DON'T GIVE THE PRICKS THE SATISFACTION

A year. One set of 365 days (More now, as of this writing.). The Maztorphyl has been up and running, to one or another degree, for that long now. Now I’m not going to waste too much of your and my time explaining my posts’ frequency, which I’ll admit rivals the inconsistency of the Highlander TV/movie franchise story arc. Still, I like to think that in the past year I’ve put out quality posts, even at the expense of quantity, and to me that’s much more important.

To be sure, I’ve started this post several times, but each time stopped for one reason or another. Suffice it to say that it boils down to the fact that I really haven’t done much writing for awhile now. The novel? Nope. My journal? Uh-uh. The odd pretentious quatrain? Not even a metre.

Why? I just haven’t had it in me. I wouldn’t call it writer’s block. I’ve had that nightmare before and this isn’t it. Granted, I’ve honored the odd freelance work I’ve managed to beg out of people, but other than that it’s been a bit of a creative wasteland for me.

There have been some technical difficulties with which I’ve had to contend, in the form of a series of viruses that disabled my computer sometimes for weeks at a time, with the coup de grace finally occurring just this week. But, as I mentioned to some friends, that’s why God created libraries.

So, what shall I do for this little contribution to my small, Chaotic corner of the Internet that won’t end a long, paranoid tirade of why the world is against me that will give the pricks of the world the satisfaction and others the opportunity to deluge me with messages of “Aw, everything will be okay,” (Those of you who read my “Angst” post know that I find far more annoyance than comfort in such trite expressions of fake sympathy.)?

I thought about doing a review of The Last Airbender, a movie I’ve been waiting to come out for a long time now. But there’s nothing I’d say that hasn’t been said already: while visually appealing, the acting was superficial, the casting in most cases was mismatched, and in the end I was left with the same sense of Cliffnotesian dissatisfaction I got from David Lynch’s version of Dune.

How could M. Night Shyamalan have solved at least some of these problems? By either adding another good two hours to the film or turning it into a miniseries a la SyFy’s Dune (I say the latter with some reservation, though, as anyone would who saw how badly that channel screwed the pooch with Ursula K. Le Guin’s already-mediocre Earthsea Trilogy. But then, SyFy’s been doing a lot of screwing the pooch lately, much like the Crackpot-Apocalypse-Conspiracy-Theory Channel—I mean—History.)

Or, I thought about doing a food review, but outside of Nico’s and McDonald’s I really haven’t been out to eat anywhere, so that’s a dead end.

Sociopolitical commentary, perhaps? Just did that and this blog is about Chaos and diversity.

Travel story? To where, the local Circle-K?

Maybe a light-hearted misadventure with the family would be good. Not.

So then I decided to just make this the next post, and call it good.

Whatcha think?

I FEAR FOR THE REPUBLIC

Suppose you were an idiot. And suppose you were a member of Congress. But I repeat myself. –Mark Twain

Every country has the government it deserves. –Joseph de Maistre

Dirty. –Dee Snider, front man for the rock band Twisted Sister, describing how he felt after testifying before Congress during the PMRC hearings.

I see in the near future a crisis approaching that unnerves me and causes me to tremble for the safety of my country. Corporations have been enthroned, an era of corruption in high places will follow, and the money-power of the country will endeavor to prolong it's reign by working upon the prejudices of the people until the wealth is aggregated in a few hands and the Republic is destroyed. –Abraham Lincoln, 16th President of the United States

This is not the piece I originally planned to do. Nope. I started out with a concept by which I would use this whole debacle surrounding health care reform as a foil to shed light on a few things I saw through the entire sordid affair, things that went well beyond one legislative bill, and use them as an indictment of the dysfunctionality of our system as a whole.

I was going to start off giving a quick synopsis of my own Aristotelian sociopolitical worldview and how, in short, the more left OR right someone swings, the more full-of-shit I think they are, blah, blah, blah. Then I was going to detail how no one, left or right, Democrat or Republican, socialist or Tea Partier, or anyone else in between for that matter, is coming out of this mess with clean hands or an unstained soul.

Was I going to present some grand, epiphanic revelation on how this nightmare can be righted, and how everyone will go back to giving each other all sort of hugs and kisses and treating each other with the respect and good will that we Americans should express?

Uh, no.

Although my day job is in healthcare, I’m going to go out on a limb here and say, in contrast to the talking heads out there who say they have all the answers, I don’t. I have not the expertise, education nor experience. Besides, one of the down sides of working in healthcare’s trenches is that if I were to pop my head over the edge and take a look at no-man’s land, I’m liable to get it shot off.

