100 words a day

I watched the International Space Station fly over again tonight.  As I scanned the western sky, she leaped out from behind Venus and arched over my house, a thing of shining beauty slipping between clouds, stars, and silhouettes of trees.  She passed from the muted blue of dusk through the gradient into night, and I smiled.  In her wake, I felt hope. I felt peace and inspiration, and the wonder that Ray Bradbury had awakened in me when I was a child.

Nature’s beauty is always there, but sometimes it takes a pinpoint of light to make me look.

There’s a science fiction writer whose work I admire, and whose personal integrity and discipline I admire even more.  I’ve known for some time that this writer has a group of anti-fans and Twitter trolls (twolls?) but I never expected to interact with them.  However, after I sent out a tweet mentioning the writer yesterday, I received responses from one of the twolls shortly thereafter, insulting the writer’s abilities and success.

What drives people like that?  Why do they hate this writer so much that they resort to baiting and taunting him in a public forum?

Is it just jealousy?

I overdid it riding my bike to work this morning.  I felt faint and had to lie on the floor for a while in my office before I could start my day.

I only live a mile and a half from work, but over that short distance my route drops about 120 feet in elevation, then climbs back up another 90 feet.  Back when I was mountain biking regularly, that would have been nothing.  Now that I’m older and out of shape, pushing hard on that climb — even on pavement — is too much.

At least someone brought doughnuts.

This is National Crime Victims’ Rights Week, as well as the 15th anniversary of the Oklahoma City bombing.

This week, I honor my wife, who was in a building two blocks away from the Murrah building when the truck exploded.

The shock wave blew in the windows and threw her to the floor.  She was several months pregnant with Logan at the time.

Some people say she’s not a victim because she wasn’t actually in the Murrah building.

Tell that to her fibromyalgia and PTSD.  Tell that to the shards of plate glass embedded in the wall behind her chair.

I was in the grocery store today — the same one as before.  I was wearing my Pink Floyd shirt with a prism on the front.  The title of the album associated with that prism was printed across the top.  The courtesy clerk took special notice of it.

“What does your shirt say?  ‘Dark Side of the … Movie?’”

I faltered, but regained my composure quickly.

“‘Dark Side of the Moon.’  It’s one of the best selling albums of all time.  Came out in 1973,” I said.

“Album.  Huh,” he said.

Being the non-violent type, I just walked away.

There’s a long-running writing contest called Writers of the Future.  I’ve told myself that I would enter for 25 years, and last fall, thanks to incessant prodding encouragement from my friend Charles Anderson, I finally did.

Last week, my wife called and said I had received a manila envelope in the mail.  It contained a WotF Honorable Mention certificate, along with a brief complimentary note from the contest coordinator.  I’ve been told that because there are so many entrants, getting an Honorable Mention is quite an accomplishment.

I’m in good company, though.  My friend Charles Anderson?  He got one, too.

Fibromyalgia: a chronic disorder characterized by widespread pain, tenderness, and stiffness of muscles and associated connective tissue structures that is typically accompanied by fatigue, headache, and sleep disturbances

Allodynia: pain resulting from a stimulus (as a light touch of the skin) which would not normally provoke pain.

My wife has fibromyalgia.  Sometimes, her pain sensitivity approaches allodynia levels.

I took her a glass of soda today, and my arm brushed hers.  She recoiled in pain and snapped at me.  Evidently, my touch shocked her.

I didn’t even feel it.

It’s very hard not to feel guilty or take it personally.

$125.36 for round trip tickets.  No luggage.  That would have been $40 more.  No family.  That would have been at least another $165.00.  My credit card only had $127.50.

“Mom, I’m coming out.  I’ll be there when Judy’s there, so you’ll have the family together, like you and Dad want, at least for a couple of days.”

“Good!  I’ll be happy to see you.  By the way, I wanted to let you know … we didn’t intend to hurt Lannette by not inviting her.”

“Well, you did.  That hurt me too.  I’m still not happy about it.”

“I’m sorry, hon.”

“Dad, I need some more details.  It’s not going to work for me to just tell work that I’m going to Vegas to watch movies with my parents.  What’s going on?  Why do I have to be there within a month?”

“I never said anything about a month.”

“Yes, Dad, you did.”

