Free Lunch

  I met a white guy today. This dude was bleached out. Not really albino, but pretty damned close. Wore a lot of whites and pastel solids, too. He invited me to lunch after reading through my submission. I had to go into the city, but it was worth the 45 minute drive, if I get published.

  His name is Georgie and he wants to become my literary agent. It is a step toward being paid. It is a step away from the mutterings from the soon to be ex-family.

  Connections, connections, connections…

  He’s pretty well connected, as it turns out. He’s been out this way for a decade and has managed a lot of other authors in the Southeast side of the state into steady incomes. That should show the ex-ball and chain. Or her mother.

 

  Guys, do you ever wonder how much string pulling (umbilical cord pulling?) goes on between the mother and the daughter? Weird and heavy power-struggle psych stuff right there. It really shows the capacity of what the ‘fair’ sex feels is Fair. A lot of wasted energy, if you ask me.

  I digress! Payday! Income based upon capability!

  As steady as the author’s capabilities are, I suppose.

  Georgie gave me some advice, too. After reading through my proposal, he suggested that I complete and polish the intro piece. Something to set the characters into the world. I’ve been fooling around with a ‘14^th chapter’, but I guess it took a professional’s suggestion to make the played into the paid. He also kept coming back to this being expanded into a series of books, should the first book be well received. I have to admit; since this thing is down on paper now, I've been kicking around some ideas for another book. The funny thing is, the dreams have stopped. I haven't been dreaming at all lately. Shoot, I haven't been sleeping more than 4 hours a night either. I wonder what would happen if I jumped back into this thing with a fresh story arc.

 

  I ought to throw a shout out to Georgie while I’m editing. I've got a character in mind that fits the bill...

- I.K.

The Blunders, That's Where!

  I blundered into some shorthand elements of Socrates’ Republic. I got hung up on something that was in Book 5: “a just city is one in which citizens have no family ties.”

  Of course, this made me consider my situation. How many times have I had to bow down do the ‘family values’ rather than the things that are important to me?

  I further blundered into some of Alister Crowley’s writings about that “Horrid word, family!” rant.

  Then there is Ayn Rand and Marty Nemko’s ideals against ‘family’.

  So where does that leave me these days?

-I.K.

Side Story 1: Chief Wessel's Secret

Runny eggs and cold coffee was the love coming from Aaron Wessel’s wife this morning.
Hell of a way to start a long day. Heh… weekend. As the chief of police on a Friday before Memorial day, the weekend was going to prove to be a nasty one. He finished up, gave the kid a rub on the head and his wife the peck on the cheek.

Check and check.

The squad car was parked in the drive. He had brought it home after topping it up at the yard. Holiday weekends were never quiet for the force. He liked to be able to be a presence at whatever was going to happen this weekend. That meant making his on-call office as mobile as possible.

Prior to making it into the office, he had to run back-up at a high school party ‘morning after’ bust. Then it was off to the church for a heads up to some of the kid’s parents. Politics and more politics.

After checking in downtown, he got back into the cruiser. One block over, he got back out.

There was a bus parked around back of the town hall. One of the smaller ones. He noted that a basement window had been opened a few inches. Soothing rhythms of piano jazz whispered from it. The speakers must have been set up right underneath the window, because the murmurs and sudden outbursts of laughter wasn’t drowning it out. He heard a voice say “Looks like the Chief is here…”

The voice might have been Jimmy’s. Could be his brother Jack. A year apart, but those two could be twins. Wessel smiled as he took the steps two at a time. Jimmy’s voice sounded happy.
For almost an hour, Wessel had a second breakfast with his other family. Five kids; all orphans, victims of tragedy and personal horrors that had taken their families away from them. He played a few hands of poker with the older ones, always making sure to never let anything other than a pair end up in his hand. He left that table with handshakes all around and a wallet that was twenty-three bucks lighter. He sat with Sandra for a bit and watched her draw in the small sketchbook that he had brought along. She was into portraits these days. She talked about shading verses hard lines, off-set eyes to add realism, and (quietly) whispered her concern that she felt kind of weird drawing ethnic groups outside of her own. It wasn’t a racist thing; more of a sense of invaded space, she felt she was invading a personal space because of her need to study different ethnic details. Wessel suggested that she pick up some National Geographic’s and copy out a few of the folks from that. He couldn’t help but smile as a light of inspiration sparked behind those soft hazel eyes. The phone beeped and vibrated.

He blinked at the sound. The smile never left, but the warmth sure did. Aaron was pulled back into the real world. It was a text from the matriarch of Blocgarten, Gaam Onondaga.

Before leaving, he collected the billing invoice from Mrs. Sommers (looking at the total, he figured that he would be eating runny eggs for the next week).There were hugs and handshakes all around. A second text from Gaam pulled Aaron out of the building, making him put on his Chief face. Some hippy had been slaughtered by a beast out on her property.

