Movies, Letters

A list of bad movie taglines, or really awful inspirational sayings. I've done my best to be original and cringe-inducing. However, if any of these mimic actual taglines, it's a case of cryptomnesia.

-Tomorrow begins, today. (Or, really, any variation on the past, present and future all colliding at once. Yesterday begets tomorrow. Tomorrow's yesterday is today. Forever started yesterday. Tomorrow remembers the past. Today, we find tomorrow. Today, we remember yesterday. Yesterday's dream is tomorrow's nightmare.)
-Fight the good fight. (Or any variation on X the good X. Eat the good eat. Sex the good sex. Break the good break. Drink the good drink. I feel like a warped five-year old. Do the good do. Believe the good belief.)
-The battle starts now.
-Give thanks. (Or any tie-in to a major holiday. Fall in love all over again. Celebrate Xmas/Kwanzaa/Hanukkah. The movie rises on Easter day. Bring in the new year. Discover Columbus' new world. Call off work on Labor Day.)
-The countdown begins on 10/09/08... (Or anything that "cleverly" references the date. Remember, remember the fifth of November [and I wouldn't be surprised if that was an actual tagline for V for Vendetta]. The anti-Christ is born on 06/06/06. Get baked on 04/20. Believe in the new millennium on 01/01/01. Get primed on 02/03/05. The thousandth is revealed on 09/09/09.)
-Who is the Candlestick Maker? (Or any question purportedly answered by watching the movie. What is drama? Where is Paradise? Why can't we all just get along? When is the salvation? How badly did you want to watch this movie?)

***

I recently wrote a physical letter for a care package. That is not so unusual. People generally include some form of correspondence with the items therein, so as to nourish the recipient's soul as well as their body.

What took me aback was how much I liked the act of (legibly) writing a letter. Most of my correspondence includes a keyboard as the writing tool. When I do write long hand, it is either in my journal, or for a first draft of a story. Very rarely do I find myself in a position to write to another individual. It felt sort of right.

Don't get me wrong. I do appreciate the convenience and immediacy email affords us. However, I think that we sacrifice a certain amount of intimacy for the alacrity. And I do not refer to bawdiness. Heaven knows so many have been brought down by lewd emails and texts. No, I refer to the fact that you are given something tangible, that sort of intimacy.

Think of the last time you received a note or letter, something handwritten. You had the paper itself, something to hold. You had their handwriting, unique and part of them. The imperfections that come with a handwritten note, maybe an erasure or two, a strike out, misspelled words.

Yeah, Luddism forever.

That sentiment makes the following more understandable, but not any more timely. I want a pen pal. Not a complete stranger, mind you, but someone I already know, and want to converse with in extended fashion. Yes, by modern standards, this is quite insane.

Realistically, there aren't many people I talk to to begin with, and most of them, I already have regular communication with them in some form. Besides, how do you explain this to someone? "Yeah, I know I could email you or text you or call you, but can I start writing you letters?" People already consider me a bit off, but even I consider this off-the-wall, even for me.

High Hurdles

I dreamt last night. Well, that's deceptive. I dream every night. Last night, however, I remembered my dream.

I was in a race, probably one hundred and ten meter hurdles. I have never run the hurdles in my life, too short for them. I'd have to plant my hand on the hurdles and kick myself over, or do a slide beneath them and run a penalty, not to mention killing my hips against the track. Still, it was a race, and I was the only participant.

The first hurdle was your traditional hurdle, and I made it over just fine, slowing down only to make it over. The next one was higher, maybe at chest level, and this one I really did have to plant my hands on it and kick myself over. The third was probably around neck level, and this one I actually had to hoist myself up.

Each hurdle rose higher and higher. Soon they were multi level affairs and took longer and longer to get up, but I eventually hurdled each of them. Then the tenth and final hurdle. It was on a campus-like setting, the hurdle was a building that had been constructed around a tree, it rose several stories high, and the finish line was on top of that building. People were milling around the ground, and everyone was waiting for me to go up.

Didn't even hesitate. I started climbing.

It was pretty damned rough, I'm not a climber, and there weren't many hand holds. The higher I went, the harder it was to find purchase against the building or tree. About halfway up, I wrapped my arm around a branch loop and hung there, trying to figure out where my next handhold was. I had a few stories to go, but there was no way to go. And then, it started raining. Not a light drizzle, it was a serious downpour.

I could feel my arm slipping, losing my grip, and I had to cry down to the fire department waiting below for help, because I wasn't going to survive much longer. It felt so awful, I started crying out, because I'd come so close, and I couldn't go any further. That was when I woke up screaming.

Despite all that, I find some solace in this dream. Yeah, it was kind of crappy, and it would seem to imply that I feel like events in my life outside my control are keeping me from succeeding, but that's the wrong message to take from it (although that is a message, and I need to think about that).

First, I ran the race, even though I've never done hurdles, even though it was getting ridiculous in terms of height, and only gave in when death was imminent. I'm trying my best.

Second, I didn't hesitate at any point, except when I couldn't find a handhold on the last hurdle. I just dived right in and kept on going.

Third, and perhaps most important, I remembered this dream. I haven't remembered many dreams over the past few months, due to the insomnia, but this one I recalled right after I woke up, after my eighth hour of sleep that night. Were they all consecutive? No, but I was able to get eight hours of sleep over eleven hours. This definitely beats two hours of sleep a night. Is everything in my life resolved? No, I've hit that point where nothing will ever be resolved, but I think I've finally found a bit of peace in my life. Work is not as ridiculous as it once was. Well, it is, but I've learned that it's not as important, and I shouldn't obsess. If things work out at work, they work out. If not, I fix the mistake, pick up, move on.

Unwanted Attention

In high school, I worked at a research laboratory. One day, perhaps almost at random, K.C. told me that gay men would find me attractive. He then said that I should take it as a compliment. I am unsure as to what K.C. was trying to tell me. Was he gay? Was A.T., his fiancee, just a beard? I lost touch with them after I left for college, and still don't know what he was trying to say.

***

A lot of men can't read social cues, or are stubborn. Witness the last time you've been in a bar, a guy keeps talking to some woman at the bar looking in the opposite direction, her body closed off, looking everywhere but at him. Yet, he still keeps talking because she accepted the drink he bought her. You wonder why he can't realize what's going wrong, if he figures that if he tries long enough, something good will happen.

I don't get hit on much. When it does happen, I usually don't even recognize it, because it's such a rare occasion. Even if I do recognize it, it's a welcome surprise. I want it to keep going, and I have almost never been the woman looking away, until today.

***

Fast forward to the grocery store. I was about to buy some groceries, when I noticed a plate of baked goods by the bakery entrance. Having never successfully shed my obsession with taking free food when offered (thank you college), I figured that I would grab a snack and go straight to the checkout. Very straightforward.

When I grabbed a piece, the store employee gave his spiel for me to buy more food. I stood there politely and nodded my head as he continued talking. He was an older gentleman, starved for attention based on the fact that he wouldn't stop talking, and wore a plain gold band on his right ring finger, beneath the latex glove (he was serving food, after all). Short cropped hair, thinning. Bit of a paunch. Perfectly average.

Now, if I had to remind you, I don't like talking to strangers. I still think that I do need to stretch my boundaries, so I have decided that if strangers engage me, I will try to engage them back. If nothing else, it makes for a mildly interesting story. Also, I'd just gotten a haircut, had gelled hair, and a few days worth of stubble. Why do I mention that? When I looked in the mirror, it made me look just young and scruffy enough to pass for a college aged student. The importance of this detail will come a little later.

For whatever reason, whether it's a vibe I give off, or the strangers that feel comfortable engaging me, a fair amount of people have no problem with telling me their life stories. He started talking about his next door neighbors, and then a strange exchange:

Store Baker: So, do you have any kids?
K.T.: No.
S.B.: Oh. So, how old are you?
K.T.: Twenty-nine.
S.B.: Really? I thought you were eighteen or nineteen.
K.T.: Thank you. (But I thought to myself, why in blue heaven would you ask if I had kids? The answer became obvious in hindsight.)
S.B.: You know, you are gorgeous.
K.T.: Oh, uh, thanks.
S.B.: Twenty-nine. Amazing.
K.T.: Yeah, I've always looked young.

Needless to say, my gay-dar was going off the charts. Only much later did I realize that he was trying to ascertain my sexual orientation by inquiring about the kids. He then said that the women must be falling all over me. I did not realize this was further him trying to figure out which team I batted for. He then asked if I had a girlfriend, and I hemmed and hawed for a second, because I am not good at lying once I am thrown off. Looking back, this probably encouraged him more than anything.

I made up a story and he was very excited, repeating that women would be crazy not to be my girlfriend. This started to make me want to back away, but I couldn't figure out a good way to run without being outright rude. I didn't grow up a pretty female. I've not been in that many situations where a guy was hitting on me and I didn't want to be hit on; as I recall, it's only happened two or three times in my life. I don't have that skill set, to make a graceful exit. Every time I mentioned the grocery basket, he kept talking, kept telling me about his life.

Turns out he bakes as a side job. Brownies and what not. Gave me his business card, kept talking about all the places where he delivered, then asked me where I lived. I told him the truth, and he mentioned how his route took him past there.

