (carrying a pinhole camera made out of a paint can) around the campus mountain. Most of an upper body workout on Friday, including 1.5 miles plus cooldown, averaging 6 mph, on the elliptical. I still can only do half-bicep curls post-Mysterious Ailment thanks to still-tender elbows (especially frustrating since that used to be my easiest weight lifting), but I did enough lifting so that my upper arms are still sore.

Stimulants: A 20 ounce bottle of Dr. Pepper on Saturday.

Today's Opening Passages:

Thursday: (This has since been replaced.)

Taos, Nuevo Mexico

It’s an ancient truism that politicians are great liars, and though I take a wee bit of umbrage at this being a politician myself of no small standing and notoriety, I defend our policies of mis-honesty by virtue of the fact that we are neither the greatest liars nor the most conniving. If done properly, a political lie is a winning situation for all involved. I get what I want, you get what you want, and both of us are satisfied. As for the most conniving liars, however, this honor falls to historians. Most of their accusations are undeniable simply because the participants are dead. They are abetted in this by History herself, most of which happened before any of us were born—and especially dark and cunning are the opening years of any land, when blood and smoke obscures so much.

Friday:

Flagstaff, Arizona

When I started out of Taos it seemed silly to have two miniature flags of Aztlan—which resembled the Mexican flag of an eagle eating a serpent, except for the lightning bolt behind them threatening to fry both of them—flying from the hood of a washed-out blue ’68 Chevy pickup with dry straw blowing around in the back. I would come to be glad for them soon, though, when we were stopped on I-40 by a line of caballeros blocking both lanes.

Saturday:

Alurista (formerly El Centro), California

The history books claim that the first monks were men who achieved spiritual solitude by wandering off alone to the Egyptian desert and living in caves. I will give the historians this one because it is so fantastical a tale no one would think to make it up. But the spiritual seekers of Aztlan who came to El Centro and renamed it after a poet I always found a little…well, never mind what I thought of him. These seekers were somewhat different than ancient monks.

Darling Du Jour: There were children dancing to the lively tune—including Kristina’s son, bouncing more than dancing with a sweet dark-eyed Aztlan girl who obviously adored him; and nearby was Kristina’s graceful taller daughter, whose long hair swept back and forth while she clasped the hands of a happily bewildered Aztlan boy dressed in traditional poncho and sombrero. All the children were romping in a wide wild circle like the dust that had swirled around Chattiway’s feet a moment ago.

“I could see more of this,” the Imperial leader said.

“It would please me too,” I told him.

“Though I can’t stand that horrible screech they call Scottish music,” he added.

I beamed and grabbed his shoulders. “You see, amigo? Not five minutes since we talked and already there are two things we agree on!”

Submissions Sent Out In October: Just 1, again.

Total Submissions Out Right Now: 5.

Non-Research / Review Books In Progress: In Cold Blood by Truman Capote.

Current Mood: curious
Current Music: "Enterprising Young Men" from *Star Trek*

An Award-Winning President
I just realized I hadn't written about Obama winning the Nobel peace prize yet. And I don't really intend to write much in the way about it considering the story is two weeks old and this would probably be the ten-thousandth time you'd seen something about it.

What I haven't seen very much at all is this: If you're one of the folks that believes Obama did deserve to get the peace prize, I ask you then to read this article about the contenders this year who didn't win, and then offer up to me why Obama was more deserving.

In other thoughts, I know a lot of conservatives who are giddy about how angry at Obama the D.C. Democrats seem. But it's been my experience that conservatives and liberals look very differently at those who argue with authority. The health care issue aside, and as I figured would happen right after the election, the primary reason they're mad at him is for acting like George W. Bush.

Current Mood: Frustrated at slow Net
Current Music: The opening theme from *Voyagers*

Wrapping Up Not-So-Good Times For Even Worse Times
PROGRESS REPORT FOR 10/23/09

New Words: 1800 on chapter 2 ("The Dreamers, 1916") of The Great Valley.

Total Words: 116400.

Reason For Stopping: Finished the chapter!

Book Year: 1929.

Mammalian Assistance: None.

Exercise: A little bit of walking with Laurie and the dogs. I'm going to wait a few days before starting chapter 3 so as to make myself get back into the swing of my workout routine.

Stimulants: None.

Today's Opening Passage: April 1929. Daniel had spent much of the winter running over the last five years of his life since becoming a ranger, almost three of which were spent days on and days off with Sadie, and wondering if he was hiking down the right path. He spent far more time alone than with her, and it was small comfort knowing Lee saw her no more than he did. But Sadie and the forest were the two things in his life he was least willing to surrender. And when the weather suddenly warmed and dried as he and Sadie prepared to snatch a precious two days to camp together, at that moment Daniel felt there was nothing wrong at all in the world.

Darling Du Jour: Not exactly a darling, but I couldn't resist the historical irony...

He whooped and pulled her into a hug and a long kiss. When he finally stepped back he told her, “Miss Gillespie, I think you just made 1929 the best year that ever was and ever will be.”

Non-Research / Review Books In Progress:

sartorias; Stirling.

Current Mood: thoughtful
Current Music: *Love What You Do*, by the Hackensaw Boys

More Snatchercising
PROGRESS REPORT

New Words: 1500 on chapter 2 ("The Dreamers, 1916") of The Great Valley. Going backwards to add three short scenes filling in some personal history and characterization for a couple of the characters. Written over the course of about two hours.

Total Words: 114600.

Reason For Stopping: Work.

Book Year: Still 1928, though both of these scenes took place in 1924.

Mammalian Assistance: None.

Exercise: Ditto.

Stimulants: Ditto part deux.

Today's Opening Passage: The night she met Lee was the night Sadie had her first dream that was more than a dream.

Two things had stirred her blood, even driving out the memory of her father laying dead in the kitchen: Meeting Lee, and hearing her Grandma Rachel sing with the voice of an angel. Lee was handsome enough, but there was a quiet confidence about him that made her feel like she was being pulled off the mountain. And the golden notes coming from her grandmother felt like they’d been waiting years to come out and wanted to open Heaven when they did.

Darling Du Jour: Aside from the above, I also kind of like

“How do I choose, when the time comes?”

“Pray. Sing yourself down the path. Decide which gift will bring the most blessing for others.”

Rachel stood and made for the door, then leaned against it and gazed back at Sadie with weary eyes. “But you must choose, Sadie. To do nothing will sweep you away.”

Sadie didn’t fret over her grandmother’s warning. She’d never once planned to do nothing with her life.

Non-Research / Review Books In Progress:

sartorias; Stirling.

Current Mood: recumbent
Current Music: Butterfly Boucher