Food for Thought

There will be nothing for your heirs if our species does not survive.

            Perhaps it was an uncommon swirl of cream in my morning coffee, or perhaps it was the gossamer swirl of altostratus wisps in a blue sky, observed as I entered the on-ramp of the local bypass. Who knows? Maybe it was even the missed breakfast, the one I didn't have time to prepare.

            I've written a lot of things, all of them products of observations, past experiences and a productive imagination. I've been advised by one who is more experienced than I that I should write something every day. I can't; maybe I'm different, but for my part I must have something in mind about which I feel an overpowering need to write. And yet, for some time, possibly for all of my life, I've felt that there was something to be written for which I had to prepare. I've waited, puzzled and wondered if there was anything of substance behind the notion, or if it was only vanity. This morning, some of the pieces seemed to fall into place. I began to think about the meaning of infinity - the “physical” kind of infinity, rather than the mathematical.

            It isn’t something I think about constantly, although the staggering expanse of the universe, of which we are a tiny part, enthralls me every single day.

            Recently I watched a documentary about the Hubble space telescope, an amazing technological achievement with a difficult beginning. Some time after it was made functional, its full attention was trained on a seemingly blank portion of the sky for an extended period of time. The objective was to find out how many stars were actually in that space, however distant, that the Hubble might possibly detect over that period. The result: three thousand previously unseen galaxies. That effort was upstaged a few years later, with an image revealing ten thousand. Said one authority, “It was looking at one small piece of the sky, the equivalent of the view through a soda straw.” Well folks, that’s what is out there. I admit, I’m a dreamer; but consider the odd similarity of atoms to solar systems. Tell me, is it just a fractal-like repetition that goes on forever, or might electrons actually seem solid, if one could exist at that level? What if, just what if, there is no end to the levels, such that our solar system is an atom in a much larger existence? And that the beings and planets and stars of which that is a part, are also atoms? Well okay, maybe I’ve carried the imagination thing just a bit too far. How very unscientific of me.

            But what if I haven’t?

            Might such a realization alter your perception of the meaning of “infinite?”

            By whatever means necessary, we believe, we will eventually crack the code. We will advance to a full understanding of physical existence. An object with the predicted properties of the Higgs boson, sought for so long and at such massive expense, has been found. The Standard Model suggests that this object is responsible for all mass in the universe, prompting some to refer to it as “the God particle.” And I must agree with the viewpoint that we shall prevail, given that we will survive as a species for a sufficient period of time.

            So. We dare to imagine a God particle. Imagine that. And I realized, there is nothing, nor could there ever be anything, that humans will not dare.

            Having reached that realization, I checked my watch, noted my progress on the highway,  and re-entered my bubble of thought, which had inevitably been invaded by consideration of the human condition.

            We dare. How magnificent that is! But that “sufficient period of time” haunted me, as it always has. Would that a similar expenditure of human endeavor be applied to ensuring our survival as a species. Extinction of species appears to be an entirely natural process, and that needs to be addressed. By any true measure, we are gods; and yet, many of us cannot even keep food on the table. We are at the very mercy of our home planet. We are certainly not the masters of it, by any stretch of the imagination.

            To those among us who have succeeded in acquiring an excess of money and of possessions, be advised...we are, at least, masters of our fate, not individually, but as a whole. There will be nothing for your heirs if our species does not survive. There are steps to be taken.  You must measure your wealth and determine what portion of our rescue is yours to assume. It seems to me, education could be the fallback priority. To those among us who have not acquired wealth, you have a stake in this that is not one whit smaller. There is something for every individual to do. If there is nothing else you can do, please allow me to suggest that education might well be the fallback priority; any kind at all for anyone at all, including you.

            And there you have it. The realization for which I had been waiting seems so simple to me now. It will never do for just one, or ten, or a hundred or even a million to come to the same realization. Let not those few who have dismissed the possibility of our long-term survival become our prophets of doom. There is a massive, beautiful universe out there to be discovered, and explored, and populated. There is treasure in knowledge and understanding. None of that will have any value at all to a species that has ceased to exist.