Anonymous ladies, on the rare few occasions that I have approached you and attempted to hit on you, and you were trying to make it obvious you did not want to talk to me, and I couldn't pick up on your cues, please let me apologize. I know it doesn't make it any better, but I now understand what you felt like, I respect you all as actual people, and thank you for trying to be polite and respectful and spare my feelings. I don't know how you do it.

You know how when you corner a wild animal, it bares its teeth? I started smiling, although I felt like it was the fake artifice resembling a smile, more just an awkward move which I had hoped would repel him. No, he said I had a wonderful smile, and lovely dimples. At this point, he leaned in and just told me straight out that he was gay. I told him there was nothing wrong with that. Of course, this stranger giving away baked goods just told me that he was gay. What was I supposed to do, drop the basket, curse at him, and run? No, at the time, I figured that he was lonely and looking for attention. I was correct, just not in the matter of degree.

Bolstered by my statement, he then told me that there was something about Asians and Hispanics he loved. Yes, their black hair. He then told me that from a distance, I looked Hispanic, but up close, he saw I was Asian.

Ladies, from now on, I'm just going to say outright "Hi, I'm [K.T.]. Would you like to go on a date and get to know each other better? No? Well, thank you for your time." And then I am going to walk away and not keep trying.

It kept getting worse. The more nervous I got, the more I bared my teeth, which only led him to make more comments about my smile. I could feel myself blush, so I mentioned that, unable to think of anything else to say. He took this as an extraordinarily good sign. I mentioned that I had to go for the fifteenth time or so, and he started mentioning that his contact information was on his card, and that I should come on over. Maybe I could help him with his computer (why did I mention that I worked with computers?). He also told me that he lived with his friend (which explained the ring). Did this mean they had an open relationship? I'm not sure I want to find out. He also talked about the brownies that he baked. At this point, I got a very weird, very strong To Catch a Predator vibe. He thought I was eighteen or nineteen, pretty close to seventeen, and was inviting me to his house to play with his computer and eat brownies.

I told him I'd do my best, and that I had to really go (which was true, because I'd been holding the basket so long my fingers went long. I didn't want to set it down because that would have really screwed me over). In an extremely stilted motion, he then leant over and placed his left hand on my shoulder, let it linger there a little longer than he should have. He also told me his work schedule, and when he was free. I just nodded and kept walking. One of the last things he mentioned was that I was going to tell everyone I was talking to a gay man today. The other was that he wasn't going to forget my name. (Yeah, I gave him my real name, instead of my go-to alias.)

This marks the second time someone has hit on me in that grocery store, and the second time I didn't realize it until later. Thankfully, the first time was a female. This also makes me a tease twice, and encourages me that I can attract the older homosexual baker demographic if need be. To both of you, I am so sorry, I didn't mean to lead you on or not pick up on the cues, I just haven't been in that situation that often. I am so sorry.

Not that I approve of the normal female response, but I definitely understand it much better. You're in a public forum, and a random stranger starts talking. You were raised to be polite, you don't want to cause a scene, so you stop and listen. You figure that it's just going to be a quick conversation, and it will pass quickly. Then it starts getting really awkward, someone you have no interest in is viewing you almost as a piece of meat instead of an actual human. They want to do things to you, you know what they want to do to you, but you don't have a say in turning them away. At the same time, it's unwanted attention, but they're not trying to be jackasses, and it's flattering in a weird way. So you try to be nice, try to extricate yourself, drop subtle hints so as not to hurt them, and they misinterpret that as interest. You try stronger and stronger hints, and it's not taking, until finally you just have to be clear and walk away. So be it if they get hurt, you didn't ask to talk to them. I will definitely keep this in mind the next time I talk to a stranger, male or female (these days, apparently you can't tell who's interested in you).

So, let's recap today's events: Woke up, did laundry, cleaned apartment, got lunch, got haircut, got hit on by old man, went for run, cleaned apartment further, edited novel. Which one of these is not like the others?

I really liked that store. I may now have to find a new go-to store.

Remaindered Information

Found some old posts I never published, so we're going to knock them out of the way.

***

I used to be obsessed with office supplies. Still have a storage cube in the corner of my apartment filled with pens, binder clips, key rings, batteries, folders, legal pads, heaven knows what else. I touch it maybe once every three to four months, usually for a pen. Note that I have pens everywhere. Sometimes I just feel the urge to get up and walk over to it. I could probably trash, mulch, or place into storage most of it, seeing as how it's become yet another piece of dead weight in my life. Still, there's something about the order in it, having office supplies, that is reassuring.

This contrasts with my natural packrat tendencies, and my general lack of ordering in my apartment. If you look at my desk, either in the office or at home, you'd be surprised at how much crap I keep on a desk, and how little of it I actually use. The toy factor is pretty high, as is the Boy Scout motto always whispering in the back of my minds: "Be Prepared." Life is random, chaos rules, etc. We cannot predict what may come. All we can do is make preparations and await the unknown. Is it to level of obsession? Probably not, but I feel very deeply the need to save everything, on the off chance that it comes in handy.

It represents a different type of order to me, not the kind that actually has everything in its own place, but that everything has a solution. Yes, I know intimately that insoluble problems taunt humanity on the large scale, and me on the small scale. Still, with enough resources, I can combat the disorder of a problem, I can fix it. Through the wild and crazy mess shall emerge a neat and ordered solution. It is much the reason Tetris appeals to me. You cannot beat Tetris, you can only hold back the disorder for a time, until it overwhelms you. But, oh, how beautiful the empty screen when you complete line after line.

One of my new idle obsessions is organizing and running a double-elimination tournament bracket. Likely, we would have to organize it for Street Fighter IV, as the fighting game "scene" is established and widespread and there have been many prior efforts to run tournaments, many of which ended successfully. It would be fun to watch players of different skills and perspectives come together to beat each other. However, even more fundamentally, from a pool of players, we create a mechanism through which they expose themselves, until we are left with one, the best today.

The other, strange as it sounds, is to study databases, maybe get some certification in database administration. Not that I ever thought about it much before, but the concept of a database appeals to me on some primal level. Everything in its place, a place for everything, a proper database keeps information organized. Further, you can delve into it and retrieve said information. A brilliant concept, and really, one that, had you told me about it earlier on in my life, I would've tried to pursue it as a living.

You would think that it's only information that I like ordered, but think again. I tell a story, it jumps all over the place. It follows no pattern up close, as the details and descriptions jump from place to place. If anything, sometimes it reads like a crack addict was observing the world. There is a broad order, but sometimes, you just need stuff out of place, because you're telling a story. Narrative perfection and chronological order don't necessarily track with each other. If I did write with perfect order, it would probably read a little robotic, a little artificial.

***

I received a call from a private/blocked number, which freaks me out because you need to have taken steps to purposely block your incoming number. Even if I see a number that I don't recognize, it's fine, because I can still answer with at least some idea that there's a person on the other side. Here, I got a little worried.

Turned out it was the fraud department for my credit card company, asking me about several suspicious purchases made in the United Kingdom and California. The nice lady answered my bewildered questions, keeping a calm voice and answer my questions no matter how redundant or ridiculous they were. At least I am not being charged, but I do need to cancel the card, and will be without a functioning card for a few days. This should make my flight check-in interesting next week.

What got me was that several charges were placed with non-profit organizations and charitable organizations. I do not remember what they were called, only that they were part of the list of charges made. In addition, small amounts, less than ten dollars, were charged to each, but the charges were made.

In effect, I got ripped off by a modern day Robin Hood and his band of merry hackers.

What most took the sting out of this was that I am not going to be charged for the roughly two thousand dollars. However, I take some miniscule solace from the fact that they tried to donate to charity. Granted, due to the small amounts, it seems that they were merely testing the waters, seeing what they could get away with as a small test before moving on to bigger and better. Does this make them better people? Probably not, but it's a start. Maybe if they hadn't spent more than a thousand dollars with travel companies and the like, I would be more sympathetic.

***

I told R.Y. in a sleep-deprivation-induced haze that "My life is all about running. I am constantly running away from something, running towards something, or just literally running." I suppose to some extent, this applies to all of us, though his response was "Why don't you just wait for once?"

Inaction too often feels like the sin of omission to me. I cannot entirely content myself with just waiting, even though patience constitutes a virtue which I cannot live my life without. More often, I feel the need to flip a pen, sway to and fro, do something, anything, to get past the moment.

Even right now, I am staying awake because I cannot stand the thought of going to bed, only to wake up a scant few hours later. If I burn myself out for long enough, I will have no choice but to sleep longer in order to get through a few sleep cycles. At the same time, I could just stop this generalized worry, and let myself sleep.

That I am running implies that I am not content with the given situation. However, that I am running also raises the question whether or not I will stop running once I find contentment. Then that raises the question of whether or not I will know what contentment is once I find it, and even more, have I already found contentment, and passed it up?

Running and waiting exist in a perpetual tension. One is concerned with striking forward as you can, pushing through it all to get to point B. One is concerned with being where you are. (Is it obvious that I'm having trouble staying up and being coherent? I have no idea what the hell I'm trying to write about now, or what I'm trying to say.)