The chief was glad he packed extra bags in the back of the cruiser. Yes sir, it was going to be a busy weekend.

The Dust Settles

Good news! I'm out of the basement.

Last Wednesday, I worked on getting my mother-in-law moved into the house. It was quite a day; as none of us have a car larger than a four-door coupe. Nothing was boxed, either. There were a few close calls with chairs and smaller furniture pieces almost leaping out of trunks, but everything made it through with only minor nicks. We had loads of room around the house. The wife had been donating 'gently loved furniture' to local groups.

Yep. We all slept like the dead on Wednesday night.

Thursday, I was contacted by the office of an "R.T."; the good Dr. Tan. I had a 10 a.m. appointment that had been set up by my wife. Tan is a Reality Therapist, which is a kind of Cognitive Behavioral Therapist that deals with a real-world approach of planning and implementing social interaction. My wife had apparently stepped up her game plan. Apparently, there is a head shrinking element in her benefit package.

After the rage subsided, I decided to jump through the hoop. We spoke for an hour, then I came home to a letter.

Dearest Ian;

I am writing this in the hope that you will see the error in judgement that you have made in regard to your home, family, and promise to me. I cannot believe that this man who worked so hard to woo me, to promise his eternal Love to me, to surround me with the wonderful children who are in our lives; would choose a BOOK over a real LIFE.

I understand that the past months have been difficult for you. It must be traumatizing to have dedicated your mind and time to a job, only to have it taken away from you through a single error in communication. For this, I am truly sorry.

However; you MUST return to your feet and take care of your family. We are supporting you, just as you have supported us in the past. It is time to let go of the past and look to the present. Look to the future! We are all right here!

I would have spoken to you about the contents of this letter face to face, but you would have stared blankly at me and return to your basement. What is the point of breath and emotion when the person whose eyes you are seeking can only see ink and paper? This letter is my Final Go at this topic. I am tired of crying. I am tired of feeling cut to the bone.

You know something? I just don't care. I'm tired of trying. That's why I've turned you over to a doctor. I've moved your clothes, some furniture, and your precious writing over to an apartment on West Street. The key and brochure is enclosed. You are paid for the next six months. Go be a lump. Beg someone to feed you. I just don't care anymore. I've spoken to my attorney and have begun divorce proceedings.

Enjoy your life alone. You know where to reach me whenever you decide to TRULY return to the real world.

-Erica

I Swear It Was Only One Week.

Hi.

Ever have one of those days?

The time stamp on this post was supposed to have read July 22. You can see the August stamp. It looks like I missed some time, right?

Missed time. Right.

So I beat everyone out of bed the other morning, the 'other morning' being July 22; got the breakfasts around and the to-do list in order. Everyone had things to do. They were out the door by 7:43 a.m. I know this, because I remember looking at the clock in the kitchen when I waved the troops goodbye.

Then I went downstairs to type.

You see, I had a project for the book that needed to get sorted out. After reading the completed chapters, good old Georgie informed me that it would need a preface to 'immerse the reader' into the short stories. It turns out that simply throwing a reader into this series is too much too soon. Turns out that there has to be a kind of 'primer' that will create a sense of familiarity for the interconnected tissue tracing its way through each chapter.

Georgie gave me two choices: Re-write each chapter as a novel; with the reader able to travel along with characters established in the first ten pages, or create a Preface that would introduce everybody.

The Preface sounded a lot more manageable.

So here I was, cursing under my breath as I jotted notes on the first five short stories. I would have to open my mind to these dream-tales; bring the inhalation of what set each of them on their merry way into the Preface. I worked. I drank coffee. I diagramed. I ate snacks. Wrote stuff down. Nuked some cheddar over tortilla chips. Notes notes notes. Cooked up some pasta with a ton of parmesan. Then I started sketching a map of the town.

The screwing around stopped.

I lost track of the afternoon, skipped dinner, and never heard anyone come home. I worked well into the night. When it was all said and done, I had a map of the town and region. I also had a punch list of events that would carry the reader through the almighty Preface. The numbers on the clock glowed a red 1:19.

I stumbled up the stairs and hit the bathroom. Washed and made it to the bedroom. I think I was asleep before I really sank into the pillow.

Next thing I know, there are flashlights bobbing around the room. A knee in the back and my left arm getting yanked out of its socket as the cuffs are slapped on. Shouts of "KEEP DOWN" and other less kind things. The overhead lights blazed on and I was surrounded by uniforms and the business end of a couple hundred pistols.

Glad I hit the can before I fell asleep. I remember the clock reading 1:40, then changing to 1:41. I remember getting yanked out of the bed and dragged down the hall of my own house. Squad cars. Shouting. Some of it from them. A LOT of it from me. I was groggy and I was furious. A face in the crowd. My wife. The kids looking on from the neighbors bay window. The whole block had their lights on. As I was driven down the street; I remember the stink of the back seat, the mesh separating me from the two cops up front, and the silhouettes of neighbors at their windows.

