Is 2020 Real

 Are we caught in a social science sci-fy spectacular where truth and free thought are condemned by a willfully complicit public?

The truth is stranger than fiction? Reality is in question.

Have you seen those new “911” shows? I haven’t.

But I have seen the advertisements.

Tsunamis, the HOLLYWOOD sign sliding into oblivion, a volcano in Texas; right under a public swimming area of course. And each week the show goes on.

The norm is to confine events that permanently alter the path of history and society to movies, or a series of movies, …because you have to create a whole new realty that does not jive with what currently exists.

Our 911 operators and first responders truly deserve our respect. Is that the gist of the show? Would not reality convey that sentiment more deeply?

Who writes this junk?

Reality is relative, just as is morality. No questions allowed.

If I had just awoke from a forty year sleep, yes I am twice as tired as old Rip, I would think I had awoken in an alternative universe.

No matter how familiar my family members would appear to me I would question if they were the same as those of old whom I had known, the world being so incongruent with the past.

I mean… Donald Trump is President.

Hoorah!

Many a film, from possibly the very beginning of film making, (from the start of the written story itself) depict a future parallel to where many of us believe this nation is heading, and henceforth the world.

Dystopia comes to mind.

But how did these dystopian worlds, societies of gloom and oppression, come about… the meat of the how is seldom deeply elaborated upon in the story. The process of getting to the supposed future neglected, almost as if the story teller themself could not possibly believe it could really happen.

We are in the midst of the how, and when it comes to story telling the ability to write appears to have led us all astray.

I am fascinated by how oral traditions, often belittled, only to be proven accurate when the archeology is done, have been conveyed accurately through history generation after generation.

The sources of the Bible began as oral traditions. People took  their traditions and history seriously, when conveying them to script; accuracy being of utmost importance.

Of course much of the New Testament began as the written word in the form of letters. Only a fraction of those associated letters were chosen to be anointed as God’s word, and then by a select few. So …how many Christian denominations exist today?

Thousands, and now the Chinese communist party is literally rewriting the Bible.

Every religion began with a man conveying a word through his very mouth to the very ears of others. And hence that man was judged by how he embodied the words he conveyed and the fruits of his beliefs.

And these beliefs formed the fabric of their associated societies.

To what standards do we hold our media personalities and politicians; our now elite conveyors of the word? (perhaps ‘controllers’ is more appropriate) Time and time again the supposed best and brightest in both professions are shown to be perverse and corrupt.

We have replaced the fabric of society with the king’s new clothes.

And whereas we have all sold our souls to the shiny screen, looking to it for the answers to all our questions. Longing to receive its' accolades. Betrayed by our own creation we are lost; truth denied.

Betrayed by one’s own creation, most often facilitated by the socially blind and the greedy, is a familiar storyline. The topic here is writing. Please do not misunderstand my contemplation over the ins and outs of storytelling as politicizing.

Thank you for reading.

Does the fabric of our society yet shield us, or have we discovered ourselves beaten and naked along the side of the road?

Happy Halloween

A full moon tonight. Not a common occurrence for this day of what is more common than we all comprehend; our parlance with the world unseen.

The Winter of our, or rather my… something or other.

Winter is coming and it is going to be deep. Is that the right word?

The point being, I was at the farmer’s market Thursday, standing, attending to my business, then in a start spent some moments when no one was around going over my notebooks. Seven years of writing, not a whole lot the last two years, took some review.

This is the Winter, where I either make something out of my writing, or take it in a totally different direction. I different direction does not necessarily mean a cryptic end to my writing, perhaps a change of direction.

Yes, it is November; that write a book in November thing that comes up every year. But I have one Farmer’s market still running until after Thanksgiving. Beside, much of my work is in a really raw state and needs sooo much refinement.

More of hazy apparitions than novels in some cases.

The wherewolfal for just a quick post this month. I would have four blog posts (on four blogs) this month if I had the time and means. Put all the posts together in my head but finding the proper atmosphere and taking time to write and revise just did not materialize. (no ghost writers here)

I need to let a draft lie dead at least five hours before going back over it. If I can make it a three day process I get the best results.

Rising from the grave so to speak.

When I first started blogging an entire post took not much more than an hour.

A major change I hope will make both my wife and I more productive. We are rising significantly earlier and getting to the sleep sooner.

No fear of the sun in this house.

Thank you for reading.

Ah-chew! : Another Short Story

Ah-Chew!

Randy's face awoke with wonder. 'What a sneeze.'

Ah-chew! Ah-chew!

Ah-chew! Ah-chew! Ah-chew! Ah-chew!