Little Naps

Free time and sleep are the two most valuable commodities I have. Free time and sleep also happen to be the two commodities on which I am constantly running short. As a child, I hated to sleep, and I hated too much free time, because it meant I was bored, and didn't know how to respond correctly. Now, when I have free time, I don't know how to react, generally because it has been way too long since I last enjoyed more than a few minutes of free time. Also, I have sleep time, but I keep waking up in the middle of the night. I know people sleep less as they get older, but I had hoped that I would be able to sleep in more than four hour bursts.

A few years back, A.A., J.H. and myself were discussing how much we would pay for a good night's sleep. J.H. went up to eighty dollars, and I remember thinking that was foolish. At the time, of course, I was getting more than enough sleep every night. I would now step it up to one hundred dollars, just to be able to sleep the sleep of the just. It doesn't seem like there's anything that's driving me particularly crazy, to the point that I would lose sleep. Then again, it is possible that everything is driving me particularly crazy, and the union of all that is causing me to wake up and worry.

Based on various research, sleep medication is not a long-term answer. It can get to the point where you become dependent on the medication just to fall asleep. This causes a whole new set of issues, making you worse off than you were. In the short term, however, it can get you to sleep, while you work out your issues. And for someone in my spot, it has generally been a matter of issues. It may even be as simple as figuring out what the issue is. I can't deal with it until I figure it out. Once that happens, I should be good. Maybe even able to sleep once again.

Informative Collation

The other day, my mother called me up saying that I'd received a thick packet from some legitimate sounding organization. I asked her to open it, and she said there were a bunch of booklets and four sheets describing what was going on. I asked her to try to read it to me, but the only words she could discern were "United States District Court of Delaware". I looked up the organization on the internet. They specialized in bankruptcy. Since someone committed credit card fraud using my card a few months ago, I immediately worried someone had stolen my identity, bought a house, then went into bankruptcy, and I was liable. What followed was some frantic credit checks and preparing to drive up there, until I asked her to just photograph the papers, then send me the images. It turned out that I can be part of a class action suit, and could recover (maybe even thirty dollars!). But, naturally, it freaked me out.

I live in a different state from my parents. My father receives a lot of spam mailings about his Medicare. The problem is that occasionally, there is legitimate mail that goes to him that he needs to fill out. He worries about it a lot, and I can't always be there to read it the day he gets it, so he stresses about it until I take a look. Strange how these worry habits are passed from parent to child. For the past few years, I've taken regular trips up to review the piles of mail and sift through what was junk and what was not. He had to wait for a while for me to review some of these at times. Why we didn't hit on this solution before, I don't know.

Technology is a wonderful thing. It enables my parents to transmit images of letters within minutes, allows me to review them, then lets me send back comments and completed forms, sans signature, which my dad needs to provide. Cars have enabled me to travel from one state to another, to move more than fifty miles beyond where I was born. Scientific progress allows me to learn about more in a day than people could have learned in a lifetime three hundred years ago. Information has become cheap and plentiful, and we are all enriched for it.

Or are we? My parents could email the images, but if I lived a few blocks away, unable to move further, I could just walk over and check. I can learn so much in a day, but how much is actually useful, and perhaps more important, how much do I actually apply to life? William Kamkwamba built windmills out of junk. I read about humor and go on about my daily life. This is the problem with plenty, you no longer desire it as fully as you might if you had to work for it. People that download an inordinate amount of material tend not to use it, because there's no need to use it. It was too easy to get.

We do not respond well to being given everything, because there needs to be some sort of struggle in our daily lives in order for us to feel complete. This is why people manufacture drama, because without actual struggle, they need some sort of conflict to feel real, and alive. Buy a pot pie, it tastes OK, you forget about it. Make a pot pie (Correctly), and you remember it, and you cherish it, because you put in real work. I have handheld devices that could play music nonstop for a week. Don't really care, it's almost worthless with all that music.

With all this information, ignoring the issue of labor required to keep the physical society going, it almost gets to the point where it's not necessarily the person with the most information, but the person with the best ability to organize and sift through it. Mycroft Holmes is the person we need. Somewhere out there is an individual that doesn't even realize that all the information they're collating and storing away could be key to helping society.

***

That rambled much more than what I normally write for this blog. I think the issue is that due to various changes, I'm no longer as stressed about the things in my life that stress me. As the depression disappears, so does the edge to my writing. I am always torn when an author I like finds happiness. The quality of their work drops, but on the personal level, they're happy. It's something of a push, but I guess the tie goes to the happy person. Not that there was much quality to my writing to begin with, so when I get happy, it really becomes crap.

Long story short? Expect somewhat bland and meandering posts until things go to hell in my life again.

Sleepless Dreaming

It strikes me that around this time last year, I was losing sleep due to stress. Well, it is happening again. I have been waking up at five in the morning, then four, then three thirty. Last night, I went to sleep around ten thirty, woke up around three or so. Tossed and turned for several hours, then managed to get in a dream-filled hour of sleep from six to seven. The only reason I know that I was dreaming was because my dream was drastically different from what I was thinking about for the three prior hours, surreal, almost intangible.

This concerns me. Last year, I lost sleep because of worry over work. I could not believe how poorly I was doing (so I thought). It turned out that I was doing alright for the most part, and that I just had to learn from my one error. It also was necessary for me to get away from myself, if you will. I let the client take advantage of the situation, and should not have done so, not without taking a stand.

Now that a year has passed, I have learned, but I also am in a somewhat similar situation, and have to rise to the occasion. Like bread. Delicious banana bread. Mmmm. Maybe I should eat before typing these blog posts. At any rate, most of my life has been lived in the shadows of others, peeking out from behind the curtain, and so on. Now, events are conspiring to force me into a more active role. I have to be bold. I have to be a leader.

It is no secret that I am shy, or at least that I think I am shy. It is no secret that I am perfectly content to let others lead the way, and for me to follow. I follow, that is what I do. But, apparently, I cannot abide by that forever. Well, I could, if this life were to remain static, if I continued to be the same person that I have been. And I cannot. Not good enough for everyone else, and not good enough for me. R.Y. probably put it best when he told me, "Be yourself. Just be a better yourself."

I am now fully three years removed from my post-graduate education. "They" say that when you get out of a long-term relationship, you need at least the same amount of time to get over it. Am I ever going to forget it? No, no matter how much I drink. Maybe it is time to move on, however. That part of my life is done, it has shaped me. I still don't like it, but I accept that I went, and I grudgingly accept that I am qualified to be a lawyer. It closed off a lot of opportunities, but it also, in its way, made my life better (though incredibly indirectly).

With that in mind, it is probably also time to step up and take on this responsibility. I may always hear the taunting voices in the back of my head saying that I cannot, but then, why can't I just listen to the voice next to me saying that I can? Those voices are from the past, more things I need to believe behind. What I need to listen to is the voice from here and now.

Still going to lose sleep over it.

How? Why?

Hm. I got the comments back for my novel, and I'm too scared to read them. This was not entirely unexpected. I feel like it's more than just a story being critiqued. It's a part of me that's being critiqued, more than just my sense of style, grasp of grammar, pick of punctuation. No, more than that, it's my sense of wonder, and my imagination, those essential qualities that make me what I am, that are isolated under the spotlight, exposed for the world.

If it comes down to the choice between learning how something works, and learning why it works, I think I am the kind of person that would rather know why. The first example that popped in my head, a car. You can tell me the basics (if I recall this correctly), that gasoline fills the fuel tank, which is then somehow combusted by spark plugs, which explosion pushes twinned pistons back and forth, which transfers power from the engine block to the axle, which spins the wheels, which makes it go. That's all good and well, but I would rather know why we have cars, what situation led to us having them. Tell me about Henry Ford, his quest to make cars affordable to the modern man. Tell me how our sense of exploration and curiosity could not continue to outstrip our technology, how we would eventually come up with a way to make travel more convenient. It's human ingenuity creating the products, not necessarily the products, that tickle my fancy.

That question, "Why?", impels my story. The simple question take Rollie on his mad quest, and though I eventually reveal some of the "How?", that "How?" serves two purposes. It is a payoff to everyone wondering about the nuts and bolts of the story, revealing some more background, but sets up an even bigger "Why?" in the end. The answer he comes up with is less than satisfactory, but it is still an answer. What matters more is his journey to get there, and how he attempts to answer "Why?", and how he gets his answer, that make the story (I hope) intriguing.

It's funny, that's almost turned on its head with these comments. I have yet to see them, I'm so freaked out. But I think they're going to be a lot of "How?" (How does this work within the story construct, how this fails the story construct), and I'm going to have to figure out the "Why?" (Why did I include it in the first place), then rework the "How?" (How can I make this work with that original intent). The "Why?" is usually simple; the story is as intimate to me as a first kiss (that lasts for over two years...). The "How?" is where it all goes awry.

I write a fair amount by "feel", whether or not the sentence feels right. The more esoteric rules of sentence and paragraph construction have long since been remanded to some dark corner of my mind, but the basics are as readily remembered as an old song. It's when I'm forced to open the hood and look at the engine more carefully where the problems arise. I sort of know how it works, but not to a great degree. Thus, the reworking becomes trial and error, half-hearted stabs at success and failure. It isn't the writing that makes you great, it's the editing.