There was 'processing'. There was questioning. I was so confused, I didn't even think to ask for a lawyer, even after the Maranda rights were read to me. Yah, I nodded that I understood the words. Didn't register what they meant, but I understood the words.

No, I had no idea if I had been abducted or if I had left my family of my own free will a month ago.
I was in the basement!

No, I had no idea that it was August 20th!
It is July 23rd! Well, it felt like July 22nd. Cripes, I had just fallen asleep.

Yes that is my wife. Yes, those are my kids in that picture. No I don't use recreational drugs. No I don't have favors or debts to private citizens. No, I have no record of mental illness. Yes, that is the name of my family doctor.

Long story short, I'm sleeping on a blow up mattress in the basement until the family figures out what to do with me. I haven't even looked at the paperwork for Blocgarten since I've been home. I get a chill just looking at that side of the room. My life is a cocoon of simmering fear and scalding silence right now. The only up side is that Georgie wants to have a face to face at some point over the next few days.

Whenever I can free up some time...

-I.K.

The Conscious Values of Sleep Debt

I got 8.5 hours last night!

This is pretty good. In case you didn't know, I've been operating on 3-4 hours of sleep for the past two months. If the slightest thing wakes me up, then all I can do is think about that book. I sit down to edit the book, I'm too tired to work on it. I muddle around the house, then all I'm doing is thinking about what I would like to do for the book.

Today, I am clear.

First off, I can't believe how attuned my senses are. Small nuances, like the hints of chocolate and cherry in the artisan coffee that my wife buys. Walking into the dining room and smelling the garlic of last nights dinner. Spotting all the little nicks and scrapes that need to be painted over. None of it bugs me; it simply gets filed into one of my mental buckets and I move on.

Second, I am not hungry. Sure, food tastes good. I can feel the good stuff making my body feel sated and energized. I don't have a deep desire to get into the sweets and salty stuff. No stress eating. I'm calm today. I feel strong.

Today is a project day!

There are a number of half-started projects that my <ahem> free time has allowed me to get into. Apparently, I begin something and then move on to begin something else. I believe publishers call that ability "stacking" when writers do it. I've got me some project stacks!

Now I have to figure out where to begin. There are some strange things that have been going on since my little sleep debt project. The most obvious of these is misplaced or missing things. After wandering the house, I looks like about half of the kids toys have vanished. I'm assuming that this is due to my wife's 'organizing' thing that she has started up. Lots of totes full of seasonal or seldom used items; labeled and stacked for our convince. Most of those totes are in the guest bedroom, which is still destined to become my mother-in-law's room.

Yep. THAT'S still happening. She's trying to figure out a paint scheme right now. It could take weeks.

Well; on that note, I'm going to sign off before the negative energy rolls in. Things to do and all of that!

-I.K.

The editing is done.

Got it done.

Somehow, it has become July. Working down in the basement while the rest of the family putters around in Summer Vacation bliss has made me somewhat lost to the perception of hours of days. Sometimes, I lose days as well.

Regardless of that little sticking point, I've got my 63,000 + words done. They are in an order that I like, too. All I have to do is run it all past Georgie and get his OK.

Then I release it upon the EARTH.

-I.K.

Fun Fun Funny Fun.

Alright, here is a venting post.

You know what I hate doing? I really hate chugging along at some project that I've been whittling away at for some time, only to find that I have left a big old pile of crap for me to 'fix later'.

The past few days have been 'fix later' days.

It's like pouring legos around the bed and then drinking down a huge glass of warm water right at bed time...
"I'll tear my feet up later. When I'm not ready for it. So I can't sleep for the rest of the night. Yah. That sounds like a GREAT plan."
...and then make sure the blackout curtains are all in place.

Well, I've muddled through the chapter called Funny Pages. It was NOT fun. I had a big artistic plan to utilize my brother and members of his visually artistic family in creating comic book pages right in the middle of the novel. There's this character who visually represents non-related elements of the novel through his prophetic images.
I figured it would make a nifty book gimmic too.
The images never panned out, so I was forced to write the images in a truncated, concise way that would fit into the flow of the chapter.

Ugh.

It was like doing a rough draft, for the second (third?) time.

Never again. Clean the work better to make the editing less dreadful. I have learned my lesson!

-I.K.

Discovering the Fable Types

Lovecraftian fairy tales.

Yep. That's what my dreams are.

As I edit each piece in this mosaic of short stories, I am coming to understand the fantastical nature of each. Also, I am beginning to see that each mini arc is providing a momentary conclusion for the players within it.

For example, in Neuth as Directed by Atum-Ra, the Fable Type is Courtship Rites. The Players are Girl, Boy, Servant, and Magic Item. The Theme is Sanctuary.

In Viewing from On High, the Fable Type is Spirit Quest, Players are Wizard, Cultists, and Death. The Theme is the Puzzle of Knowledge.