I have had experience working in what, ironically enough, could be described as socialized medicine, that is, military medicine. I wasn’t impressed. On the other hand, military medicine isn’t the only industry model in the world, and philosophically I do believe in the right of everyone to have affordable, comprehensive healthcare. But will healthcare reform as it stands be the most effective for the American people? I have not a freaking clue.

In fact, I’m going to go out on another limb here and confess that my only resources for what current healthcare reform entails originated from clearly bent, hyperbolic and pretentious diatribes vomited out by fanatical, demagogic and self-righteous lawmakers (on both sides of the isle) so far down the back pockets of corporate and other special interest groups they can use the lint as comforters, as well as the blatant, yellow journalism crapped out by the squawk boxes on the radio and so-called cable “news” channels. So as you can imagine I’m taking both resources with a very large grain of salt.

(Author’s note: Yes, I know. You’re thinking that perhaps then I should not be speaking at all on this subject. But hey, I’m writing a novel, read The Golden Bough, working full time and trying to be some kind of good husband and father to my family, so something’s got to give. That being said, it’s not healthcare reform itself, philosophically speaking, that’s pissing me off. Rather, it’s the maladjusted culture surrounding it and the rest of the country that’s getting under my hide. I do hope to get to it eventually, in whatever form it takes.)

But then, as I reflected on what I would say and the chasm-like depth of this issue’s severity, I thought, why bother?

A new age has come to our country, one that has seen the final death-rattle of what I believe Woodrow Wilson described as a “community of power” and the rise of fascistic factionalism. From the conceited gloating of the Democrats to Sen. John McCain (R-AZ) promising no more non-partisan agreements to Tea Partiers spitting racial epithets to the vandalism of both Democrat and Republican congressional offices, why should I add my voice to this orgiastic cacophony of squabbling hate and ill will?

Those that agree with me may laud me, but fiery licks of insults and threats will surely come from those who don’t. And those who don’t care will just—not care. They’ll do nothing, even when the house is burning down around them. No one, NO ONE possesses mutual respect and consideration anymore. No one is willing to listen to the other guy and say, “Hey, you’ve got a point there. Maybe we can work things out. What do you think of my idea…?”

That’s right. I’m talking about you. So get up, go into your bathroom, take a good long look in the mirror and ask yourself, “Where do I stand?” And I blame myself. Even as I vent my spleen on this computer, I accept my share of the blame that the country I love has drifted so far from its ideals, that somehow, somewhere along the line, both political sides decided that their side knew what was best for the country, and the other camp was at best wrong and at worst treasonous. I don’t get that, and I fear for the Republic.

IT'S TIME

You know, I love the Holidays. I just freaking LOVE them! And no, before you misread into it I am not being sarcastic. I don’t know what it is that makes them just so stupendous in my mind. Yes, it’s hectic to the point of exhausting, time-sucking mania at times (Author’s note: Owing to the lateness of this post. Sorry everybody.), as well as expensive and frustrating and many more potentially negative traits besides, but something about it still makes me count the days every year until it comes.

A lot of people hate it, loath its arrival and celebrate its departure. It’s all good and well for them. I can’t help, however, to wonder if they are missing the point of it all, the togetherness, goodwill and charity that seem so lacking in our world for the rest of the year.

Maybe it’s the food. As some of you are no doubt aware, food holds a special place in my heart. Growing up in a large, loud, food-friendly family I guess it means much more to me than just something to eat. To me it is symbolic of good times, of family togetherness and stopping to take a few minutes to pay attention to what is really important in life. But more on that later.

My foodiness aside, I’m lucky enough to have my birthday smack in the middle of “the most wonderful time of the year.” In my youth and as a twin, it served as a constant reminder of what a bunch of cheap bastards some of my relatives could be. But now that I’m older it seems all I want is a good day: to see my kids’ faces light up, to reconnect with family and friends as well as enjoy, of course, the mountains of holiday food. This drives my family crazy. My refusal to create a Christmas gift list beyond the, “all I want is a good day,” just sends their lips a-snarling and their eyes a-twitching! During one flustered moment, Mom just wouldn’t take no for an answer, so I broke down and said, “underwear and socks,” which is code for “No Mom. All I want is a GOOD DAY!” She showed me up, though. On Christmas morning she handed me two industrial-sized gift bags packed with tightie-whities and tubers.