These comments show me just how far I have come, but also show me how far I have to go. Think of a solitary wanderer walking down a path where the waypoints are twice as far as before, and the sun continues to set over an endless horizon. He continues to trudge on, though the road curve on into nothingness, and he will get discouraged, but still he walks. Why? Because he must, because he cannot turn back now, because he has come too far, because somewhere in the future, down the road, lies something great.

How does he do it? One step at a time.

Better Place

There's so much that I couldn't tell you about the year previous. I couldn't tell you about my triumphs and tragedies because, quite honestly, I don't remember much of the past year. It was a rut, well-worn and deepening.

I finished several drafts of my novel, and have sent it out for editing, and now await (patiently) it's return, dripping with red ink and thoughtful comments. I settled into work, and traveled a fair amount for it. That pretty much describes most of the past year.

Several people I know say they're just killing time until they die, and I think last year might have been one of those. Not a waste, because I did finish and edit the novel, but everything else muddled into a status quo.

However, the last few weeks showed great promise for the upcoming year. If, fifteen years ago, you took me aside and told me it would take another fifteen years for my life to start making sense, I would've laughed at you. Now I'm just thankful that it's happening a little.

So, what happened? First new car, 2009 metallic grey Honda Civic I've named Julia. Another bill means more responsibility, but it isn't like I've been shirking responsibility. Helped meet a deadline or two at work, which finally convinced me that maybe I can be a helpful, contributing member of the team. Got to spend quality time with people, which reminded me how much they matter to me, even if I didn't think of it at the time. Also, met some new people, and they responded well, which means that the self-image I carry really is outdated and incorrect, and that I'm finally starting to pull it all together.

It has been an eternity since I've been able to look forward to tomorrow, but I really do. These last few weeks renewed my wellspring of hope, which as of late had been running dry. It scares me that I might once again let myself revel in my emotions, rather than push them beneath the surface and try to pretend they didn't exist, throwing out a snarky joke in their stead.

Maybe these past few weeks were just a blip on the radar, and things will regress to the mean again. And I've weighed that possibility, and that's fine. Maybe this upcoming year will dig a deeper rut. But what if it doesn't? What if things actually continue to get better?

People fear being sad because of how it makes them feel. But people also fear being happy because of the chance it might be ripped away and leave you even sadder. Five minutes of sunshine before a three day thunderstorm. At least if you're sad all the time, you can accept that you will always have that baseline to rely upon. It is an acceptable way to live, people do it all the time, but it gets tiresome. I am tired of being sad, and I am tired of people making me sad. We all have choices, we all have chances. I'm going to take a chance for once, I'm going to make the choice I normally wouldn't. I'm going to try to be happy.

This may be for naught. The wax on Icarus' wings melted, and he tumbled down to earth. I might plummet back down to the hoary depths, which is fine, because I know them. But, what if, and bear with me for a second, what if I fly? What if I jump at the precipice, and somehow keep soaring? What happens then?

Pretty early on, I knew that I wanted to make the world a better place, and I knew that "the world" consisted of my friends and family. Unfortunately, that definition doesn't encompass me. So, we're going to amend that world to include me.

For my twenty-ninth year, I hope to make the world, my world, a better place.

Forget That

My dad's primary care physician suspected my dad was developing Alzheimer's Disease. This he told my mom because my dad was forgetting very simple things. Every time he went for a checkup, he'd keep asking for the same medical prescriptions that he'd asked for the time before, and the time before, and the time before. Naturally, repetitive behavior like this is an early indicator of the onset of this crippling disease, and especially for someone in his seventies like my dad, something to monitor. I'm not sure why he didn't tell my dad, other than it can be disturbing to tell someone that they're losing their coherence, getting unstuck in time, becoming disconnected with reality.

Naturally, my mom, in her straightforward fashion, asks my dad what's going on, if he's really not remembering that he's already got his prescriptions for several months out. She's one of those people that won't pussyfoot around a problem. She'll take a bat to it and walk right through it. My dad, on the other hand, he's got his reasons for everything, they make sense, he just doesn't ever tell anyone why. Turns out he knew exactly what he was doing, he was just scared of the prescription expiring and not having any of his medications in reserve. Thus, he wanted to stockpile several of the doctor's scrips just in case. And you wonder where I got my packrat mentality from.

It freaked me out when my mom first told me about this, because my father's memory isn't that great to begin with. Even when I was a kid, he'd forget a lot of things (like picking me up for school one afternoon). Me, I have a great memory, when I want to remember something. I'd forget a lot of the smaller things, to the point where my mom was convinced that when I got old, I'd have Alzheimer's, and that my dad would get Alzheimer's also. So far, so good, for the both of us. I still worry about him, partially because I'm worried about him, partially because through him lies my future (we're all selfish. Stop looking at me like that.).

He's retired, he's been retired for several years now. He gardens, he fishes when the weather is warm, though less and less the past few years. Mostly these days, he reads the newspaper in Chinese and watches Chinese television and movies. As far as I can tell, and my mom confirms, he doesn't do much that will engage his mind. I sort of understand his perspective. It's harder to get around, there's nothing to do after working for forty-some years, sometimes it takes effort to stay up during the day. Might as well go for the easy, mind-numbing option. He's seen his three kids grow up and go out on their own, sees his granddaughter once a year. His wife, just like him, has been independent, is independent, will be independent for years to come. In a way, I think he feels his job is done. Even if Alzheimer's creeps up on him, it's been a long run, a good run.

On the other hand, I really fear Alzheimer's, especially the early-onset version. I stopped using deodorant that applies aluminum, as one study showed a causal link between aluminum in the body and Alzheimer's. One of the reasons why I run is to help keep blood flowing to my brain, hopefully to keep it fresher and less likely to succumb to Alzheimer's. I am constantly daydreaming and writing for the main reasons, but also because I think that as long as I can flex my imagination, my brain is still working. Ever since outside forces kept me studying constantly in school, I have felt myself start an inevitable mental decline, age-related and lack-of-activity-related. See, five years ago, I'm sure I would've found a word that meant "lack-of-activity-related" immediately. Perhaps sloth or laziness, but as I typed that, "lackadaisical" kept popping into my head.

My dad and I are very similar, and because of that, we have never been very close. It's not that we don't love each other, it's just that we were never the kind of person that readily opens up and talks. Our conversations these days follow the same arc. I ask him about his Medicare and his medications that I don't understand, make sure he's OK. He asks about my job and my responsibilities that he doesn't understand, makes sure I'm OK. Once in a while, we bridge the gap, but for the most part, we stand opposite each other across a metaphorical chasm and wave. When you get down to it, though, we share Alzheimer's. I don't think he'd ever tell me that he might be afraid that it will happen to him. I won't ever tell him I'm afraid it will happen to me. I could be wrong about his fear; we're both pretty inscrutable in our own ways. But for now, I'm going to pretend that he is, just a little, and through that, we'll at least share something.

Starbucks Staycation

One of the interesting side effects of traveling for work is that it has numbed my desire to travel outside of a fifty mile radius of my home (though, of course, how I define my home is something completely fluid and different each day). Hence, my staycation for the past two weeks. My time is almost up, but thus far, it has been incredibly relaxing and productive outside the context of work.

My daily schedule, which I could definitely get used to, involved waking up around eight, going to Starbucks, getting a hot chocolate or green tea, and then writing until noon. Once noon came around, it was time to go get lunch, either a sandwich or hamburger. Then, go to a bookstore coffee shop, and write for at least two hours. Rinse and repeat. If I got bored, people watch or play with the iPhone. There was a fair amount of people watching. At one point, I saw a moderately attractive blonde sitting in front of a series of textbooks and yellow-highlighted handwritten notes, talking on a phone, and decided to play the Sherlock Holmes game.

It started out that she was listening on her phone and saying nothing, while sitting in front of the books. At first, I had it narrowed down to studying for the bar exam or for medical school. It was definitely some sort of school, because she carried a bit of extra poundage on her frame, not so much as to be considered obese, but just enough to have been in a sorority in college, and have been put under extra stress. Part of me wanted to go with nursing school, but I didn't want to unfairly pigeonhole a moderately attractive blonde studying.

It turned out that the book she was studying was "Maternal-Child Nursing." I need to listen to my instincts more.

She had her hair pulled back in a ponytail. I don't know what that meant. A bandaid on her left heel, which means that she was wearing tight, potentially uncomfortable shoes, which means that she liked to look good, even to the detriment of her feet. Her toenails were painted bright red, and she had a toe ring on the second toe of her right foot, which backed it up. However, she was wearing comfortable clothing while studying, which meant she didn't have to look good all the time. When distracted, she would either touch the area between her breasts, pull at her bra cup, or bite her nails obsessively. Either she was studying intently, or flirting with the seventy-year old man two tables opposite. I am going to go with A. She covered her mouth at certain points in her constant phone conversations (bored out of her mind), which meant that she was saying something she did not want anyone to hear. I think it was at that point that she realized that I was staring, and was telling her friend, so I went back to the writing.