I might continue breaking these down in the future, if only for the fun of it!

-I.K.

Editing is fun!

Hi.

I've found my niche for editing. It is 3 a.m. until the family wakes up. Coffee and the family dog begging for second breakfast. I've been listening to a lot of old tunes lateley. Mostly Rush. Some Queensryche. A little Pink Floyd.

Musical storytellers.

My mind has been wandering back to my failure of a High School 'career'. I've been thinking of those old plans made as graduation approached. I never took that cross-country trip in lieu of an assitant manager job. I never made my basement into an arcade in lieu of the first wife's disinterest in 'childish things'. Status quoe verses dreams. Christ! I married too young. Let too many things go unexplored and now my soul is like a desert.

O.K., I'm back.

What has also come to my attention is that I am a kind of god. Not in any way that I will gain status in this universe. My godhood comes from what I have been told to create. That's why I am calling myself a god with a little 'g' and not the big one. My head hurts when I start thinking about this whole god-chicken-god-egg thing. All I know is that I'm second.

So here is the puzzle that proves that I'm a god: I have created a living, breathing universe... on paper. This universe travels through time and reaches a (small) climax. During said climax, the universe reaches across time, space, and even dimensions; only to impart some of its stories into my mind.
Because of the stories, I create a living, breathing universe. Now I find that I am driven to see where it all spends whatever energy I give to it.

I am the Breath of this universes' Life.

-god

Heavy Frontload

   Preface. Do I need one? Not sure. The author's note and the first chapter seem to be enough. I think I'll call it...

   Done. Well, sort of.

   I've constructed a mini novel that ties the stories of my chapters together. I don't think it will end up in the book itself. Is it too heavy? I don't think it is. Sure, there's death, destruction, a psychopath, a monster, weird science, and even Georgie...

   O.K. It might be a little heavy. I'll leave it out. Stick it in a drawer and forget about it. Maybe it can be a bonus short story about the book after it becomes a best seller. Why did I write something that I'll never include? I'm looking at this as a pilot episode for the rest of the book's serialized chapters. That what it is, after all; a season of TV shows with no boundaries and no censors.

   I've even got a cliffhanger.

   I don't have a second book, but I've got a cliffhanger! Christ, this'll never sell.

   Well, all I can do is get through the edit process and hope for the best.

- I.K.

Bland Man's Bluff

  We are flawed.

  Our filters are limited. There is more to the light spectrum than what we can perceive on a moment to moment daily basis. There are sounds we cannot hear. There are paths of logical occurrences that our minds cannot fully accept.

  You know that we are built off of DNA blueprints, but are you aware of every copy being made of yourself as it is being made? Nope.

  We don’t even notice our breath. We have grown ignorant of our heartbeat. The only time we notice that kind of stuff is when we wake up at 2 a.m. in a cold sweat in a dark room. Or when we are sick and the rest of the world no longer matters.

  Here’s the thing; we look around our little worlds with our limited input systems and we think we have a ‘pretty good’ handle for what is going on. Meanwhile; our loves, enemies, co-conspirators, and folks we’ve ‘friended’ are all doing and thinking their own version of the same thing. Some of us drive too fast, some of us lust, some of us hide in bottles; all of us have flaws of weaknesses based upon some form of fear.

  Fear due to our limited filters of this Reality.

  Fear that there are things above and beyond that are casually regarding us.

  Fear that we might be insignificant in light of the Universe.

  We are failed, for we cannot see.

- I.K.

Shadows Over Thismonth

 The wife is on me about getting the book out ‘there’.

  Again.

  I’ve signed on for a handful of writing groups and workshops that are being put on by the local colleges. My big worry is the publishing side of things. I’ll have to start shaving again. That means visiting the shower a little more often too.

 <Insert sigh and look of exhausted dread>

  Back to the veneer of being a ‘good boy’ again. Gotta keep up that status quo. Soooo, I’m looking into the publishing game. Trying to see what folks are local that might want to help out a fellow local. I figure if I hit it from that angle, I can (at least) say that I am a published author for whatever next work comes out of me.

  The other beni is that I can do local literary shows. Drink a little wine. Act a little important, rub elbows with the elite…

  OK, back to earth.

  I need to find a quiet corner and finish this thing.

- I.K.

The Big Good and Other Bad Things

  I’ve been thinking a lot about ‘law’ lately.

  I’ve been thinking about the Bible too. How many times has religion been used to steer the masses
to act a certain way, with law holding hands as the two Powers skip along. Even so, everyone is quick to point out ‘the separation of Church and State’ whenever I bring this up. Trained monkeys, the lot of them.

  What is Law? I spoke to a layer neighbor the other day, and when I mentioned how law was the red-headed stepchild to rules laid out in the Bible, he got flustered and defensive. I pointed out the whole Thou shalt not kill! and argued that it was the same law written down in our legaleeze books. Shoot; between that and stealing (another one from the Bible), you’ve got the crux of every cop drama show on TV since the dawn of time.