            So perhaps it was the swirl of the cream in my morning coffee. Or perhaps it was the gossamer swirl of altostratus wisps in a blue sky. But whatever it was, perhaps, just perhaps, it led to a realization that should not be ignored. Perhaps there is someone, out there, who has been watching, and waiting for it to come.

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Beans in a Cup

It isn’t the time for this. I need to sleep. And yet...the cloudburst will not wait for people on the surface to get to cover. The tsunami cares not what lays in its path. The dull ache in my head and the fatigue in my bones won’t stop this from coming, either.

With the arrival of daylight, daunting challenges will confront many. Some of those people already know it, and some of them feel dread. To some it may seem like the end of the world, or they may even wish it was. Most of those thus challenged will make it through. For all I know, I may be one of them; I’ve been there before and I know I’ll be there again. I don’t know what my specific challenges might be, and it scarcely matters; at this point in my life, my only real concerns are for those I care about.

One of those very important people has expressed doubt about the existence of a supreme being. After all, if there is one, why would such terrible things happen to people? If I tried to reply to a question like that in text, you would stop reading. If I spelled it out it might not be grasped, simply because it was stated plainly. That’s too easy to refute, or to pass off as mere opinion. I won’t try.

Instead, I’ll place before you a flood of memories that came from a simple white coffee cup, held in my hand quite recently. The cup was filled with warm baked beans.

I had been doing something else, and I hadn’t taken time to eat. Midnight came and went and still I hadn’t eaten. I don’t own a lot of extra dishes, and it was past the time to wash them. At that hour and with known tasks ahead, there really wasn’t time to stop and do dishes. The only clean container I had in which to heat those beans was, well, a coffee cup. So I did.

I stared down at the food in my hand and I wondered how many others had eaten beans from a cup, or straight from a freshly-opened steel can. Images flashed through my mind like flickering frames of an old movie, but each frame was from a different place and time. There must have been many millions of times, I considered, others have done the same. Sometimes, no doubt, those beans were all there was to eat. At other times, a cup of beans would have been wishful thinking. I saw hobos around a campfire. Cattle drivers stopping for a bite. Soldiers in war-torn trenches, or in quickly-excavated foxholes. A warm cup of real beans beats an MRE, any day or night.

But in my opinion, you haven’t really lived until you’ve eaten the last food you had with others around a campfire while too deep into the forest to get out in time for breakfast. Or until you’ve done it alone. Real desperation is a feeling you get when you’ve no idea which way to go to even get out of the wilderness. Then, your very life is in peril. Imagine the feeling of finally making your way to safety. There are so many ways it can happen...feet pounding, lungs bursting, running for your life. You make it. You become so sick of the fear of death that anger takes over, so that all you want is to make death fear you. And you make it. You live to see another sunrise. The sun sets, and you see another. And another.

You may not know it, but you’re here to learn, and you will. I think the creator of all has a hands-off preference. The world, and life, will be precisely what we make for ourselves. The blame is not on a creator. Any blame to be placed belongs directly on us.

And now I’ll say it, knowing that for those presently experiencing the deepest sense of loss, it could never be enough. There can be no appreciation for life without the reality of death. There can be no certainty without the contrast of the uncertain. There can be no beauty without the things that are not beautiful. Throw eggs at a fan, and guess what? Even consequence serves a purpose. So curse reality if it makes it better for a moment, or doubt it if you prefer. All things must pass. It’s part of what we’ve been given. The other part? Free will.

I doubt that one was ever intended to be misused, or wasted. I have to admit, I’ve done both. But, the day that’s about to begin will be a brand new one.

What will you do with yours?

 

 

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The Burning Truck

- February 11, 2015 -

 

 

I didn’t know a thing about the accident, or even if there actually was one. The clock on the wall was indicating the approach of workday’s end when a co-worker stepped in and advised me that my usual road home was blocked in both directions by a burning tractor-trailer. “Check it out online,” he urged. “The local paper has it up on their website.”

And so it was. A shell of a truck, its blackened cab a mere skeletal remain with smoking debris of a fragmented trailer behind it, blocking the highway. “The road will be closed for several hours,” the short article declared. “Motorists should expect long delays.”