For the first day, it was almost entirely sitting and thinking and watching. I decided to set the next story six months after the end of the last one, and it has taken me a while to work out what happened in the interim. Over the past couple of weeks, the events have changed and been added onto, and a sickening amount of legality started working its way into the backstory, both for logic's sake, and for comedic relief.

I had always wondered what Starbucks looked like in mid-morning, once everyone had gone to work. At least for the summer time, the main groups that frequented were, in order from most common to least common: the elderly, mothers with young children and/or babies, driver's education classes that had let out, businessmen and businesswomen getting mid-day coffee, businessmen and businesswomen having meetings, duos working on their religious faith (mentor/mentee relationship), and on two occasions that I noticed, dates. And those were kind of sweet, they seemed to be having a good time, and they were on a date in the middle of a weekday.

On the individuals side, there were fewer patterns to notice, not to mention that they would come in, grab their coffee, and leave. The only patterns I could discern would be that anyone grabbing four or more coffees was young and looked a little stressed. One man cam in almost as often as I did, clad in a filthy t-shirt, stained and torn jeans, and a surprisingly well kept blazer. His salt-and-pepper beard and wild look made me wonder if he was mentally stable. I did take note of one individual wearing cowboy boots with his suit. Perhaps because the heels were low and his suit well-cut, he managed to pull it off without looking flamboyant.

While waiting in line for my hot chocolate or tea, I also heard the ridiculous orders people would throw out. The conclusions I could draw: those that said "small" instead of "tall" were making an active effort to not buy in to Starbucks, becoming semi-pretentious in the process (me). The longer and more difficult your order, the more likely you were also playing with your smartphone, had clean, well-groomed nails, and tended not to get it. If you held up the line because you had multiple orders, we didn't care. Once you tried apologizing, that just made all of us want to smack you.

There's a strong possibility that, whether intentionally or unintentionally, these people have in some form made their way into my writing. At least for me, character building is a matter of keeping a list of personality archetypes and personality traits/quirks in my head, then mashing them together in new patterns to come up with people. Generally, I fail at this remix, mostly because the people remain very familiar if you know the person on which I based them. Not to mention that for my writing during this staycation, I tended to use characters from the prior novel that I had already fleshed out. The one new character that I did create, now that I think about it, really had very little to do with any person that I had seen. It is one of those people that wants to be funny, tries their damnedest to be funny, and is only funny to themselves. They're the kind of person that wake up in the middle of the night, not to come up with the perfect retort, but because they just got the joke told five minutes before that retort was necessary.

Nowadays, when I write in a coffee shop or book store, I have a medium-sized Moleskine notebook and my pen. I used to take my laptop, but it became a ridiculous hassle to set up, and I could not go to the bathroom without risking losing my laptop to some quick-footed thief. Plus, I became "that tool." When I write, it forces me to go slower, because I do not write as fast as I type, and I have some more time to think. Plus, random notes and diagrams and lists are easier to insert.

And, what exactly is it that I have written? The beginning to book 2, six months out from the end of book 1, our protagonist now a glorified babysitter, a brutal murder by drowning drawing him back to the fold. A lot of plotting out what might happen over the arc of this novel, and that has already changed, but it was good to get a basic idea of what I wanted to happen, even if I do not get there.

But more important, the writing passed quickly. These two weeks have come and gone just like that. For a while, work was getting me down. I stepped away from it, refocused and remembered what was actually important, and it really helped. This writing thing is still not an easy thing, and it will never get easy, but at least I am starting to get there.

Personal Vignettes

The mall Spencer Gifts stores always confuse me. Such a mish-mash amalgamation of the most random gag prizes and questionable tchotchkes. I am not confused by their continued ability to profit, just that they are able to stock their shelves with the oddest assortment of items. While inside, I came upon a bucket of canes, sitting in front of a series of gag sex toys (furry handcuffs, whips, chains: the good stuff). These were the canes you would only ever see on Halloween, the heads either human skulls or dragon skulls or medieval torture devices or, on the one that caught my eye, a stack of skulls growing larger.

That headpiece had to have weighed a good five pounds. I swung it experimentally through the air, exposing to the light that ridiculous male fantasy of being dropped into a one-on-ten fight situation and fighting your way out. (Though, really, don't call me Bruce Lee, call me Bruce Leave Me Alone. Those of you that saw me in a fight, your recollections are far different from the reality). The cane itself felt light, hollow, plastic, a good sign that with one solid strike, the cylinder would shatter, leaving me with a bit of bent plastic, and an awkward smile on my face.

One of the store's employees saw me, sidled on over, the chain extending from his pocket and down his leg a good foot and a half. He tried striking up a conversation, something to do with getting in a fight. We were on the same wavelength. I just wanted to be left alone and look around. Thinking I would try to freak him out, I said that if I had to get in a fight, I would smack someone in the foot as hard as I could, then when doubled over, I would swing the club up to smash their face in.

Pause with me for a second as we slow down time and examine my thought process, which flashed by in half a second, and where I went wrong. I assumed that an ultra-violent response would repulse him, as it would most strangers, and thus, by giving that response, there would be no need for him to continue. I also left it as brief a statement as possible, so as not to allow for any openings. The problem here, I should have analyzed the whole situation. He came over and talked about swinging the cane in battle. To such a person, my response is just an extension of the olive branch, an invite to further query.

So, his next question was "What do you take?" I had to shake my head and grunt. At first, it seemed like an illicit drug question, until I saw his smile and his slight lean forward, as if we were sharing some state of being that only he and I were privy to. I sort of knew he was not discussing drugs, but had no idea what he meant.

"Martial arts, MMA, do you do any of that, what do you take?" Ah, yes. I had to shake my head and say that I did not take anything, that I was merely an avid fan of martial arts movies, and spent entirely too much time with them. He kept trying to extend the conversation, and I kept repeating that I watched too many movies, and would be of no help to him. Soon thereafter, a physical opening presented itself, and I walked forward, and walked out.

***

While in Florida, I would run up and down the same two mile stretch of sidewalk every day. It turned out that on Google Maps, when I measured the distance to the nearest stop light from my hotel, it was almost exactly two miles.

Heading out from the hotel, the movie theater would be on my right. You cannot buy tickets online, but you can get a five dollar ticket all day every Tuesday. When I detoured one day to watch "The Hangover" in there, the audience was almost two-thirds the elderly. Then again, only seven people sat in the theater.

From there, a 7-11 on my left, then a Circle K. I have not seen a Circle K since Taiwan. They are just as you would expect for any convenience store. One night, after a run, I walked in to buy some Gatorade. When I went in to purchase it, and kept panting at the doorway, the clerk asked me if I was alright, and if someone was chasing me. Given that it was Florida, I wonder if she meant I was in an abusive relationship.

A little ways past the Saturn dealership was a large furniture store with a giant LCD display out front. Right next to it, sharing a parking lot, was a nightclub, which I believe was somehow affiliated with the furniture store. After doing some research, it seems as cheesy as I thought when I would run past. Then again, I was the fool running past at nine at night.

A small antiques store followed at some point, but it was always closed when I ran past. There were a couple more furniture/mattress stores nearby. Also a tractor supply shop.

At one point would be a strip club, where the marquee advertised "Fifty pretty girls and two ugly ones". That was almost enough to get me to go inside to see the two ugly ones. Then again, a guy with two bucks in his pocket for a drink probably would get rebuffed, without even enough to pay the cover.

It turns out the strip club sign further down the street next to all the winnebagos did lead to an actual club. However, doing research on the internet, it turns out that place, which I could never see from the street, was a brothel. Stay classy, Florida.

The wild west arcade, next to the laundromat, is actually just a slot gambling place. There is nothing inside except old people and video poker. No Street Fighter IV machines. None. It was most depressing.

Just past that were a succession of fireworks stores. One edifice loomed thirty feet tall, free standing, with a buy-one-get-one-free deal leading up to the Fourth of July. Miraculous, and a little scary that so many fireworks stores could stay in business.

At this point, I would turn around. Just reread all the above paragraphs in reverse order. Pour some water on your head, maybe start panting. That's my return trip.

Florida Lessons

The parking spots down in Florida are enormous. I could easily fit a Hummer in one with room to spare. It may well be a concession to the elderly. They remind me of kudzu, at least in their strength in numbers, as well as their omnipresence. Also, I have been eating lunch around five in the afternoon, and the restaurants stuffed with the aged and their families. On the beach, the elderly comprise a significant portion of the beachgoers. In the theater, they come in relative droves to watch "The Hangover." And yes, they carded me, though she said they card anyone under thirty. Small solace.

***

Having felt more comfortable with listening rather than speaking all my life, I have come to know what constitutes a normal response , and when a person is at ease or nervous. Pseudo-empathy and all that jazz. I also know how painfully shy I am. So, understand that when I say the hotel concierge is one of the most painfully awkward people I have ever met, "I ain't just whistlin' Dixie." After letting my raven tresses grow far too luxuriously, I needed a haircut, especially due to the baking Florida weather.