"Wow." Randy's brain churned, his eyes narrowed. 'Odd' impressed upon his mind.

Tick  tock, tick  tock, tick  tock, tick  tock, his grandmother's coo-coo clock pinged off his skull. Set high on the wall Randy was always forced to look up to read it. It was where his grandmother wanted it.

A soft bubbly hiss rose off the essential oil diffuser.

A mutt, a German Shepherd-Lab mix, sighed slow and deep projecting a restful spirit, disrupting Randy's concentration.

A car rumbled harsh along the street in front of his house. The wheels ground out a squeak as they rolled.

Outside the trees lining his street rocked, leaves thrashing loudly together as the wind waxed and waned under a carpet of gray autumn sky.

Randy shot to his feet from a worn winged arm chair his mind trapped in a desperate pursuit.

The noises of the old house, left to him by his late grandmother; the only house he had ever lived in, the noises of the house settling with the wind, creeped, creaking and rattling in around him.

A draft freshened the musty air, thickened by a vapor of pine and oregano essential oils.

Randy looked at the dog, snoring softly, resting upon a yellowed sheet draping the fitted cover over a couch older than himself.

The dog had looked happier and more upbeat lately, Randy running the diffuser for him now near daily. The pine and oregano espoused as an anti-bacterial as well as an anti-viral: a holistic treatment for the dog's Lyme disease, or so he was told.

Anti-viral pierced Randy's thoughts. "Of Course." Randy began to dictate to himself, "The virus. I must be infected. And the essential oils..."

Now he understood. Randy could sense the virus, its' futile struggle for survival, for dominion over his body, controlling his sneezes in an attempt to expel the antidote with its final death throws.

'Control of our bodies... Beyond our own thoughts...' It all began to fit together.

Another sneeze began to rise behind his nostrils. Randy focused his will and took in a deep breath through his nose. The urge to sneeze subsided. He had won.

"How does the vaccine fit in?" Randy pondered out loud as he stepped to the sash windows of floated glass and gazed over the empty streets of his neighborhood.

Drive thru trash lined the curbs. Cars, new and expensive to dilapidated along with an old pickup piled with scrap lined the far side of the street, every house like the other but each different, each run down in varying degrees.

Dusk began to dim Randy's view when suddenly it hit him. 'The virus needs a receiver. A signal translator, an operating system to facilitate commands. The vaccine?.. Yes, the vaccine, it must be the vaccine.'

"5G" Randy hissed. 'The signal carrier, or is it HD signals' Randy always wondered why they kept changing the HD frequencies, why he always had to rescan the television.

'Were they monitoring changes in the crime rate? Consumer confidence with each adjustment?

'But I am free now,' Randy cheered in his imagination, 'thanks to dog.'

"HD or 5G?" slithered through his teeth. A toss of the dice as far as Randy could tell. 'Best to cover both.'

A shadow shrouded Randy's face. A sternness darkened his gaze. "My guns need cleaning." a small firm voice exhaled. He mulled over his collection in his mind and took a mental inventory of his munitions.

"A man is only as good as his tools" Randy's father would always say.

"Keep your tools clean." he would scold.

Randy's father lived in his mother's, Randy's grandmother's basement with his tools. Then he was dead.

"Keep your tool clean." Randy's father would laugh.

"I like my tools." Randy chanted through a blank stare and vacant smile.

Randy had work to do.

Hey! Radio signals and the like as control agents have always been part of science fiction in both books and movies. And it goes way back to the day when science fiction was based on science fact, not fantasy as it is today.

Just some things to think about. This story just came to me when I had my own sneezing fit. We were running the diffuser because our dog has Lyme disease...

Never mind.

So what will become of Randy? Perhaps if he had bought one of those new fancy condos that are all the rage among those young successful people these days, had made some friends, things would have brightened for him.

Certainly finding the Mother of Peace, watching the Rally of Hope, will turn his life around.

"Hope springs eternal."

Don't be a Randy.

Thank you for reading.

Comments and feedback of any type is greatly appreciated.

Static

Does static add tension to a story? Static as noun that makes a message unintelligible. Things must be hidden in order to be revealed, and it is the reveal that adds the punch.

Or does the distraction, the veil of noise, just fill our lives to the point where we miss what is important?

Perhaps literature no longer exists for a lack of static; the crackle and hiss.

How does that man arrange his plate and consume his meal? Why do we add such detail, sometimes dwell on it? Even if just for awhile. Telling or misleading?

Lives are full of static. That which shrouds what is of greatest value, that pull us to a status quo that thrives on mediocrity. Our deepest desires and wounds, joys and pain are all muzzled, often by intention, willful or otherwise, by the static, the chatter, the day to day buzz.