“Well, we just want to see you, and we don’t want you to have any distractions.”

“I have to bring my family, Dad.  I have to help Lannette with her medications.”

“Well, then, never mind.  Just forget about it.  We’ll call the whole thing off.”

I’m still shocked.

You know those calls that you expect to get someday, but not today?

“Stace?  This is Dad.  I want you and your sister - just the two of you - to come out here for a few days.  It’ll probably be the last chance we have to get all of us together.  I’ll pay for it.”

“Dad, you can’t afford that.”

“I’ll take it out of our savings.  It’s important.  When you get here, we’ll talk about some things and watch the old home movies.  Try to be out here within the next few weeks.  No more than a month.”

Most of what I write (aside from blog entries and social networking updates) is non-fiction, science fiction, or poetry.  However, I think my best short story is a piece of literary fiction, and it’s currently in the queue at a fairly prestigious literary magazine.  I suspect the end result will be a rejection letter; I’m prepared for the worst.

I’m okay with the prospect of rejection.   Success and its resulting reader expectations scare me, though.  How do I maintain quality output?

An alternate Me just whispered in my ear: “Trust yourself.  Satisfy your own expectations and your fears will dissolve.”

My parents weigh heavily on my mind.  Dad turns 80 in a couple of months; he had emergency triple bypass surgery three years ago.  Mom, almost 75, fell and broke her hip in November and can’t climb the few steps to her bed.  She sleeps in a recliner.  They live two states from their nearest relatives and refuse to move any closer.  When I call them, I can hear the fatigue in Dad’s voice and the creeping senility in Mom’s.

I used to be proud of them for being so independent; now, I just wish they would move back home.

In the past, I’ve blogged my New Year’s resolutions and invariably set myself up for failure by making huge lists.  This year, it all fits in less than 100 words, but it’s still lengthy.

1.  Clean the litter boxes regularly.

2.  Start publishing fiction.

3.  Publish more non-fiction.

4.  Finish my webOS app.

5.  Strengthen my back and neck.

6.  Eat no McDonald’s breakfast sandwiches in 2010.

7.   Make (and meet) more reasonable goals at work.

8.  Streamline our finances.

9.  Read for enjoyment.

10.  Blog regularly.

11.   Transplant my Variax guitar electronics.

(At least the list goes to eleven.)

I spent the last two days agonizing over National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo.)  During that time, I wrote exactly zero words, which put me about 3,300 words in the hole.  In an attempt to kick-start myself, I re-read the story inspiring the novel and became even more depressed and discouraged.

The story has potential.  But stressing about NaNoWriMo is not going to get it written.  I need to write it over a longer period of time, with less pressure.

To my fellow NaNoWriMates:  Forge ahead and meet your goal.  I’ll be waiting at the finish line to cheer you on.

I stand behind dozens of firefighters in their dress blues; I wear an embroidered polo with my name and the Federal Heights Fire Department logo.  His casket bears his name: Joseph Eugene Grein.

I am not a firefighter, but I knew the firefighter they are honoring this day.  I didn’t know him well, mind you, just as a work acquaintance.  But I know he would have helped me in an emergency, and for that, I will always be grateful.

I am honored that I am allowed to stand with his peers and say goodbye from the fringes of the brotherhood.

As Ahmadinejad pulls his nuclear saber another inch from its scabbard, my Cold War anxieties return.  My dreams become a series of nuclear scenarios.  A nuke hits downtown Denver, the stem of the mushroom expanding to encompass my house.  A failed attack results in an Iranian Saegheh aircraft exploding on 16th street during Christmas season.

None of this is reasonable; if (when?) Iran is ready to use nukes, Denver is not a likely target, and I don’t think there’s any way a Saegheh fighter jet could make it to middle America.

But then, saber-rattling isn’t intended to produce rational results.

I hate buying cars.  I like having cars, but I’ve purchased enough of them from dealerships that my blood pressure increases and my heart jumps at the mere thought of dealing with a salesperson, finance director, and their impossible-to-please supervisors.

I’m not exactly an assertive person.  When faced with conflict, I tend to back down, and that’s exactly why I’m bothered by car dealerships.  I know it’s in my nature to allow myself to be manipulated, which fits nicely with their training to control the transaction.