  These days, ‘right’ and ‘legal’ is whatever the Big Business du’jour (de jure?) says it needs it to be. There is no true longevity planning. As long as B.B. is in charge, there are no ‘business ethics’ to speak of. Rain forests will burn. Corporate law breakers will get out of jail… for a ‘fine’. In the end, B.B. wants to tell us what to do with our money, where to spend it, and how much we really need. Corporate laws are adjusted to the favorite B.B.’s of the current regime, to make life easier. It’s all a crock of BS in my book.

  I suppose I’m just frustrated. I’ve lived too long with a budget and now that I don’t have one… or at least I’m not contributing to one; I feel that I have started to look at what’s really going on around me. Us. You.

  We humans enjoy comfort. We want to be carried with minumal effort. That’s why there’s a whole lot more of us than the Amish. We want to be fat and happy, and there are people who have figured out how to become fatter and happier in the process of making us fat and happy.

  I’ve chosen a lifestyle that is outside of the majority ‘norm’ and now I get to deal with it. The problem is, our society has been hard-wired to accept the ‘norm’ and literally or unconsiously show prejudice to those who step outside of it. Fear change. Fear that which is different. The ‘norm’ knows what is right and anything else just smells funny.

  We all need to get ourselves a nose job.

- I.K.

Rhythm and Clues

  Hi.
  Yah, I know I should be writing.
  Sue me.
  LOL.
  Wife’s at work. Kids are at school. Just me and the house. I’ve been following this thing going on in the political arena lately. With the extra time on my hands, I’ve been doing a lot of surfing. Lots of data gathering.
  Speaking of which, what is up with television programming these days? Sheesh. Talk about training the general population for the worse case scenarios! I’m seeing a trend that is more than a little spooky. It might be me, but I’m seeing a lot of women in power getting taken down hard and nasty. Is this a set-up for a woman president or for her removal if the event occurs?
  It gets even more spooky when I think about the population segments that are observing these media blocks of a given day. It’s a propaganda burst. Settle an idea in some elderly or housewife mind, they talk about it endlessly until it becomes a joke by the working class. Then said propaganda event occurs and everyone ‘takes it in stride’ rather than questioning the ethics or morals involved.
  That being said, I’m trying to get behind a political party. It seems that everyone I talk to has a VERY focused opinion for or against one of them. I just don’t see it. The point of it all, that is. Making all that noise like the political arena is a football team or something. It isn’t. It is a bunch of people who represent one or more different levels on the capitalism pyramid. From what I can see, the Democrats rep folks who are hurt by a weak dollar. The Republicans rep those who want to loan against a strong dollar. It takes the Dem’s love of taxes to make the dollar strong, it takes the Rep’s love of big business profit that ultimately allows the pyramid base to ‘flourish’ until the dollar gets weak. It’s a cycle, nothing more than a spinning cycle.
  Personally, I think we’ve let the veneer of ‘capitalism’ run its course within this ruse we call ‘democracy’. We are looking at a political system that is nothing more than paper, with a scant handful of workers trying to control it. Whenever the system bulges with too many higher-ups, then it goes all top-heavy and whatever cause created the gathering of manpower is lost in the resulting scuffle.
  Burn it all down and start with whatever survives the fire, I say.
  Just buy my book first. Keep me off the streets.

- I.K.

Oops.

  Unshaved, bathrobe, coffee.

  Yep. I’m unemployed.

  Hi there. I’m outta a job. Still getting my head around that one...

  I had a “cost inducing error of judgment” that blew out some equipment and cost the company some big bucks to replace. When the budget review came back, I was outsourced.

  Wife, kid, house, cars… all that and no cash.

  Not good.

  They’re thrilled too.

  Still, I don’t feel stressed out anymore.

  For the first time in a looooong time, I feel relaxed. It’s nice kicking back and letting the world pass by the window. I’m punching my own clock now.

  I’ve made a deal with the wife. She’s giving me 30 days to finish the book and farm it out. Then I’ve got to get back into the mainstream. The question of the day: Is it 30 days from right now or ’30 days’ ala ‘the end of this month’. I’m willing to place my bet on the latter.

  Word has it that things are tricky for new authors, so I’m going to give myself a couple of weeks to get the book done. Then it will carpet bomb every agent and publisher I can find. I was aiming on the 50k work novel goal. Now I might make due with any novella or whatever other book deal I might find. Anything is something at this stage of the game.

  If I still come up empty, then it is back to the old bump and grind of the ‘real world’. It’s nice when ‘love’ defines itself as a set cost-of-living-to-be-happy number. First I was the dreamboat, then I was the sperm bank. Now I’m the cash cow.

  At least I know my place in this little machine called home.

- I.K.

Tick Tock Tick Tock...