As the decimated truck was positioned in the narrowest segment of the highway between my workplace and my home, I believed it. There is a ravine on one side of the highway and a mountain on the other. It usually takes me forty-five minutes one-way if the roads are clear and dry as they are now, and if traffic moves well. The alternative was a far less-traveled pathway over several steep mountains, connected by many miles of winding secondary roads. When I say “winding” and “secondary,” that hardly covers it. It passes a wildlife sanctuary and a remote state park, and passes right through an even more remote state park. Then the road becomes treacherous to drivers who don’t know their way around a country switchback, or through the snowbanks and turkey-tracks of horse-and-buggy-land.

Of course I did it. Overall my effort might have been almost a wash, as the trip required two and a half hours to complete; but that was mainly because I wasn’t the only one unwilling to wait until late to set out for home. I had plenty of company, including big trucks, like the one that was blocking the highway in the middle of the better-traveled route.

For the greater part of the trip I felt like I was in a slow-moving caravan. Traffic was moving in both directions so there were no clear passing zones, and of course there’s always an overly-cautious driver who leads such long trains of vehicles. At least we were making progress. Eventually, though, the first real bottleneck appeared up ahead, and we all sat for twenty minutes or more to attempt an entry onto a somewhat better secondary road. You couldn’t see far at the stop sign, and traffic on that road was fast-moving. I opted for the path that I knew would be less-traveled and I made a right turn to get out of traffic. I then turned left toward yet another mountain, and realized it had worked. For most of the rest of the way home, I was virtually alone. And that’s where this brief story really begins.

It was an overcast evening anyway, and darkness would fall by about the time I reached home. For now, it was waning daylight. I had passed the last country church on the way to Jack’s Mountain and was settling into the much more pleasant drive, negotiating the circuitous route that must have been established centuries ago by wildlife and then riders on horseback, perhaps the occasional buckboard. The pictures in my mind were vivid and clear. I wondered for how long each winter these roads had remained closed before the coming of four-wheel-drive trucks with snowplows. I'm sure that thought set the mood for the last turn in the narrow road before it began to ascend the mountain.

And then, there it was. An ultra-clear view of the Appalachians that seemed to extend forever into the blue-white distance; fold after fold after fold of sculptured planet, the trees on each fold contrasting with the snow before it, the scene topped by even higher mountains nestled immediately behind them, those topped with purest white.

All of my cluttered thoughts tumbled to the stony pavement, scattering along the roadside as my little car slowed to a stop. I glanced at my rear-view mirror. I was still alone.

I sat for a few long moments and gazed at the scene. Then I shifted into low gear and began the ascent, my thoughts, my perspective and my world forever altered, yet again.

The township road is fractured, undulating pavement of the roughest sort, angled slightly toward the guardrails. It’s a wonder snowplows can even clear it. I have seen large trucks on this road, probably the reason it’s that way. Any tree of the thousands that stand along it would close the road if it fell. There is an overlook at the top of the mountain, and long before I reached it, I knew I would stop again.

From the summit of Jack’s Mountain there is a fantastic view of the deep valleys on either side. The height and the distance is always breathtakingly beautiful, but neither view is the equal of the scene I’d beheld before I started up the mountain. In the summer that grandeur wouldn’t be apparent either, not without the contrast of the snow to outline the shapes as they extend into the distance. Words are totally inadequate. Tectonics, compression, elevation, erosion. Upheaval, geology, topology, buckling, anticlines, synclines. Call any of it what you wish. “Majestic” doesn’t cover it either.

As I stood and gazed over the snow-covered valleys, I considered my good fortune at having come this way on this particular evening. I realized that my everyday thoughts are organized into layers; one handles my bills, my income and my taxes, another, my workload; yet another, the relationships I try to balance, whether at work, with family or with my closest friends. All of my wishes, hopes and dreams are interlaced with all of those things, everything I know or I'm curious about is in there too. There are names, and statutes, and expectations, and conditions, and properties. Materials, energy, craft, and technique. On and on and on. And I wonder, what exactly are the limits to what we can know, or imagine? Or are there limits at all?