Hers is a fairly unremarkable face, square-jawed, wide face, off-green eyes, hair the color of dirty sand, braces capping nubbins of teeth. I asked her where I could get a haircut, and she told me there was a place down the street, and if I saw the Popeyes, that was too far. After confirming, then she told me the Red Lobster was too soon. There are a lot of chain restaurants down here. I spoke back what she just told
me, and she gave this loud and clipped horse whinny. When I turned to walk away, she called after that the mall was much too far.

In this moment, I could almost smell how desperate she was for me to stay. Awkward cocked smile, toothy grin, her voice quavering. I had to go. Was it cruel? A bit, considering that I could read her so easily. But I'm no saint, and (all together now) I don't like people. The fun part now is seeing her every couple of days, and seeing the washed-out loneliness in her eyes.

Wow, that was depressing.

***

Hangovers, as I understand them, are caused by dehydration shrinking the membrane surrounding the brain. Even if that is not the case, I gave myself a hangover or heat exhaustion on Saturday, evidenced by the headaches.

The bridge was a mile and a half over sapphire-blue water, and it was early. I ran, ran back, simple. Then, I walked to the beach, saw people in the distance, started hiking towards them. Hour later, I am busted. They seemed so much closer. I get a Gatorade and start heading back, ready to pass out. This is why you should think through your actions, kids.

So thirsty. I was out for almost four hours, sunburned the back of my neck, y'all, and had some nice migraine-esque headachery yesterday and today. Damnation.

Losing Grace

I have sent my prior novel out to the masses for commentary and ranting. Whilst I await its (bruised, bloody) return, I find myself needing to keep on writing, if for no other reason than to stave off the peculiar dreams I have when I do not write. Yes, when I forego writing for extended periods, my dreams take on a surreal (more-so), disturbing flavor. I think it is my subconscious trying to write. So, really, for me, writing protects me from my hopes and fears.

Strange, I know.

I have no idea when I figured that I wanted to write a trilogy of books, but at some point while writing "Saving Grace"/"Officer Redacted," I knew there would be enough for at least a few novels. Plus, it is easier to write another story using the same characters and setting, rather than create an all new world. Hence, the book I have tentatively titled "Losing Grace." By this, the third novel will be tentatively titled "Finding Grace."

Much as how "The Sound and the Fury" was all about Caddie without her being directly in the novel, I like to envision "Saving Grace" as being all about John Roland, though the connection is much more direct. After all, Rollie's entire motivation for investigating is ultimately John Roland. John Roland crops up constantly as Rollie refuses to allow everyone in the novel to let him go, because he cannot let Roland go. On its face, the story is about this dual investigation, both Masker's and Roland's murder, but both lead back to the same man, Robin Flaherty. That is not even an issue, it is evident fairly early on that the murderer is obvious. Once the story concludes, Rollie has purchased peace for John Roland, but only at the cost of upheaving his own world.

The main themes of "Officer Redacted" are duality of nature, and the effect of memory on identity. The duality is throughout, as most of the locations, and many of the people/cartoons, have been repurposed from their original role. A hotel becomes a mental asylum, a theater a police headquarters, an abandoned subway actually an extensive slum for second class citizens. Cartoon characters become mobsters, a children's show host a private investigator, a brilliant cop now a base criminal.

The memory theme is probably more subtle, maybe to the point of not being noticeable. However, what Rollie remembers, he feels makes him what he is. Since no one shares his memories, no one is willing to share in his delusion? belief? that he is Roland reincarnated. Indeed, memories throughout of John Roland paint a faint picture of this man, one that everyone is willing to believe more so than proof in front of them. In the end, I like to think that I hint at the possibility that it is the memories you make, not the ones you inherit, that contribute to who and what you are. In effect, All the characters are responsible for their identities, they shape their own destinies, even Rollie.

Things change between "Officer Redacted" and "Losing Grace." Six months elapse, Rollie takes on a new profession, and a minor character dies due to foul play. It starts at a funeral, very near where "Officer Redacted" began, as they eulogize their fallen comrade, friend, family member. Captain Rackers is that much closer to death, the cancer taking its toll, as cancer tends to do. And she feels the need to find Detective White's murderer, avenge him. And so it is that with a somewhat rude trick, and a bit of guilt, Rackers convinces Rollie to take up his trench coat and gun, and help with the investigation.

"Losing Grace" will be about Captain Rackers, just as "Officer Redacted" concerned itself with John Roland. A middle-aged women in a male-dominated profession, sacrificing the external trappings of femininity to become head of a department of men, now stricken with breast cancer, losing even more of her traditional feminine characteristics, and becoming even colder and withdrawn in an attempt to deal with it. She knows that death will come soon for her, and her last act before she passes on will be to find the cop killer. At the same time, in doing this, she will have been revealed to be all alone, giving up so much to try to do this.

I originally wanted to follow her instead of Rollie throughout the novel, make it even more of a police procedural, the good captain running the department, dealing with bureaucracy and fellow counterparts in different aspects of the city. However, I do not think I could do her justice. I am not a good enough writer to follow from her perspective, in a real manner, and/or I am afraid to try because there are aspects of her that ring too true to events in my life, and I would rather not confront them. Besides, observing at a distance can sometimes reveal so much more, right? Right?

Captain Rackers' journey, and I believe one of the main themes of this story, will be letting go. In her case, it will be letting go of her fear of hurting others, learning to lean on others, learning that it is OK to be strong all the time, but it is also OK to fall into someone's shoulder in the dead of night and whisper all the words you could not say during the day, for fear of exposing them to daylight. It will be letting go of her need to be better, at the cost of who she is. People are not necessarily born cold, they become that way, and it is what Rackers has had to do in order to be respected. In the end, it will be letting go of life, and embracing her mortality. After all, people do not live forever, and sometimes that is a simple, painful lesson to swallow.

For right now, I cannot envision one off the top of my head, but if there is to be a second theme, it would have to be hope. Hope that you can enforce the laws to bring a tenuous peace to the populace, hope that everyone can work together, hope that tomorrow will be a little better than today, which was a little better than yesterday. Hoping that the good in others triumphs over the long term, even should it stumble in the short term. Hope that there will be some sort of resolution.

I have a few pages in a journal, and a head full of ideas. I do not know where I want, or need, this story to go, aside from the fact that I know the man that killed Detective White is a serial killer, starting a string of murders, and that in the end, Rackers will die. And this story could go anywhere from this point. "Officer Redacted" started out as a daydream I had of two men fighting in the belly of a whale, the story of Jonah as reimagined by Michael Bay. The image that inspires this coming story is that of Rollie speaking at Captain Rackers' funeral, dead and dying leaves blowing in the chill winter air.

Maybe "Losing Grace" is a more appropriate title for this story than I initially imagined. After all, just because you lose grace, suffer a loss of faith, does not mean you cannot find it again. Oftentime, I struggle with the concept of K. T. the writer, and wonder why I even try. Then, I sit down and do something like this, and it makes me believe that I might be good enough to pull this off. Who knows? I've had a lot of fun doing this, and hopefully you will have a lot of fun reading it after you buy it in a store.

Fire Alarm

It is just after six in the morning, on a Sunday morning, no less. A fire alarm has just gone off in the building, probably twenty minutes prior. My mind is somewhat shot and disoriented, but for you, fearless reader, my need to go back to bed has been trumped by my desire to commemorate this occasion.

I was sleeping, as is my habit at times like these. The building's "fire alert annunciator" blasted three peals, followed by a long whoop. Then, this helpful message from a calm female voice (and my own thoughts at the time in parentheses):

"May I have your attention? (We don't have a choice, get on with it.) A fire has been reported in the building. (My ass, I don't smell anything.) Please proceed to the nearest exit. (There better be a fire, at this rate.)"

I sat up to look at the clock, which probably said ten before six. Note that I have a clock with a gigantic display so I do not need my glasses, but even so, it is still kind of blurry. After a few more moments of debate, and wanting to wring the neck of whomever flipped the switch, I get out of bed.

Darkness reigns in my apartment, as I am sure it must in most of the apartments. I cast about trying to remember where my wallet and keys are, before noting I probably need pants to go outside. Since I am next to the hamper, my cigar-smelling jeans are the closest. On they go, along with a cigar-smelling long sleeved shirt.

I spare a moment to urinate, and also hope I left my glasses in the bathroom. It is always a crapshoot as to where my glasses are these days. I have left them near the kitchen sink, on top of the television, near my laptop, near my work laptop, in the bathtub, in the soap dish, on the toilet, on my nightstand, on the floor in the middle of the living room, in a book, on the dining room table, underneath a pillow. Today, they were on the keyboard, but right next to wallet and keys.

I think that I should probably also grab my phone, but I cannot figure out where it is. Not tethered to the charger, not with wallet and keys. Ah, well, let it burn. At this point, perhaps I should also have grabbed anything else that was irreplaceable. For better or worse, there is really nothing in my apartment that I could not live without. It would suck, but is not a dealbreaker of any sort.

In the stairwell, I feel myself listing to the right. I almost fall into the wall at each flight of stairs. I am exhausted and kind of desperate not to fall down and cause an awful comedy sequence where everyone also falls down the stairs.

Outside, I go to my car and toy with going to the International House of Pancakes. Strangely, the mere thought of going to the International House of Pancakes makes my stomach turn, and I decide to wait and watch the building burn.