  Grey matters.

  I’ve been thinking about something lately. What, exactly; do we really know? I'm talking about our individual knowledge pool in contrast to all the stuff available to us to learn.

   What about our planet’s data banks ‘pool’ in contrast to our universes ‘pool’?

  What is the correct ratio of data knowledge to real-world knowledge? Is it a sliding scale? Does that even matter?

   Things are getting dicey down at the shop. The client nuked the electricians who blazed the mainframe. Now they’re ‘assessing the current I.T. staff for opportunities’. Work responses have been cut in half due to CYA maneuvers. It’ll blow over in time. I give it two weeks; and then business as usual. It's just the way these things work out.

- I.K.

SHOPPING AND CHOPPING LISTS

  What if it is all is part of a plan?

  I’m not talking about the big ‘ole God’s Plan for all of us specks. Nope. I’m talking about all things in an area having no value other than their use for the moment. Other than that, the stuff (when it is not being used) is just stuff that has no real value. Like a fork in a drawer, a hammer on a shelf, or an apple that has fallen from a tree in the middle of nowhere.

  What if people fall into this concept of stuff. What if each of us isn’t the center of the universe? We are only grains of sand on a very big beach. If someone needs some glass, then some sand gets scooped for the furnace. Those grains are serving a purpose. The rest of the grains just soak the wind, water, sun, and bird poop.

  This leads me to a question: is ‘good’ pointless, or is it a kind of weakness? With a ‘toolshed’ point of view of us mortals awaiting their job number to get picked, the concept of ‘good’ fails when set outside of the immediate group of human ‘tools’. The only answer that comes to mind is a kind of question: Is ‘goodness’ / morality a kind of control mechanism, like an adaptable lynchpin that keeps all the cogs spinning where they are supposed to? I suppose that the ‘Greatest Good’ would be either the clockwork frame or the clockmaker itself.

   OK, I’ll come back down. Here’s the deal It’s just that I’ve been unable to connect with folks around me very well as of late. My oldest was happy about getting some rollerblades the other day. No… ecstatic would be the better term. You know how they act; all fidgety and talking a mile a minute.

   I felt nothing. Just another thing to watch out for. This new ‘sport’ was something for me to schedule into my day…

#14: Clean the gutters out.
(adjustment) #15: Teach the kid to rollerblade.
#16: Put up the snow gear…

   So I’m moving to zero on the sliding scale of empathy. Looking at the ‘to do’ list, I suppose I still have a decent amount of compassion. I don’t think I’m autistic. I don’t overly fixate on stuff. Most of the time, I’m just trying to clear out whatever problems are messing up my day; like a fighting-flight response or something like that.

   That’s why I’m stuck writing the dreams down. I just want them gone so that I can move on with my life. Clear the white noise and all of that.

- I.K.

The Smoke Clears

  I missed last weeks blog.

  Sorry about that. I had been electrocuted and am currently tending to the burns. It is amazing that we meat sacks made it out of the wilderness.

  In the quiet hours before I passed out last night, I found myself wondering about parallel universes. Is there another me / another set of ‘me’ who did not walk away from that zap? One parallel me suffering heart seizure, another me put into a coma, another me trapped in the resulting fire as the building came blazing down…

  Nah, it wasn’t that bad for me. Well, for this me. Some idiot journeyman electrician kicked on a fuse while I was wiring in the mainframe. I got hit by the 220 and my right hand locked onto the jolt. I screamed and the other guys got on the horn to shut the line down. The EMT cleared me after salving the burn. The mainframe didn’t make it.

  Someone is going to pay for that bit of bad news…

  My money is on the idiot at the fuse box.

  Well, it looks like winter is finally letting us go from its icy grip. At least the temps aren’t below zero anymore. Shoot; I actually got the kids to go take a bike ride. The house was quiet and that is just the way this old bear likes it. Made it through the cold with only a dead battery and no real property damage to deal with.

 

   Looking back on the last blog, I also have to say that I'm Baaack! I kind of quit a couple of weeks ago, but the dreams sure as hell didn't. Nope. They just kept rolling in; repeating like some old CD set on replay. The nice thing is that once I put them down on my little scrap of digital paper, they begin to play less frequently.

 

   Interesting thing about the electrocution and this writing; I'm finding it easier to write death and corruption pieces within this little cell of homework sign-offs, dumping garbage, and listening to everyone else blather on about their problems. Like I can fix their stuff. Sheesh. There are times that I watch the mouths move but I cannot fathom the noise that is coming out. It might as well be horns honking in a traffic jam. What's the point? Just deal with it and move on, people!

- I.K.

Stuck in the Muck

  This book may not happen. It’s like a diet. I’ve made it past the first month and have started to realize that this is a lifestyle change.

  Shoot, I’m just a guy in a house in the middle of a town. If this thing isn’t written, who will know? If a thing isn’t made, then folks aren’t going to miss it. I’ve got some soul searching to do, I guess.