And yet.

All of humanity is so small, so insignificant in comparison to this place. This Earth.

I have long believed that humanity will somehow survive all trials, overcome all obstacles and will endure for as long as the universe exists. I hope we will. Tonight, I finally have serious doubt that we can endure as long as the planet on which we live. Despite our mental abilities, we are so frail. We are so emotional. In our arrogance we do stupid things, and we obsess on trivialities. We prioritize money, and comfort, and sex, and drugs. We attack and kill each other to a degree that exceeds the habits of common animals. As a group, we don’t always look out for our elderly, or the weak, and often, not even our children.

The planet is so unimaginably huge. Take a hard look, and try to imagine the relative permanence of the earth. I have to say. If in fact our planet is a mere dustball in the cosmos, as I’ve heard it said, it’s one hell of a dustball.

And we concern ourselves with so many of the wrong things. It’s not “the way of the world,” it’s the way of people. There’s nothing like a real view of our limited place in this grand world to clear one’s mind, and to press the reset button for one’s priorities. It's as if my maker selected this event to say to me, “Well hey, did you know?”

This morning I learned that the driver of the truck escaped the vehicle before it caught fire. I wouldn’t wish him any worse off because of the fiery event that blocked the highway. I'm sure he isn't happy about it. The pavement where the event occurred was melted and scorched and the highway, I've heard, was closed for twelve hours.

I, on the other hand, was quite fortunate.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Nickle Rolled Under the Door

Damn right, the nickle rolled under the door. If it hadn't been just about the high point of my day, I wouldn't be writing about it. And actually I'm not writing about it, but rather, the fact that it was nearly the high point of my day. Sort of.

I'm not changing the subject at all when I say, slack time is dangerous. Slack time is wasteful, and it creates time for product developers to egg software engineers into making stupid changes to formerly good programs. Word processing programs just aren't what they used to be. Try highlighting some text. I've made every modification I could find to make, but you still have to try several times to highlight text, and all the while, the damned thing is trying to predict what it is I want to type. And I absolutely hate that!

Oh, I do know how to turn off the auto-complete “feature.” Doing that, however, alters or eliminates other things that I can’t afford to change.

I freely admit, I allow too many silly, stupid things to bother me. But consider, everything is just naturally a trade-off. Example, if you want to lose weight, you have to eat less and to exercise more. If you eat something extra you'll have to work it off, and if you put that off you will lose ground, like it or not. Everything is like that, it's just the way things are. But how much of that sort of thing is directly imposed on us by other humans? Why should that be so? The program worked fine before, but some product developer wanted to keep his job, so he persuaded his software designers to fuck it all up so it would look like he, the product developer, was still working. I say, fire him. Breaking something just to change it is just cause enough. The same applies to an operating system that more than once has failed to improve on the system it followed. But if we leave it alone, why, we won't make money! Folks, vote with your feet. Choose an alternative.

And as usual, I digress.

But not really. Because that particular list is long. The much-publicized computing “cloud” doesn’t even really exist, did you know that? There’s nothing new at all about time and storage sharing between networked servers. They’ve hung a new name on it, and now they’re eliminating your hard drives so that you require access to it. It’s a short trip to being charged to use it, which is the endgame, the objective. Not a one of the players gives a damn about your privacy, but only their profit. And then there are the “content deliverers,” who actually are doing far more than delivering content for their big customers. In actuality they follow you wherever you go on the internet, into your bank accounts, into your email. They want your passwords, they sell your data. My port scanner sees you people, and you suck! I block you, and you interrupt my ability to move about.

I shall continue to block you. I will not purchase any computer that has no storage capacity. I shall never pay for cloud services. No matter what.

So now, there’s a new reason why slack time is dangerous. It gives me time to think, and sometimes, thinking leads to writing it down. And it can become a rant.