My daughter got me good as well. Before going to the mall for gift shopping, she asked me what book I would like to get. Thinking myself very clever and cunning, I picked a book I really wanted to read for reasons that will be explained later, but ignorantly thought out-of-print: Miyamoto Musasahi’s The Book of Five Rings. You can imagine my surprise when BAM! there it was under the tree.

And now that we are out of the holiday season and have begun a new year, I consider it an ideal time for a little retrospection and introspection, as well as resolve to make our lives better in the coming year.

No, this is not an article about my New Years resolutions. I’ve long made a point to stay clear of that trite Bandwagon of Journalistic Death. Besides, now that the first month of the year is already behind us, that ship sailed a while ago. My resolutions aren’t all that unique anyway: get in the gym more, lose 50 pounds and get my cholesterol below critical mass by the 2010 Holidays so I can gain it all back again; finally return to my calling full-time in a town (Tucson) where there isn’t very much of a calling for my calling, to be quickly followed by an angry monkey flying out of my butt; and spend more quality time with the family.

No, this has to do with that Heaven and Hell of every writer: my next novel.

This will be my second novel. After some seven years of writing, rewriting and searching high and low for an agent or publishing house to help it into print, my first attempt at extended literature now sits in a box inside my garage, slowly collecting dust. I don’t consider it a waste, though. Every step to its creation was an invaluable learning experience that will serve me well in the development of the next work.

I can’t say writing the next novel was a New Years resolution, either. I’m a little quirky like that. My creative process in part lends itself to a little schizophrenia at times. For a long time now, I’ve viewed the images and heard voices in my head that will make up parts of the new work, discarding some, changing others, connecting the fragments into a general whole. Here and there, I’d come across or research a random vignette I felt would make a good addition to the work’s flavor, and put it aside for safe keeping until that voice in my head would say that it’s time. But as for actually putting some real time and effort I’m sad to say it hasn’t happened yet, until now, because just a few days after Christmas, I opened my eyes to the alarm clock and heard those two words in my head, “It’s time.”

And what is the story about, you ask? I can’t tell you. It’s one of those I’m-sorry-you-found-out-now-I’ll-have-to-kill-you-it’s-nothing-personal-it’s-business-you-understand things. I will say that it is a heroic fantasy and, had the first novel been published, it would have been second in the saga. I’ve gotten the ball rolling pretty well so far, too. I’ve just started reading The Golden Bough by James Frazer, a work I’ve only sampled in the past, and I’ve already finished reading both Rings and Sun Tzu’s The Art of War.

(Another Author’s Note: You ever been taught or read something by someone who strikes you instantly as someone who just KNOWS, that what they are imparting to you isn’t just some information they in turn were taught beforehand, but rather is, in fact, a part of them, that every sentence they speak/write is followed by the rolling chant of Gregorian monks? That’s what I felt while reading both Rings and War, and I’m rapidly developing that feeling again with Bough.)

The just-writing part I am beginning in earnest as well, but with a novel things are a little more complicated that a short story or blog post. While the overall story arc is on place in my head, the actual scene-by-scene plotlines are as full of holes as a politician’s campaign promises. My creative process isn’t like, say, Terry Brooks, a lawyer by training who writes in a very lawyerly way, with copious notes ending in just a couple drafts of prose (Sometimes the Magic Works). On the other hand, I’m not someone like Steven King, either, who writes what comes to him while in the moment (On Writing), although I do admit I am very envious of the prolific nature of his works. I think I fall somewhere in the middle, as well as borrow a little bit of both. What I have in my head will be easy enough, but to solve the holes will require the lion’s share of the research and plot outlining.

Still, once I’ve got the rough draft written (a feat I hope to accomplish by the end of the year) the work has only just begun. As I’ve mentioned, my creative process doesn’t work in a lawyerly fashion. The best analogy I can come up with is that of a sculptor. After all the research, plot-note taking and writing, I have my rough draft, a lump of clay on my workbench. And so begins the revisions and rewrites and editing. I’ll carve a chunk off here, add a sliver there, reshape and reform the work Chaos-knows how many times until I have something of which I’m reasonably not ashamed. Then, maybe I’ll let a few select people take a look at it and polish/refine it further until I feel comfortable with the idea of looking for representation.