Not this time.  I can always walk off the lot if I’m not happy.

I apologize in advance.

I don’t want to say what’s on my mind, because it sounds weak, frail, and childish, so this post will be intentionally vague, a roundabout way of addressing my need to write publicly while acknowledging my need for privacy.

That’s probably maddening to read, and I bet I just lost half of you, less than halfway through the post.

I’m questioning my dream of writing right now, the fiction dream.  The only fiction I’ve published was in my college literary magazine nearly a quarter century ago.

The rub:  I’m still afraid of submitting fiction to editors.

I’m not a prude, but I think a lot of people would be surprised to hear me curse.  For some reason, I come across as socially conservative, especially in regard to colorful words.  I’m certainly not opposed to them; in fact, I think there are times when they are very useful, but there are other times when they are not appropriate.

My viewpoint is not informed by any specific religious dogma.  I simply have respect for the power of curse words, and I don’t like to dilute that power through overuse.

Unlike just about everyone on reality television, evidently.

I’m sitting in a bathroom stall and some guy comes in, talking on his Bluetooth headset.  Not a care in the world, he keeps talking while he does his business.

Is he going to flush? I wonder.  That would totally clue in the person on the other end.

He flushes and continues his conversation, bypassing the sink on his way out.

Ick, I think.  He must really know the person on the other end.  Either that, or neither of them have a sense of propriety.

Oh … pardon me, but I have to set the smartphone down.  Time to flush.

My wife is amazing.  She was forced out of work due to fibromyalgia.  She spent most of a year in bed, dealing with the fallout of missed commitments, eroding friendships, and guilt about not contributing to the household income.

Then she submitted an essay to the National Fibromyalgia Association and won a scholarship to their International Leaders Against Pain conference.  Empowered, she founded the Colorado Fibromyalgia Network, a grass-roots support group, which has now been chosen to host an educational event for several hundred people, one of only ten such events nationwide.

She’s found her calling, and she’s loving it.

The story about the stabbing came in my RSS feed, with no picture.  They described the the attacker as being tall and heavyset, unshaven, with brown hair.  The description matches my first stepson (or at least it did the last time I saw him.)  I read further and find that the name is the same, too.

No, it wasn’t him, but it does set me to wondering.  This year, he turns the same age I was when I first met his mother.

There’s bad blood; I don’t really want to know how he his.  Yet, I can’t help but wonder.

We went out to watch the Perseids last night, an activity I’ve long done with my kids.  Last night was the first time my wife joined us, though.  We leaned back and watched the sky, holding each other, overwhelmed.

There’s something about being out under the summer sky, with a breeze blowing and earthgrazers leaving streaks between the stars, that draws people together.  Maybe it’s the feeling of comfort we get from connecting with another against the vastness of the universe.  Maybe it calls up ancestral memories of pristine skies, kicking in primal instincts.

Whatever it is, it’s downright erotic.

I think I’m generally a pretty tolerant person, but there are a few things that just stick in my craw, especially when it comes to spelling and grammar.  Here is one.

UPS — It’s an acronym, not a word.  It stands for United Parcel Service, and it’s pronounced “U P S”, not “ups”.  Does one say “us-puss” for the United States Postal Service?  Or “ibim” for IBM?

I can understand pronouncing acronyms intended to evoke words: CARS, NORML, AIDS.  But as far as I know, that was not the intention with UPS.

One more thing.  There’s no apostrophe in UPS.

“You Democrats won’t go to heaven.”

“What?”

“With the ideals you have, you won’t be allowed into heaven when you die.”

“Are you for real?”

“Yes, I mean it.  Democrats lack strong values, and without them, they can’t have eternal salvation.”

“That’s ridiculous.  How can you equate a person’s political beliefs with … with eligibility for ascension?”

“It’s simple.  If you don’t live a righteous life, you can’t come in.”

“And if I’m not a Republican, I don’t live a righteous life?”

“Exactly.  Only Republican values are in line with God’s word.”

“Since when is St. Peter a hard-line Republican?”

The lone service clerk worked frantically, but despite her best efforts, the line continued to grow.  We waited patiently; she was doing the best she could.