Let me tell you just a tiny bit about the human condition that will affect you no matter what you do, and you do need to be aware of it. In order to understand where things are headed and what should be allowed or opposed, first you must know how things used to be. Some things were good, some were bad, but without any understanding of prior conditions, you cannot possibly know what should be acceptable, now or in the future. It isn’t just about history that could repeat itself; it is also about why no one knows what a block party is like, anymore. Why we know nothing about our neighbors. What it was like when the authorities had to get a court order to intercept communications. The “powers that be” can’t handle that they are not yet absolute. Young people haven’t lost sight of real freedom, because they’ve never known it. The generation that follows theirs will know even less. But it’s not because the information isn’t there; it’s because nobody cares, except the people who are taking your freedoms and your privacy and certainly, your money.

Today during my slack time, I happened upon an advertisement (an ad!!) that claimed that “all sixteen U.S. security agencies” were preparing for World War Three. Further, it claimed that this war was expected within the next six months. I’ve seen similar ads (a few months ago) claiming that billionaires were selling off their U.S. stocks in preparation for the upcoming world depression that would begin right here. In neither case is there anything to it whatsoever. My point is, the creators of those ads are human slime. They would love to be proven right, although they already know it’s senseless hype. It’s for the purpose of getting hits and selling subscriptions. Period. If their ad somehow set off a massive war and billions died because of it, what would they care?

Like all power-hungry, money-grubbing profiteers, they would not. And that’s what I wanted to point out about the human condition. Take care of yourself. Watch your back! “Question authority!!!” Trust very, very few. If any.

All of this came together because I had some slack time, and the reason for it was both sad and silly. I won’t get into it. I needed something to do, and I’ve stopped smoking, so I thought I’d lighten the change in my pocket and pick something from the vending machine that stands in the hall. Of course it was like texting and driving, but I extracted the handful of change that was weighing down my pocket and sorted for quarters as I walked. A nickel got away, and it rolled under a door. The door was locked.

And I guess it just kinda pissed me off.

The Valley of Clouds

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          I’m suspended above an unimaginably huge chasm, a cleft in the earth both wide and deep, a place of both brightness and shadow. This rope is far, far longer than I had ever imagined, stretched tightly and parallel to the earth. My feet dangle above an overtly alarming space; the broad floor of this valley must be thousands of feet below. And how far is it to the other side? To what, I wonder, is this rope attached at its end? My hands are large for my physical size, my arms are strong, but surely by now, the spiral-twisted strands of a thick rope are embedded permanently in my palms. And sometimes I do mind the ache in my shoulders, the straining of my muscles. Hand over hand, taking one new grip after another, slowly I progress. From time to time I stop, turn about with careful effort, and look back. I can no longer see how far the rope extends as it vanishes into the distance behind me. I can barely recall the point from which I began. I’ve been out here, now, for months. No. Years. It most definitely has been years.
          It’s far more than symbolism. I’m actually where I’ve said. Figuratively, of course, and in no small way, literally. I dare not let go; I live on this rope. I eat, sleep, breathe and may also die, on this rope. It was my choice to come out here. I took a deep breath, and I began.
          All of my life, this had been coming. So much for the prescience I’ve sometimes claimed, I never saw it until it arrived. I should have known there was a reason behind the workouts when I started them, and for once, was able to stick to them. I’d been pushing weights, all I could muster, until my chest ached and my heart pounded. I thought it might be the way I would die. But I would not stop and I will never stop. Because if I must die, it’s the way it should happen.
           The day I left the safety of solid earth, I knew it would be a long trip. I didn’t know if I could make it across. But, then as now, I was not at all prepared to face my mortality. If I’m not immortal, I just don’t see it, and that’s the truth. But I don’t know if I’ve reached the halfway point, or if I’ve passed it. Or if I’m even capable of completing this journey.
           Like any endeavor, I know why I started. On the other side, there is sure, sweet release. There’s something definable there, a final destination that must be reached. I will know exactly how Winston Churchill felt, hours before he addressed his nation for the first time about the realities of war.
          I also suspect there’s someone waiting, someone I’ve missed for ever so long.
          It’s so strange that I don’t know who that someone is. And it’s possible there is no one; but I think that’s human nature. If we want something badly enough, we begin to believe it exists. Thus we never really know if something ethereal has changed state. Trust me, it can and it does happen.
           I’ve named this place above which I’m suspended, and it’s my title for this short piece. I think it’s also human nature to give a name to any place where so much time has been spent. And it fits; the reality of this place to me is stark. Earth is an amazingly beautiful planet, and the valley below may be the most attractive place upon it. The weather here changes, as does the time of day or night. The silvery ribbon of river winding far below my feet is often shrouded in mist. The mist rises beneath the warming rays of the morning sun until it shrouds me; and from here it advances to join the billows of clouds, still higher above. Of course, it rains, and I get wet. Snow collects on my head and on my shoulders. It gets cold out here at night, and in summer, it gets hot. But I’m still here. I manage it with a “second” wind drawn from the depths of my soul, a deepened gulp of new strength, gratefully taken hundreds of times. Daily I’m reminded that I should have changed my work boots before I ventured out, but one cannot go back to change the place from where one began. At least the boots keep my feet warm, and the high-tops protect my ankles when I boost them over the rope, to get some sleep. When I do, I awaken to the reality known to everyone else.
          When the air is clear, I swear I can see for hundreds of miles in any direction. And life has not slowed in any way because of this rope. My best work has come from it. The further I progress, the better it gets. And then, there’s the music, always with me. Fault me for it if you wish, I couldn’t stop it if I tried. From here, entire magnificent symphonies have been composed and then forgotten, not a note if it written, or otherwise retained for posterity.
          The music happens to be the only doubt I’ve ever had about the rightness of the objective at the end of this rope. It’s a serious doubt. But without doubt there would be no life at all. Without doubt, there would be no questioning, and thus, no resolution. I cannot speak for anyone else, but the necessity of the process seems obvious to me. And who knows. Perhaps I am immortal after all, and that journey will be the next rope. Ha, that's doubtful.
          Because it’s only a rope, there is no safety harness involved, nor is there a net. But immortal or not, completed or not, this was a journey upon which I had to embark.
          I had no choice whatsoever.
          There is no turning back.