Sounds like a lot of work? It is. Remember, it took me seven years the last time I made the Great Leap. But, that might be a bit misleading. In real time it was seven years, but take away working through college, taking on two jobs at once, giving myself a much-needed break from the literary toil and the like, I can say actual work time came out to be between 1.5-2 years, give or take. But I’d rather not wait that long for this one, so I’ve cleared the decks, as it were, to focus more completely on it. I’m not actively looking for new clients anymore, and have put other projects on the backburner, except for the blog, of course. I might even post novel update notes here, but in keep with the “whatever the hell I want” approach, I’m not going to make it the only subject I cover.

That’s it for now, my minions. Have a great Superbowl Sunday!

FICTION POST #1

Okay everybody, after promising it months ago, I’m finally announcing my first fiction post on FictionPress.com. Just click on the following link and it will take you right there:

http://www.fictionpress.com/s/2747024/1/

You know, every artist has an idealized image of how their career will turn out. Whether it is a packed house at Carnegie Hall, a main exhibit at the Guggenheim or a filled auditorium hanging on every word of a book reading, artists see this as a goal and strive to reach it. Then of course, Reality sticks its greasy fingers into the cake, and takes them for a ride....

ANGST

The majority of men lead lives of quiet desperation. –Henry David Thoreau

Take a deep breath and let your body settle into the present. Anchor it; engage it to your chair, the walls around you and the ceiling above. You won’t need it.

Now let your mind drift back, back to, let’s say, when you were in college: five, 10, 15, 20 years ago, whenever you walked through those hallowed halls of learning. For those of you who never went to college, just play along and pretend.

And just suppose that one day, while you’re at your college job, flipping burgers or scooping ice cream or changing the sparkplugs, someone walks up to you from out of the blue and tells you that five, 10, 15, 20 years from now you’ll still be flipping burgers or scooping ice cream or changing sparkplugs. Would you laugh? Dismiss the person off hand? Get angry?

After all, you just don’t want to live day-to-day like all those the mindless sycophants out there, you have a CALLING! All your life you could feel it, all the way down to your bones. You were put on this planet for one glorious purpose. You are good at it and, more importantly, practicing it is the only time in your whole misbegotten, frustrating life that you actually feel whole and at peace.

Then, throw yourself to the present. You wake up. It’s early. Your spouse is still sleeping beside you. As wakefulness brushes aside the incoherence of your sleep while you watch the ceiling fan above you rotating in its eternal, circular dance, you realize today is another day of ice cream scooping.

You don’t arrive here at once, though. There were diversions and pit stops and illusions that fill this long expanse of time, cluttering your worldview with needless glamour that threatened to blind you from your calling.

Yet, in the beginning at least, somehow you manage to hang on to the vision of your calling, keep it in focus despite the distractions, from trivial to malign, in your way. Perhaps because you were raised to be a good person, to work hard, to be honest, put others’ needs before your own and speak your mind when you saw something at fault. With that upbringing came the karmic promise that, in the end, good things would happen to you in return.

But life, you find out as you grow older, isn’t like that. It’s a god-eat-dog world out there, so to speak, filled with those who would gladly stab you in the back or otherwise take advantage of you and your ideals for their own selfish needs. Even those you least expect, those closest to you gladly twist that knife as the opportunity presents itself. They view your ideals with contempt, as a weakness, making you unworthy of their respect.

Yet still you stubbornly hang on to your code of honor, hoping that in some bigger picture things will straighten out sooner or later and your search for your calling will end happily.

Still, in the searching you learn some hard lessons that contradict everything you originally thought. Why? Because this is The Ol’ Pueblo, kiddo, a seller’s market for employment even when the economy is good. And let the buyer beware, because the employers know it; they take every possible advantage over you with the backing of the Maricopa County State Legislature, that conservative enclave representing the few, rich, business-owning upper class, and everything bad that implies.

After awhile of banging your head against this employment wall in search of your calling, nothing happens and you begin to wonder if you are being too narrow in your search. So, in addition to looking for this, your calling, you decide you might as well look at that as a career as well. After all, it’s close to what you were originally looking for, isn’t it? At that moment, though you don’t realize it at the time, the compromising of your dreams and the slow desiccation of your spirit begins.

Eventually, after investing years of your precious time and attention, as well as several false starts, some more terrifying than the last, you do land something that suits your taste. It has good deal of “this,” at least enough so that what is possesses of “that” is at least tolerable and at times even interesting. Besides, in all realism you shouldn’t expect to hit the ball out of the park the first time you step up to the plate, right? So you make this job where you’ll cut your teeth, as it were, and at least keep your eyes peeled for something that would be a home run.