While we waited, a short man with messy gray hair and a greasy jacket muscled his way to the front of the line.  He carried a thick stack of scratch tickets.

“Hey buddy, the line’s back here,” said the guy ahead of me.  The man ignored him and made straight for the “Take a Penny, Leave a Penny” cup on the counter.

He took a penny, then left to go scratch off his winnings.

She grew up in that small Mississippi town and had rarely ventured beyond the city limits.  She was a very sweet young woman: pretty, respectful, and frighteningly naïve.

I mentioned Wal*Mart in passing, and her eyes brightened.

“Oh, you have Wal*Mart in Colorado, too?” she drawled.

“Um … yeah.  There are lots of Wal*Marts in Colorado.  They’re in every state.”

“Really?  I didn’t know that.”

“Yep.  Every state in the union.”

Her eyes widened and she shook her head slightly.  “Oh, we don’t talk much about the Union down here.”

Over one hundred forty years later, the war still rages.

The car idles as my stepson and I wait in line at the Walgreen’s drive-through.  A fancy SUV waits in line ahead of us.

“Look, it’s the Wal*Mart dude!” he says.

“Who?” I ask.

“You know, the Wal*Mart dude.  That yellow smiley face guy.  On that car’s antenna.”

I look up and see a faded yellow antenna ball smiling down at me, a 70s cultural icon, rendered in three dimensions and impaled on the antenna of a $70,000 gas guzzler.  In my stepson’s generation, the smiley face has been co-opted by the world’s largest retailer.

Have a nice day, indeed.

I made a commitment last week to re-work one of my short stories and submit it to a local magazine.  I thought it would be a slam dunk, an easy way to sneak a submission past my irrationally fearful subconscious.

I looked over the story, then checked the writers’ guidelines.  And there was the block: 1,500 word limit.  My story is 2,750 words, and though I’m a fan of the “cut by a third” mantra, I don’t think the story would survive being cut nearly in half.

I have a week to write a new story and meet my commitment.

I spent the last couple of weeks gathering topics for today’s 100 Words A Day writing blizzard.  At first, the ideas only trickled, a frozen faucet beginning to thaw.  Then, a sequence of blasts as the ice broke up, and finally a steady stream.

As long as I keep the faucet on, or at least dripping, I should have a constant source of writing ideas.  Unfortunately, I didn’t take proper care over the winter, and it’s been difficult getting the pipes to thaw, for any writing.

I realized last week that it’s been eighteen months since I wrote any fiction.

I like to think I learned a lot from my Dad: how to be a gentleman, how to get a broken-down car home, MacGyver-style, how to appreciate simple things made from the heart, and, of course, Lyle Johnson Specials.  But one thing that didn’t transfer to me was a love of yard work.

I despise mowing the lawn, whacking the weeds, watering the grass, or working on landscaping.  I suppose I could think of it metaphorically, nurturing my soul or body to health, and it might seem less abhorrent.

On second thought, no.  I don’t want to start hating metaphors.

Depression and headache pin me, naked and sweating, to the bed.  Another day of missed work; a day further behind tomorrow.  Food holds no interest.

In the words of Roger Waters, “Gotta stay awake, gotta try and shake off this creeping malaise.”  It’s not justified; my life is improving daily.  Perhaps apnea is the root of the problem.  Perhaps CPAP is the answer.  I’ll find out soon.

Maybe I need to stop trying to figure out the “why” and just power through.  But if I ignore the Lilliputian vines holding me down, will I not just carry them with me?

When I was a child, I used to read Ray Bradbury books like R is for Rocket and S is for Space, and I wondered what it would be like to look up and see spaceships streaking across the night sky.

Tonight, I stood with my family and watched the International Space Station move smoothly, purposefully across the early evening sky at over 17,500 miles per hour.  I pictured the Expedition 20 crew members as they went through their routines, putting another sunset behind them and preparing to welcome another sunrise in ninety minutes.

I love living in the future.

She loved the fireworks at the big, open ball park.  We talked about them as we walked to the bus station, and while we waited for a non-crowded bus in the downtown concrete canyons, someone threw a large firecracker from a building a block away.  I saw the flash from the corner of my eye, and the retort echoed between the buildings, a unique sound.

She was instantly back in Oklahoma City, April 19, 1995.