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The Power of Slide

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“Let it slide.”

Ever heard that line? Admittedly it has its downside, and that’s not an intentional pun. But without Slide, life would be just about intolerable. The trick is to use it judiciously. I freely admit, I’m still working on it, and I always will be...because it’s a dynamic term, applicable in very many ways and in so many situations. Misused, it’s just another way to procrastinate. But if it’s used well, it’s extremely advantageous.

Slide is tolerance. Let’s face it, everybody makes mistakes. No two people are always in sync with their thoughts and intentions, although some are better with that than others. Being out of sync with the feelings of another is no crime, but how often does it affect a relationship? If you asked me, I would say, continuously. My head doesn’t seem to work like anyone else’s. So if a significant other says something that sounds like it’s stupid, or maybe it’s vulgar, or even obnoxious or damaging, do you let it slide? Can you? Should you? Your decision will be based on how important the person is to you, for your own sake, keep that in mind. It will depend on the frequency of such occurrences. On the severity of the apparent infraction. Unfortunately, some of us have no tolerance at all for a misstep or a misspeak. But sometimes, people do screw up. Slide is not necessarily forgiveness, it’s somewhat tentative coolness. “Okay I’m just gonna let that slide.” A bit of advice...if you hear that as a response, take it seriously. Oh and by the way? Everyone is different, whether that difference is in appearance, demeanor or ethnicity. Slide should be on full-automatic for that, to your great advantage. In those cases, it may have less than nothing to do with any kind of personal relationship.

Slide makes it easier to re-group. Even some chickens know this. A flock of chickens is just about the most excitable assemblage on earth. I’ve kept chickens, you can come to feed and water them at the same times every day, and still, they’ll freak out when you enter their pen to do it. But they’ll re-group, settle down, and then mob the feeder. You’re forgiven, it’s time to eat. And there are always a few of the birds who hang out on the outskirts, placid and cool, because they aren’t as excitable as the rest. They’ll be the first ones to the feeder. Be cool. Is that project daunting? Set a time to begin, and take a break. When you reach the point where you told yourself you would start, hit it hard...but until then, you’re sliding. Be careful with this one. Your employer may not know how to let anything slide. But if he or she does not understand the importance of mental attitude, again, the job can become just about intolerable. Some bosses never learn this. It’s unfortunate. Trying to see things from their perspective may allow you to let that slide, too. Good luck.