But your chance at playing Babe Ruth never comes. Sure, things come by, and you present yourself for them. But in the end you are ignored, just as you were before. Not that it matters too much. You’re not trying too hard, and you’re learning a lot at the “that” job that will make things much easier later on. Though the longer you stay makes it harder to handle the “that,” it is still well within your comfort zone and you feel you can still go on for a good while.

One thing you don’t understand is that how long “a good while” is isn’t entirely up to you. In fact, you have very little control over its definition, or the quality of its end result. Suddenly, your circumstances are removed from your control and, like it or not, leaving the “this/that” job and returning to ice cream scooping is your only option.

You’re not worried. Sure, you’re back where you were, but it was the best thing for your spouse and kids as well as a chance to put your drive more fully into taking an even larger step forward. Unlike before, you now have street cred; you’ve got the tools AND the talent; you can stand up and say, “This is what I’ve done. I’m great at my calling and I’m a true believer, and you’d be a fool not to hire me.” Rhetorically speaking, of course.

Somehow, though, time still goes by without the drop of acceptance to slack your thirst for your calling. In fact, before you know it even more time has passed than before you landed your interim position, on the scale of years, and all you can show for it are a handful of initial interviews, followed by the ubiquitous sense that, for some reason ignorant to you, everyone is ignoring you.

Then, you notice that your hope has mutated into something else. It is no longer a guiding beacon. Rather, it has transformed into a burden, a weight around your neck held fast by an unbreakable chain, a personal hell of doubt and shattered self-esteem. “You’re good, but not good enough,” becomes the mantra of those who dare hold you in judgment. “Not good enough—not good enough—not good enough.” It plays in your head every time your entreaties are ignored or forgotten in the din of the needy and disdained.

And as for those who should be there for you in your time of angst? They no longer care. They’ve abandoned you, in thought if not in deed. Either because your plight reminds them of their complicities in your state, or they are just tired of hearing your whining. They cease listening to you, and even turn away when you bring it up.

Not that what they say is supportive to you anymore. Those trite catchphrases, like, “Something will happen soon,” and “It’s their loss,” or “Keep it up. I know you can do it,” have lost their meaning to the point of cliché. You now find them condescending and patronizing, and you have bite your lip to keep yourself from saying some other cliché back at them, like, “Fuck off.”

In the end you know that, even in the unlikely circumstance that you get back into your calling, even if it is the “dream job” you’ve looked for from the beginning, you know you will hate it. That smoldering anger within has charred itself deep within your psyche and will never leave, because no calling is worth the time; the blood, sweat and tears; the anxiety of not knowing; and the final, climactic dread of being told, “no,” if it comes at all. Every day you arrive at your place of work, perhaps until you die, you will never shake the contempt you hold for your co-workers, your bosses, your family and your friends for not being there when you needed them, even as you were there for them.

THE SKY IS FALLING! THE SKY IS FALLING!

There is a plague coming. In medical circles it is known as the H1N1 virus, but its common name is uttered with hushed whispers inside darkened barbeque restaurants everywhere. If you contract it, you will suffer. Oh, will you suffer! Your throat will constrict and you will drown with fever. It will sap your strength even as it becomes stronger. It will force you to run up your credit; consort with the morally depraved; donate what little of your life savings is left to the Democratic or Republican parties; watch cable news channels; and read magazines that publish best/worst dressed lists, horoscopes and perfume ads that smell like five-dollar whores!

Run, my friends. Run far and run fast! Or, as is often said on Fark.com, EVERBODY PANIC!

Can someone PLEASE give me one fucking break?

Okay people, let me explain something and try to make it very clear. The Swine flu is exactly that, THE FLU! You prevent it the same way and you get it the same way. If you do get it, you treat it the same way. Despite what public officials, media demagogues and other crackpot kooks want you to believe, the Four Horsemen are NOT coming to trample your lawn, nor will any of us be pushing carts chanting, “Bring out yer dead!” Okay?

Don’t get me wrong. It is a tragic and eventual fact that people will die from the Swine flu, but no more or less than the A/B flu strains whose annual seasons humanity has weathered for many decades. In fact, I’m willing to put good money on the probability that A LOT more people will kick the bucket from the A/B than H1N1, just like every season. I mean come on! Didn’t these assess learn their lesson with the Avian Flu a couple years back? Can’t these people just shut up?

I’m not going to waste my time to encourage everyone to get their shots, wash their hands, eat right and get plenty of rest. It’s everyone’s individual choice, and if anyone is stupid enough to think they’ll be better off not doing so, that the shots will cause them to grow an extra head or turn their kids into flesh-eating zombies, well, that’s their problem. And they will pay in the form of long days of misery and yes, perhaps death, no matter what form they contract. I don’t have time to worry about those whose one contribution to humanity is diluting the gene pool. I have enough to worry about on my own.