The body-shaking concussions of the professional fireworks had not fazed her, but the smaller explosion between the tall buildings did.

God damn you, Timothy McVeigh.

I first heard about her in a tweet from William Gibson (@GreatDismal) on Saturday:

“Young woman protester on her back, bleeding out. Orbit of one eye a perfect unspilled pool of blood. Image burns in, indelible. History now.”

Her name was Neda.  She was caught on video just after being shot in the heart while protesting the Iran election.  Who shot her is unclear, and perhaps irrelevant.  She’s now the new face of revolution.

Yesterday, a link to an article featuring the video of Neda’s death showed up in my RSS feeds.

I am not brave enough to watch it.

Every community has its unique individuals.  One of ours is a rock star.

He wanders the streets of Federal Heights, playing air guitar to a capacity crowd that only he can see, making music that only he can hear.  He serenades Federal Boulevard in ragged Levis, concert T-shirt, and jean jacket vest, tapping out a rhythm with his foot, his long brown hair stirring in the wind created by the passing cars.  His wallet chain glints in the sunlight as he points to the crowd, his fretting hand still blazing, hammering out his never-ending solo.

Rock on, Air Guitar Dude.

I’m not a landscaper.  The last time I did any significant landscaping was when I worked on the grounds crew at my high school for a summer, nearly thirty years ago.

Nonetheless, my family and I have been working on transforming the small front yard of our home.  It’s going slowly, but I can say this much: we have a small pavestone sidewalk in place.  It still needs a little leveling before I lift the stones temporarily to put anti-weed fabric down, but it’s usable now.

I get a silly joy out of walking the length of that little sidewalk.

Months — years — of creditor phone calls are finally over, as of tonight.  Armed with a case number, I no longer have to fear picking up the phone when I don’t recognize the number.  The looming bugbear of garnishment has been defeated (in theory), and with responsible money management, maybe we can begin to make progress, instead of just making up lost ground.  I see a light in the distance that just might be hope.  Everyone tells me I’m doing the right thing, that things will turn around quickly.

So when do I start feeling relieved, rather than guilty?

I see a self-portrait, with depictions of a twelve year old boy’s thoughts in the background.  There’s the obligatory Star Wars character, complete with lightsaber. But lurking in the frame are darker images: a guillotine, and an assassination, the bullet’s path passing through the target’s head — and the boy’s, as well.

Initially, I am shocked, disturbed.  Thoughts of Columbine and Virginia Tech leap to mind.

Then I think back thirty years to my TRS-80 computer, and my animation of a guillotine in action, part of an assignment for A Tale of Two Cities.

Is my concern groundless, or valid?

I missed an important writing deadline yesterday.  It didn’t involve money, but it did involve commitment, and I blew it.  I’ve also had trouble making paying deadlines in recent months.  (Even before I started spending too much time on Facebook!)

It’s about self-sabotage.  I have the talent, and I’ve published plenty of articles before.  It’s not writer’s block, because if people ask me about the article topics, I can spout all kinds of information based on the research I’ve done.  But I sabotage the process of writing anyway.

I need to learn how to give myself permission to succeed again.

April 19, 1995:  The Oklahoma City Bombing
April 20, 1999:  Columbine High School
April 16, 2007:  Virginia Tech Shootings

This is a week of tragic American anniversaries.  It is a week to remember the slain, honor the survivors, and treasure our loved ones.  It is a reminder that those we hold dear can be gone in an instant, and of the importance of letting them know how much we love them, every day.

To my survivor friends and family:  Know that I’m thinking of you today, and sending my love.  I wish you health, happiness, and above all, peace.

Tonight, while listening to Doc Watson’s flying bluegrass fingers play “Blackberry Blossom,” I thought of an old friend, a musician.  He plays a mean version of that tune.

About a month ago, he contacted me, out of the blue.  He had escaped a bad marriage and worse divorce with nothing but his instrument and clothing.  We traded a few e-mails, but I was busy and said I would get back with him.  Tonight, I found his address and sent him an e-mail.  I got an immediate reply.

“Delivery to the following recipient failed permanently.”

Oh God.  I hope he’s okay.

Three days ago, I wrote about my state quarter obsession, and how it helps me fend off the gathering gloom.