Slide makes re-evaluation possible. It’s the exact opposite of a knee-jerk reaction. Sometimes, the situation seems to call for packing a bag and getting the hell out, or reacting with anger, or worse. Whoa! Slide is a step back, a step away, but it isn’t burning bridges. It isn’t getting you arrested. It isn’t getting you fired. It isn’t escalation of any kind. It doesn’t take a hike, it takes a walk. It allows one to cool off. It eliminates, not postpones, but eliminates conflict. Think about that! And how many songs have been written about regrets? How many families have been decimated by quick decisions? Think about the position from which you would prefer to re-evaluate. Unemployment? Alone, in a motel room? In a cell? Brother, sister! Slide. When you have to take action, at least know that it’s necessary.

By now it’s plain that this could go on forever. However when I sit down to write something, I never, ever just rip it off. I walk away, I walk circles, I think about it. I look things up. I re-word everything, as seems appropriate. I don’t publish it before it has aged a while. I re-read after my perspective has had a chance to change.

I’m not the best slider in the world. I’ve messed it up at least as much as I haven’t; but I’ve learned from it. At this point in time, I’m letting more slide than I should be. I consider it to be an adjustment. And it allows me to write.

My final bit of advice on the topic will be straightforward, and there's some urgency in it: Allow yourself to live. Take time, so that it doesn’t take you.

Slide.


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A Story Writes You

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All this time I had believed that a writer writes stories. How silly is that? It just happens to be where I am at this moment. Looking backward as I've done at the pieces I've completed, I can see it wasn't me inventing tales. If it had been, all of them would have been exceedingly boring. Insults accepted later, hear me out.

Sometimes I thought I had a story to tell. But in fact, happenings that revealed themselves as something quite different later on in the story, were unplanned. That must be what's meant by stories writing themselves. It can take on a life of its own while in process. In fact, though, each of these have real substance in the form of occurrences that actually took place, or that might have in some surreal existence, based on some real experience.

There have been things I've written that took shape, but that had no planned ending. In those rare cases I had to find an ending that would hopefully satisfy readers, releasing them from the tale to return to their personal lives and pursuits. However in most cases there's somewhere I want to go with an idea, before I begin. I have a character, I have a setting, I have a point. I may even have an ending. Now the objective is to seize the attention of the reader, give him something to care about, and hold his attention while I wrap him personally into the scenery. Then, I will push him off of the edge of a cliff. He will not survive unless he gets my point before he hits the rocks.

That's all a pile of crap, of course. I'm not that good. In fact, when I write something it's because Icare about it. I care about the limitations of careless, lazy, unthinking, robotic humanity. I care about the natural world, and everything in it. I care about the majesty of the universe, what our place as a species could be rather than what it seems likely it will be. Like, stop hurting each other, okay? Listen to Bill and Ted, and be excellent to each other. And I care about humor, because it helps to preserve my, 'um, sanity. “How are you today?”

“Hahahahahaaaa, ssstable!”

Everything's relative.

Writers of fiction are chicken. We're unwilling to come right out and say what we think, because people might hate us for it. If they hate us, there's no way we'll ever get paid. We're journalists who are unwilling to do the homework to write articles using sound, provable facts. If it's plausible, more or less, it's good stuff. If we know something or just believe something, we can use it, 'cuz it's fiction.

I've reviewed the things I've written from time to time, because it helps me to see just a little bit better how they might impact a reader who hasn't already seen them. Thanks to a crappy memory, I can do that. But that's not what caused this little piece to be written. What did? I just watched a video that takes you to the places from which J.R.R. Tolkien probably got his inspirations for his epic series of books. He definitely had some real points to make, and he assembled the materials from a lifetime of experiences. A fantastic imagination took over.

And so I have one more thing for which I could thank him. If his works defined him,
then my own writing may be defining me.

I can live with that.

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