That being said, don’t let the dipshits on the airwaves play on your fears. It’s obvious they just don’t know.

CARTE BLANCHE AND OTHER FOIBLES

Day after day, day after day,
We stuck, nor breath nor motion;
As idle as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean.
Water, water, everywhere,
And all the boards did shrink;
Water, water, everywhere,

Nor any drop to drink.
--Samuel Taylor Coleridge
"The Rime of the Ancient Mariner"

Y’know, I’m living a dream. It’s neither very lucrative nor filled with fanfare, but it’s a dream nevertheless. I’m writing what I want, when I want and how I want, without the like-an-asshole-everyone’s-got-one-and-it-stinks opinion of creativity-killing bureaucrats who dare to think they know better than I or, for that matter, think at all. At least in this little corner of the Internet, I am The Maztor of my domain, without the dictatorial oppression of others. I am the living embodiment of the First Amendment and all the glorious freedom it bestows.

Shit.

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.

See, by writing this blog, I took the one step that so many other working writers out there dream, sometimes their whole lives, and never attain. As I mentioned in my original post, I am assuming a stance of carte blanche concerning the subject matter of my posts. When I made this decision, I considered it a watershed. I could write whatever I wanted, so long as it wasn’t too crappy. My only inescapable fear in this commitment was of the trite yet dreaded writers’ block.

That was about the time I was blindsided by something I would not have expected in a million, billion years.

After my first two posts, I began to feel the creative engine in me really start to growl, and by that I’m taking a 351 Cleveland large-bore piece of power-ridden American engineering, not some rice-burning four-banger. The ideas really began to flow, and I was bound and ready to gun that engine and hit that literary road running.

Then, the engine seized up.

The problem wasn’t writers block. After all, I had so many ideas. Quite the opposite. I had too many. Day after day something would pop in my head and I’d scream in a loud, clear voice, “That’s it!” (A somewhat embarrasing prospect, especially while at my day job and in a patient’s room.) Then, I’d scrap my previous idea—whatever it was—and push forward with the new one.

But soon the ideas were coming so hard, so fast, the synapses in my brain were firing with such verocity that, like some really bad Robin Williams biopic, I suddenly and without warning stopped. Which idea should I write about? The question pounded through my skull over and over again. I just couldn’t decide. And when you add to the mix the usual stark mania perpetrated by the beginning of school and other difficulties I won’t mention here, you end up with one really inconsequential goober, like the kind I’d become. And then, before I knew it, almost two months passed since my last post and I had nothing, NOTHING to show for it.

I began to identify with and gain a greater appreciation for the protagonist of a story I’d been playing with on-and-off for awhile now. Through giftedness and training, he is imbued with great power, only to have his teacher suddenly and tragically killed before the protagonist learns to harness it. In fact, any magickal expression beyond the rudimentaries causes it to run amuck. So, in the face of great adversity, the story revolves around his baby steps in learning for himself the presence of mind needed to tap his gift without his head blowing up. In desparation, I did the same and looked for a method by which I could break my stalemate and push forward.

To my surprise, it came quickly enough in the form of a brief, simple whisper of a memory barely heard in the din of my brainwaves.

Perhaps by luck, and certainly by privilage I once for a time had the opportunity to call iconic outdoor writer Steve Comus “boss.” On a particularly frustating day of limited creativity, the crusty old newsman gave me a little advice, in his usual laid back, almost mumbling diction. “Think straight, write straight,” he said.

And so here I am. It’s 5:00 a.m., and I’m trying to reinstitute a long-atrophied practice by just thinking straight and writing straight. No predispositions. No pretensions. No grand designs to muck up the mix. Just one word in front of the other, like my feet on a long forced march, keeping them moving because the only end is at the end, and what happens in the mean time is the essence and pain of creativity. My only companions are the house cat and, in the words of Simon and Garfunkle, the sweet sound of silence. My only distraction is the slight twinge in my back, the remnant of a three-week-old muscle pull I exacerbated last weekend. A warm cup of coffee sets at my side, and above me the ceiling fan twirls.

I don’t intend on giving up on my ideas. On the contrary, I’ll likely make a list and explore them, one at a time at my discretion, thinking and writing as straight as I can until those journeys end as well.

Except maybe that gay midget porn concept.