Literature: does a man need to overcome unimaginable fantastical obstacles to make a story exciting, or does true literature arise from struggles more basic, more universal?

Super heroes. All the rage. I was never a big reader of comic books. Perhaps the depth of human experience, or lack thereof, found in a comic book is reflected in its brash flash and material lack of substance.

There are countless stories all around us hidden among the clutter. But one needs first to address one’s true heart and recognize what wounds. People need to decide to be happy and long to heal.

People create static, distracting voices, to manipulate, to deceive, to.keep the truth out of sight, out of the conversation.

Is organized religion mostly static? Are callings of faith lost under doctrines and tenants designed to confine?

The answers are never found in the static; the noise. To break through the static, or perhaps decipher is more accurate, is where victory is gained; where the answers are revealed.

To write without static is to miss the whole human experience. A man seeking virtue through the static is like a superhero confronting his villain.

Have I lost you yet?

Or am I simply writing about detail? There is detail which distracts from the virtuous, like that devil on one’s shoulder looking to dismay. Versus the detail which brings peace and happiness conveyed by a messenger from on high. Subtle messages hidden among the static.

Who will win? Where will the story go? Is not every life filled with such a dynamic. I know it is. If you think Shakespeare would doth protest at my confessions you haven’t read Shakespeare.

Science fiction is a popular genre for many young writer’s. Why not? You have a static environment; static in the sense of adjective, a lack of change.

Put people on a ship, an unchanging set. Of course, since they are on a ship they must be going someplace. Where? Why? How? (did that worm hole take them someplace unexpected, as it always does) For who do they fight?

Such a story is a static killer in the sense of both noun and adjective. Where is the noise!? How do you find the moral of the story without traversing the noise?

Oh, our crew is good, those are the bad guys.

Gotcha.

Just sharing my reflections.

I will be setting aside specific hours to write. Thanks to my helper at the farmer’s market.

Thank you for reading.

Go out and make some noise.

Content, Content, Content

July is almost over. I made it through my birthday. Much of this month I have been listening to a lot of music on my Pandora ‘Glenn Campbell’ channel.

You could communicate entirely in lyric through those oldish songs.

I believe these protesters nowadays are neither familiar with any of those oldish artists nor the values and heart they worked to convey.

Oh how civilized society has fallen. How shall I lament. Listen to more music perhaps?

Again I contemplate content. Some of my stories I may never publish. They are for a time past. I believe in a bright future.

I have neglected my blogs. Past blogs from many years ago come to mind and I think; “Wow, that was not quite right. I will have to go back and change that sometime.”

I should go over everything and make a chronological collection, making corrections as I go.

Yes, I hear your uproar of disbelief but just settle down. I didn’t say I was wrong, just not quite right.

I apologize if I have shaken your faith in me.

I regret never having written a consistent diary of the events of my life. I should write my own memoirs at some time in the future. Going over old blog posts, fairly consistent content for what, over fifteen years, should prompt my memory.

So everything is getting organized and filed.

I have hired some help for our farm oriented business to free up some time. We haven’t actually been able to give ourselves a salary, but the hired help allows openings for expansion if an opportunity arises.

So family is telling me “They want you out of your neighborhood.” Though who ‘they’ are is unclear. I have an idea of who.

I was at the market, talking with a fellow vendor about my help, explaining that I need the time to get to repairing my home, namely rebuilding a wall on our free standing garage, when she says. “They are going to condemn your house.”

“No.” I scoffed, “There’s no reason my house should be condemned.”

I wish I had followed up and asked her to elaborate. She seemed quite confident.

The drama builds. Will the city sic their protesters upon me and side step a direct confrontation. How our youth embrace religious bigotry yet claim the high ground with one liner proclamations accusing others of a racism that’s definition seems to morph according to circumstance to justify their self-afflicted violence and destruction.

Yes… their self-afflicted violence and destruction, for if they were truly wise they would recognize that they are only committing violence against themselves, destroying themselves as human beings, children of God.

Plenty of the extraordinary events to observe these days. A window into the ways of good and evil.

You know… some of my stories have truly evil characters in them. Would they horrify the readers mind, ring true? Is it my vanity that longs to find out? Just do not think I am going to publish those. “The Dauntless Recruits” is one.

Horrifically tragic and dystopian. Cannot decide if I should publish that one. “Life on the Farm”

Feedback is welcome. Though I appear on all levels of Internet activity to be shadow banned, I see I am getting a bit of traffic here. I often wonder why I cannot get a single comment on even one of my numerous blogs for many a year now. Still I will be writing much more on my various blogs.

Thank you so much for reading.

May I recommend this memoir.