 Let me bring you up to speed. I had another recurring dream last night.

  I wrote it down in the journal that I’m keeping at the bedside. That was dream number five. From the journal, I copy them into the short stories / book thing that I’m putting together.

  Looking through the journal, I continue to have this weird feeling. The dreams feel… sent. Or received. How can I describe them? OK, think in this way: You are walking down a path in a park and you find a phone lying on the ground. It’s one that can take pictures and film stuff. Giving in to that moment of weakness, you discover that the phone isn’t locked, so you dig in. You find some files that have been filmed, and you check them out.

  Who’s going to know, right?

  After a few of them, you start to feel funny about what you are watching. It’s like the scenes that were filmed were real. Normal people. Normal environments. Normal reactions.

  The problem with the scenes are the fact that they are filmed at all.

  Every one of them is a unique moment. Like a garden party where the fountain sprays the guests with wine, and the camera is there at the right moment. Or the guy jumping off the diving board and the board breaks, and the camera is there at the right moment.

  But the camera has a LOT of them on file. The date stamps are too close for comfort too. See what I mean?

  Too many coincidences.

  ESP? Time travel? Great set ups, actors, and scripting?

  Anyway, that’s the way these dreams are starting to feel.

  Too coincidental.

  Too real.

  Too terrible.

  Ultimately, I have to remind myself that they are dreams. None of it is real. Like a thriller flick or a TV show done right… and that’s the thing. I’m not sure the writing is the ‘right stuff’ for… anything. I’m thinking about mothballing this whole project and getting back into Real Life. We’ll see how things go next week.

-I.K.

Busy Little Hive

  Well, I shook that head cold off. Ugh. Body aches and exhaustion was my weekend. The only up side was the mint cookies delivery from the neighbor girl. $14 bucks well spent!

  OK. Back to the writing.

 

  First off, I have discovered that I possess an I/O device that I can’t turn off.

  Sitting at the dinner table last night, I felt like I was drifting over the room in a surreal haze. My mind was struggling with a ghost struggling with demons. Around the table, there were conversations going on. Talk about the winter soccer sign up. Then there was a discussion about some new Hindi spices that we’re using on the beef.

  Do Hindi’s even eat cow?

  While all of that is going on, I’m watching the cars drive by out the front window. Folks walking dogs heavy jackets. Trees thinking about waking from the winter nap.

  Here I am; eating a cow with my family in my house, thinking about how I’m going to stick a technicians’ ghost in a demonic rite taking place in an insane asylum.

  Surreal!

 

- I. K.

Another Heart You Day Come and Gone.

Time for some post-V-day blogging. Lived through another one. Gotta love the card companies and their forced holidays. The kids were fixated on making (multiple) cards for everyone in the house. She got nothing for me. I got nothing for her. Too tired. Not enough time. You know how it goes. We’ve been with each other for 12 anniversaries and two years before that. Been there, done that.

  Also; abandon all hope, ye cyberstalkers who enter here!

  I got nutten fer ya.

  I think I’ve got my first ‘fan’! Here’s the story:

  So I get home and stuck in the front door is a copy of a book titled Killing a Mouse on Sunday. It’s in Spanish, so I can’t read a word. I guess some movie was made of it back in the 60’s. Haven’t been able to find that title, though.

  Haven’t looked too hard for it, either.

  Anyway, now that I’ve got a fan, I feel like I’m being followed.

  Or watched.

  Monitored?

  It’s weird. I feel like I should have a knife on me. No, not a blade. I don’t think I could ever get over cutting someone. Just the thought of doing something like that gives me the willies. Nope. Nada.

  I did cut off a wooden rod from some scrap out in the garage. Drilled a hole and attached a cord. Now I got me a thump stick!

  Heh.

  I’ve been noticing people a lot more recently. I’m starting to feel like my neighbors down the road. We call them ‘the watchers’. Nothing goes on without them seeing it in this neighborhood! It’s a creepy kind of security.

  Anyway; people watching has become a hobby of mine. It started out with watching to see who is watching me. Not many, if any, as it turns out.

   Who does seem to be watching me is this gal named Elana Connelly. I mentioned her in a previous blog.

 Check me out. I’m a blogger.

   OK. Here is my take on her being the force behind my current dream-cycle. I woke up on New Years day with the first dream as a memory. Naturally, I didn’t think too much about it. It was a story that I’m thinking about titling Loosing It. One that I haven’t dreamt of for a while; which means it will be coming back soon. There’s this gal in the dream who is working for… wait for it… Dame Connelly.

   Now, I would like to point out that Connelly is the same Connelly that is in our world. I don’t know how I know it, I just KNOW IT. Once I sat down and looked into her stuff last week, I could see the same patterns of philosophy and the same voice that I hear from her in my dreams. Ultimately, she is a nihilist within a veneer of cultural morality. Does that make her a good person dealing with a devastating core; or a bad person playing a role to get by?