Since finding the Oklahoma quarter mentioned in that post, I have found two more Philadelphia Mint state quarters: Colorado and Montana.  In the preceding year, I only found three that I could add to the collection.

Part of me wants to attribute this to a mystical form of karmic fulfillment; my inner skeptic insists that it’s mere coincidence.

Don’t get me wrong; I appreciate my inner skeptic.  But when it comes to my emotional outlook, I gotta follow the karma.

I received an Oklahoma state quarter as change the other day.  I got excited; it was a Philadelphia Mint, one of the ones I was missing.  Living in Denver, it’s easy to find Denver mint state quarters, but to complete the collection, I need both Denver and Philadelphia mint.

Some of you are probably saying, “This dude gets excited about finding quarters?  He needs to get a life.”  A fair conclusion, I suppose.

But I say that I must find joy in the little things.  It’s the only way to fight off the overwhelming, dark, rumbling things on the horizon.

MySQL error:
Table ‘not_really_named_this’ doesn’t exist (Errno=1146)

This is the last straw. Over the last year, I’ve had repeated downtime problems with my web hosting company, and this morning, one of my clients sent me a note, saying that his site was down. Sure enough, his blog database is down, as are all the other blogs I host.

Not just down, though. Gone. All of the MySQL tables in all of my hosted databases, just gone. I’m posting this while I wait for them to restore from backup, assuming they have one.

Anybody know a reliable, inexpensive web hosting company?

The young checker seemed to be struggling a bit that particular Friday morning.

“How you doin’?” I asked.

“Oh, I’m … fine,” he replied.

“Just ducky, eh?”

He looked up at me.  “Ducky?  Is that a word?”

“Uh … it was in my generation,” I said.

“Hmmm.”  He looked back at his scanner.  “Expanding my vocabulary,” he said.

“Yep.  You’re learning how to speak ‘Old Fart.’”

He tried to contain the chuckle, unsuccessfully.  “That might come in handy some day,” he said, grinning.

Yeah, I’m an Old Fart, but he was frowning when I got there and smiling when I left.

“Fall with injury.  Elderly woman, middle of the street, bleeding from the head.”

The dispatcher spoke in even tones, as she was trained to do, but when I heard the last four words, my heart sank and my eyes welled up.

I didn’t follow up on the call; I know the paramedics got there quickly, and I prefer to think that they were able to help her.

It’s ironic.  Had I been the dispatcher, the same emotions that drive my compassion would have slowed the call response and threatened the elderly woman’s life.

Thank God I’m just a computer guy.

Setting:  Taco Bell drive-through.

Me:  “I’ll have a #1 with a normal taco and a Diet –”

TB:  “Okay, I have a #1 with a soft taco and a Diet Pepsi.  Anything else?”

Me (annoyed):  “No.  Listen, please.”

TB (pause):  “I’m sorry.  Go ahead.”

Me:  “A #1, with a normal taco instead of a Taco Supreme, and a Diet Pepsi.”

The drive-through operator apologized again.  I pulled to the window, where I apologized for snapping.

I’ve worked fast food.  I know it can be tough.  But is it too much for me to expect them to listen to my order?

“Weaksauce.”  I’d heard it before, but it never really registered until I saw it in print in a Wired blog entry.  As I thought about it, I realized I’d also heard “awesomesauce,” and “crapsauce” in conversation over the years.

Www.urbandictionary.com (occasionally NSFW) that online bastion of proper word usage, relates “weak sauce” to Taco Bell sauce packets and “awesome sauce” to the online animated character Strong Bad.

As a HomeStarRunner fan, I like the latter, but I can see where the former fits.  After all, any Taco Bell sauce is crapsauce compared to the awesomesauce that is Taco John’s Superhot.

NaNoWriMo scares me.  I’ve registered for it three years in a row, but produced nothing more than a title.  Meanwhile, friends have cranked out three draft novels each.  Good ones, even!

There are alternatives, though.  I know a man who started his own short-lived group:  LoShoStoWriMo (Local Short Story Writing Month.)  That’s much more my speed.  In my busy life, I’m not sure I can pull off the 1,666 word daily average required for NaNoWriMo, but I bet I can write a short story in a month.

The real question is this:  Will I have the guts to submit it?