There are several people walking their pets, a good a time as any to do so. One young couple has two red and white pet carriers, and no children. At what point do they become the crazy cat couple without kids?

One woman is wrapped in a giant crocheted blanket. (as I typed that, I typed "crotcheted". What the hell kind of blanket is that, a merkin? Could you even wear one of those out in public? Well, you could, but I guess I meant by itself.)

There is a fire truck outside, and another. The firemen stumble out of the truck as if this were any other day on the job, which it probably is. There are no visible flames licking at the building, no smoke coming from anywhere.

A lot of people have gone directly to their cars. Maybe they are going to International House of Pancakes. I wish them well in their endeavor.

A slight drizzle of rain starts soaking us. I am very thankful I put on clothes before coming outside.

People make awkward small talk, made worse by the fact that no one should be woken up on a Sunday morning by alarm klaxons. I stand in the grass and cross my arms, unwilling to say anything to anyone, somewhat afraid that I will flip out on people if they try to talk to me.

The firemen are in their full firefighting regalia. I wonder what their bonus is to fire fighting by wearing the thick cloth. They come out one by one. That is our sign that we can come in.

I get in line. We shuffle back inside. Coherence missed everyone here, at least this early in the morning.

April Fooled

The joke is on me, when I think about it. I got everyone, but most of all, I got myself.

For April first, I posted a simple statement to my Gtalk status message and on Twitter. I would be doing pro bono work in Maryland during weekends for the next few months. I had multiple people congratulating me and asking me what exactly I would be doing. To date, only W.T. has not questioned it, but he is so filled with cynicism, I am hardly surprised. Even C.S. a few weeks later asked me what was up with that message, and expressed hopefulness I would be practicing law.

And therein lies the joke, not that I fooled people, but that they were utterly willing to believe that I would practice law. I have failed. Despite my best efforts to convince the masses I will never do this, as soon as I give a hint that I would practice law, they believe me.

(This is an appropriate time to digress and mention that, for all that people disbelieve me, this they accept? Tarnation.)

And maybe it is because I keep doing the unexpected, or at least go against the norm, and I've had such a strange arc to my life, that makes me think it would make a good situation comedy. I could redeem the mass of Asian-America and hopefully scrub the memory of All-American Girl from our collective memory, or fuck it up even more and completely guarantee no Asian-American will ever have a starring role on a situation comedy in America, ever again.

That April Fool's joke, plus a fair amount of contemplation, reminded me of who I was supposed to be at this point. It is half past ten at night as I type this, and I am just randomly typing on this blog. I often swear that I was supposed to be working on my second novel, teaching at a third-rate college during the day, raising a family, at this point in my life. At the same time, I could be toiling away at some mid-sized firm, wallowing in tedium and motions, writing memoranda to partners that I easily could have reduced to a page, but have to make fifteen pages in case someone has the foresight to check, which they will not.

I sport salt and pepper hair, going prematurely grey at twenty-eight. My stress tic is in full swing, sometimes going for thirty, forty seconds at a time. I probably look even younger, though more haunted, due to the poor eating habits, lack of sleep, and lack of laugh lines around my eyes.

I gave up video games a long time ago. Same with reading for leisure. The last thing I would want to do is more reading. I get enough of that at work. Besides, I am too busy trying desperately to keep my relationship with one of my fellow associates from going down the toilet. After all, we are both stressed, and what with the way the economy is going, all it would take is for one of us to get laid off. The other would probably cut ties pretty quickly, just to keep sanity afloat.

I work in a nice enough building in Baltimore. There's a guy on the street I see every morning on the way into the office. I used to throw him some change. Now I just don't care. I keep my head down, and my earphones loud. Probably Linkin Park.

It is not all bad. The support staff are remarkably understanding. They tolerate me because I still know enough to not piss them off. The partners treat me as fungible. My work is acceptable, or so they tell me, regardless of whether it is or not. To them, I could be one of any of the associates, and really, all they see me as now is ballast, ready to cast off to keep the rest of the firm above water.

About the only thing I take joy in is getting published in legal periodicals. Somehow, I've hit a nice streak and have been published in some minor journals over the past year. Maybe that, more than anything, keeps me employed. At the same time, I throw myself into these articles, researching them mercilessly, touching them up constantly, pondering the correct wording of a phrase. It is not much, but for now, it is what I have, and really, since I will be published again within the next couple of weeks, it will be something I have to look forward to. One of the few things.

I imagine him, right now, verging near eleven at night, still in the office, staring into his monitor, putting together the last few cites for another article, or wrapping up a memo, re-reading a case to make sure it applies. Maybe he is answering partner and client emails that he did not have time to get to during the day. Whatever he is going, I see him reaching into his drawer, taking a sip of bourbon, and smiling as he thinks about his April Fool's joke, where he posted that he had accepted a position as a technical writer, effective immediately, and everyone believed that he was quitting.

Priority One

It's been about a month, so I guess that means it's time for another blog post.

As I read that statement, it strikes me just how half-assed the following words will be. I'll type for about fifteen minutes or so, give it a semi-glance for typographical errors, then hit the "Publish Post" button and be done with it. It'll be good enough, but it won't be mind-blowingly great.

Because, for this effort, for this forum, "good enough" really is just good enough. I don't want to spend hours upon hours agonizing over the format and context and substance and all that. Not even if this blog were my job would I do that (well, in that case, maybe). The amount of effort I am willing to expend to get this down on paper is not that much.

It's a matter of prioritizing, which is why I shifted to the once a month schedule. The format, substance, etc. of this blog just don't rank as high on my list as they once did. I sometimes question if it ever ranked very highly on the list, and it must have, because for about a six month period, I had a hell of a lot of posts.

You look at what people spend time on, and it's almost crazy. Some people spend hours putting together the perfect outfit that they're going to wear out, because they want to look just perfect, they want to convey an image, a persona, of perfection. Some people like me throw on some clothes and try not to put the underwear outside of the pants.

We constantly complain that we never have enough time to do everything that we want to, and a big part of that is just priorities, though no small part is the stresses of our society. Think about all the time you waste watching television. I'm guilty, I'm probably upwards of twenty-hours a week. Considering that the week is one hundred and sixty-eight hours, that twenty hours is a hell of a time commitment to something that is not necessarily so worthwhile. For me, that twenty hours is probably three or four more books a week.

I probably need fifty-six hours of sleep a week, and probably get forty to forty-five hours in. That's a whole extra night's worth of sleep that I'm missing out on, which could be covered if I watched that much less television. I always wonder why the going is so slow with my novel, and I could easily apply some of that time to that.

Of course, in order to live "a better life", other sacrifices must be made. Having one less avenue of conversation with Society At Large. Not knowing what's going on with the stories. Justifying the monthly expenditure for television if it isn't being watched. And so on and so forth.

Television's apparently a very high priority in my life, intentionally or unintentionally, mostly because in primal terms, it maximizes return for minimal effort. I sit there and flick a switch, and mind is entertained for hours. Even reading requires that you move your eyes across the page. Sleeping means you actually have to listen to your body and go to sleep when you're tired. I sort of wish I could cut all the stuff out of my life that doesn't benefit it, reprioritize in order to make myself "A Better Person". but again, that reeks of effort, and effort is hard.

Even right now, as I'm nodding off typing this, I think about how much I got done today, even though I was on vacation, just by stepping away from my apartment, i.e. my television, and not hooking my computer up to the internet (and the internet itself is a deadlier time sink, even as we're all so much more reliant on it than ever, but that's probably best saved for another discussion.). I set my priorities for the day, and I got so much done, it was ridiculous.

I guess there is one useful thing about television, in that it lets my mind shut off. No need to think or concentrate or worry or feel or anything. Just watch the pretty little people on the screen do their pretty little dances, and wait for the credits to roll. Plain and simple. Still, I hear tell meditation accomplishes much the same effect, and lets you grow cool facial hair in the process, so.

Thematic Discussion

When people ask me what my novel's about, I tell them to think of Who Framed Roger Rabbit crossed with The Big Sleep. This is pretty accurate, seeing as how noir inspiration surges throughout Who Framed Roger Rabbit, and I'm writing a noir-inspired story about a cartoon detective come to life and investigating a murder. And, generally, when people hear it, they nod and say "OK," and we move on. I think that there's something about the way I dismiss it that almost forces the other person to move on. Not that I don't want to talk about it, it's just that I don't know how to talk about it.

"Let me tell you about this crazy dream I had, except I have been awake, it has lasted for over two years, and it's not a dream. But, boy, is it crazy." It definitely feels very related to unconscious hallucinations, except I control it. Every once in a while, I get completely lost in it. I'm sure if I'm still writing when my mind starts to go, it will be very horrifying.

But what, really, is this story about? Ultimately, it's the story of me trying to write a story, except you're seeing the highly polished end version, in the end. Seeing as how I've been working on it for so long, I do have a few ideas about it, and I'm not sure whether these would come across better than my pat response.

It's about memory and identity, and how the two are intertwined, yet separate. It's how our souls are like birds nests, all similar, yet strikingly different, our memories the twigs and leaves that go into the nest, the occasional eggs those brilliant dreams that we try to hold onto, and just can't. We are who we are because of what we remember, so what happens when we start losing our memory? Do we consequently fade away, or do we persist in the face of an eroding life?