Rites of War is on Paper!

  Elana Connelly. Right now, I’m blaming her for the dreams. More on that later.

  I looked her up the other day. She was the one who had the writing credits for the afore mentioned Text flick. It turns out that she wrote some other books about a frame of mind called Evolutionary Ethics. The idea that she is trying to get out there is that ‘amorality is moral’ verses ‘amorality is a complement to normative ethics’.

  I have no idea what that means. Lots of amoral stuff, apparently.

  Being a good little author, I looked a lot of stuff up and read until my eyes burned and my brain hurt. I took notes. Here is the simplified version of my take on the whole shebang:

  First of all, what does ‘moral’ really mean? I mean, really? There are easy ones, like don’t kill and don’t steal. Then there are grey ones, like listening to a Christian far-right gal talking about gay marriage and a wiccan far-left guy taking about big business.

  With that in mind, I decided to lock into the black-and-white argument. First came the side of ‘amorality is moral’ it sticks to the idea that morals are relative to the situation at hand. You’ve got laws that define that killing and stealing is wrong. But those laws don’t count for the cop who shoots a perp, a soldier who opens up on the enemy, or the home owner defending themselves against a hopped up attacker with an axe. What about finding a $20 on the street? Is that stealing if you pocket it? It isn’t your money. What if you are broke and starving and there sits a hamburger that some dude left on the table to go use the can? What if you are unemployed and going to go home to starving kids; and someone left groceries in the back of their shiny, new pickup?

  This got me thinking about some of the characters that could show up in my book.

  Then comes the side of the argument where ‘amorality is a complement’ in that it is a cause-effect, a consequence, a relationship compass, it sensibly defines contexts of ethical meanings, and is part of family roles. You drink at an office party with your boss, you drive home, you kill a kid on a bike. But you have kids of your own that you are working hard to support. You’ve made sacrifices for those kids of yours. However; the world sees you as ‘that drunk that killed that kid with his car’.

  For me, the argument seems to boil down to one of self-control. Where you draw the line is what defines morality. The guy who drank with his boss could have done a watered-down drink or a few baby sips verses gulping it. Did that guy need to be drinking with his boss in the first place? What kind of place is that guy working for, anyway? Maybe that guy should have found another job.

  See? Self control with a dash of… foresight? Common sense? Flight verses fight? I suppose it boils down to how you are wired.

  Anyway, in Dame Connelly’s work sits all kinds of interesting plot devices and messed up characters to work with. A seed for them, anyway. The question is; where will they end up once I am done with them?

   That brings me to my FIRST dream-based writing; a little ditty that I call Rites of War. After putting the thing down on paper, I’m considering changing the title. I’m also thinking about making this book into an anthology of short stories based on the town I’m dreaming about. Each dream is the same, but different. I’ll be able to better explain once I have a few more written up.

   Hopefully…

Do we leave marks, or add to the ones already here?

Lovecraft.
  I suppose most folks have been exposed to this guy and his ideas in one form or another. Mine came from a movie titled The Text of the Maestro. It was a little indie flick about a pianist who began manipulating his most ardent fans with his music. At first he was the prime suspect when murders began occurring within the homes of folks who had come to his concerts. Then it became a hunt for a parasitic serial killer using the Maestro’s fan base as a buffet line. As I recall, there was a psycho, but they were under the sway of the music as well. Near the end of the film, the pianist had to come to terms that their passion was the murder device, fed by energies beyond the confines of our little blue planet. I remember the final scene’s weirdness, as the camera pulled away from Earth; it was like a P.O.V. shot that yanked us away until Sol was just another star in the sky of a living planet of chaotic… things.
   Well, that’s kind of the way I feel right now.
   A speck in the crosshairs of something else. I don’t know why that film came to mind, but it inspired an idea for a book. Well, not a single story, but a book of short stories. As a lark, I opened this blog the other day (my first!) and last night I began organizing the ideas for the… idea.
  Dreams become letters, letters become books.
  Are books solid dreams?
  More to come later!

I.K.

Getting this thing running.

Hi. I can't see this amounting to much, but I've decided to try a public forum to see if there is anyone else running into the same problem that I've had since the new year.

You see, I've had these reoccurring dreams about a town. Different places, same town. Same folks, different situations. It's like a TV show that my head is making up.

At first, it was cool. A little weird, but cool. On a sliding scale, I had them set at about 50%.

Now the 'weird' slide is increasing and the 'cool' slide is decreasing. The reason for this is that they are still occurring. Nothing new, mind you; just... re-runs.

This blog is one of two things I'm doing to help clear the queue. The other is to write them down as they return. Again.

Well, I'm doing this on break and break is over. Just wanted to have this in place for the weekend's writing plans!

If you are 'out there' too, drop a line and we'll compare notes.

See you this weekend.

-I.K.