It's about self-discovery, about finding yourself by not trying to find yourself (very zen, I know). The protagonist is investigating a murder, this much is true, and the story leads up to the resolution of this act, but that is not the main point of the story. The murder is just a vehicle to carry the reader through the protagonist's realization of himself, as he shifts from belief to ignorance and belief again, and how he decides to react to finding himself.

It's about acceptance, acceptance of who you are, and who everyone thinks you are. You can deny it, but in the end, you are who you are. No matter how you try to couch it, you can't outrun your own skin.

It's about standing up for what you believe in, doing what you need to, even if no one else wants you to. The story leads our protagonist into very compromising positions just because he's trying to uphold the law and find justice, even when those two are at cross-purposes.

It's about duality, how there are at least two sides to every story, every person, everything. How nothing is ever as it seems, and no one single viewpoint is ever correct. It feels like almost every major character in this story, every major location, every major anecdote, comes out differently to different people, and neither is correct, and both are correct. Negative capability, baby.

It's about irrational bias, and how we can't escape it, no matter what we try. Even with enlightenment, people will find a way to hate each other. That's just the way we are. Of course, on the flip side, it implies that people will find a way to love each other, though I'm not sure that actually comes out in the story.

It's about eighty thousand words.

And, in the end, it's about hope. You hold out hope because there's going to be an answer. You hold out hope because you believe what you're doing is right, even when everyone knows it's wrong, and tells you so. You hold out hope because you will be happy again. You hold out hope because if you give up, that's boring, and we need more excitement. You hold out hope.

Infrequent Communication

As of late, to assist with my general writing endeavor (endeavour?), I've taken on the burden of a journal. Please note that I call it a journal because diary is far too sissy, even though the thing is probably much closer to a diary than a journal. You know what they say, that if it quacks like a duck and walks like a duck, it's a diary.

Every so often, before I write another entry or two, I'll flip through and attempt to read some of the earlier entries. This is quite difficult, as my handwriting has declined over the years. In addition, sometimes I'll make entries when I'm falling asleep. Thus, my thought process, which seemed clear and logical while caught in the throes of impending slumber, are actually nonsensical and confusing upon second look. Still, many of the entries are things that I probably could/should put on this blog.

And herein lies the problem. I value my privacy, and I am somewhat loathe to share myself with the anonymous internet masses, even though I've hewed towards anonymity here. Just thinking about some of the more personal things I've written about makes me cringe, not necessarily that I wrote them, but more that they're out there for anyone to read, and anyone that has enough brain power and pencil lead to connect the dots would be able to trace it back to me.

As our networking technologies grow ever more advanced and our web of communication is drawn tighter, it is both easier and harder to not only preserve our identity, but also to keep our personal information from becoming public. Note that we all have to be ever-vigilant should the too-real specter of identity fraud spirit away our virtual/banking self. Also, we have to (though we often don't) operate under the simple assumption that if we put it on the internet, it is going to get out. At the same time, I have relative freedom to write whatever I want under this pseudonym, and so long as no one posts a comment that will trace it back to me, I'm OK.

(This is where some smartass posts personal information in a comment.)

Technology has always driven our society. Train schedules forcing people into a more regimented schedule. The printing press and the Gutenberg Bible spreading literacy to the masses. Metal smelting making more feasible a quick and bloody death for your neighbor. So it is with the internet and cell phones, where now we are no longer ever out of touch with anyone for too long. It makes the concept of pen pals almost laughable. Why wait for weeks for a several page response, when you can e-mail them a few paragraphs, text them, reply on Twitter?

It all continues to cheapen information. Not that more accessible, cheaper information is a bad thing. Perhaps I should count myself among the Luddites infesting every generation, swearing that new technological discovery X will ruin society. Humanity adapts. It's what we do. As transmission of information gets cheaper and quicker, we have less need to spend vast amounts of time in a block in order to communicate. I can break out the phone and text someone a couple of sentences just like that.

Of course, the flip side is that, as our communicae become shorter, more electronic, more divorced from personal interaction, we actually do convey less information. Could we be at the point where an innovation actually makes it harder to really communicate? Telegraphs convey words without inflection, or even punctuation, though they weren't the primary form of interaction. Phones at least carried inflection and intonation, and when tethered to the wall, were only usable when at home. You still had to leave the phone behind. There are probably people now for whom the predominant communication method doesn't allow for body language. They may type and convey more than previous generations, but do they actually say more, do they express more?

To sort of bring the jagged circle all the way round, I do not update this blog very often. If I did, most of the entries would consist of pap and fluff, space fillers just to prove that I could post something. My mind doesn't work that way. I work more long form, getting semi-obsessed over an idea, worming it around in my brain until it burrows out in some fashion. It's why I prefer writing novels to more short-form writing. It's why when I finally do post these days, it comes spewing forth instead of trickling out. It also allows me to resume my emotional distance, to ponder carefully and let an overall mood command, rather than the tempestuous fluctuations of the day-to-day living (and good lord, am I wearing black makeup and cutting myself so I can feel something? That was pretty melodramatic).

Sudden Victory

The National Football League's overtime rules strike many as antiquated, ridiculous, unfair. Currently, after four quarters, if both teams are tied, the game moves to sudden death (though our politically correct society amends it to sudden victory). After an initial coin toss, where the visiting team calls while in mid-air, the first score wins the game. Note that both teams are not guaranteed a chance to go on offense. Also, note that a field goal is enough to guarantee a victory.

This has the effect of shrinking the field for overtime. Assume that the team starts on their own twenty-yard line. Rather than having to drive eighty yards for a touchdown, they only need fifty or so to have a fair chance at kicking a field goal, converting, and winning. There are plenty of teams that move the ball well in the middle of the field, then bog down in the red zone. Whether it is an anemic offense, or a defense that grows stouter the closer you get to the end zone, this changes your strategy, removes some pressure from the offense, increases it from the defense.

Contrast with the college football overtime rules (of which I am not so intimately familiar with). Each team will get at least one offensive possession. You start at the opponent's twenty-five yard line and have four downs to score. It is possible to pick up first downs. After each pair of offensive possessions, if the score is still tied, you move on to another overtime period. After two such overtime periods, if a team scores a touchdown, it is forced to attempt a two point conversion after a touchdown, as opposed to the traditional kick/point after touchdown. It creates some interesting wrinkles, but the most important part to everyone is that both teams get a chance to get the ball on offense.

I just watched the overtime period of the Colts and Chargers wild card playoff game, and the Chargers won on a touchdown by Darren Sproles. The Colts called the coin flip incorrectly, the Chargers took the ball on offense, and proceeded to score. In this case, they went for the touchdown, and they were also aided by a Colts defensive meltdown, as well as the referees being somewhat penalty flag happy. Still, you wonder what would have happened if the Colts could have gone back on offense. Peyton Manning had his helmet on during the latter half of the drive, as if anticipating the opportunity to carve up the Chargers defense. Alas, it was not meant to be.

The theory is that no one will change the overtime rules until an overtime game occurs during the AFC Championship game, NFC Championship game, or Super Bowl, and a team wins on their first offensive possession. As it stands, we have (relatively) plenty of overtime games that end on that first offensive possession, and oftentime, what really peeves people is that the game is won on the field goal. There are several popular ideas for amending overtime, such as forcing each team to get an offensive possession.

Looking at it, and especially after that game, I didn't have a problem so much with the Chargers winning on a touchdown; they at least went the length of the field. However, I could see that causing problems for others. An idea I've not read/heard before is a minimum required score for overtime. Therefore, I would like to propose (because I am so close with the rulesmakers in the National Football League) the following:

1. Each team gets at least one overtime possession.

2. In order to win, a team must have scored at least seven points in overtime.

3. If after the initial overtime possessions, if neither team has won, continue play until one team has scored seven points.

4. If the first overtime quarter expires, take an intermission and continue with a second overtime quarter. Repeat as necessary.

Is it perfect? No, but I've been thinking about this for a while now. Seven points is almost a given if you score a touchdown, and also requires that you score three field goals if you go that route. If a team gets the ball first, and kicks the field goal, the opposing team gets the ball, and they can go for a tie, or get the touchdown and end the game right there. There are still situations where teams would potentially trade field goals until the team that had first offensive overtime possession would win. However, both teams had plenty of chances to score touchdowns.

The advantage of this, it removes the increased power conferred upon field goals in overtime. I'm not disrespecting the kicking game, just noting that kicking to score is vastly different in nature from scoring via run/pass. It more closely reflects the game itself, even though there is now a new point total that must be met. Also, it would force a resolution on regular season games. There's nothing wrong with ties when your sample set is big, but we are talking about sixteen games per team per regular season here. Let them play it out, let them do their thing.

In the end, none of this will happen. The NFL is partly successful because of its conservatism. If you know what to expect, it's easier to accept. Note that this doesn't take into account the fact that many players don't know the minutiae of the rule book, but that's somewhat off topic. The key is to add some fairness to games, and the method I write about seems as close as any other to doing so.