Tiny Update

November ends today.  I've been so incredibly busy that I don't even know where to begin.

1.  I received another rejection letter for a short story.  They no longer sting as bad.
2.  I baked two derby pies, following this recipe.  First time I've ever made them, and they turned out great.
2b.  Bourbon may possibly replace rum whenever I find a reason to imbibe.
3.  Work work work work work.
4.  Christmas tree is up and decorated.  No outside lights yet.  May not be this year.
5.  The 4hr drive to Lambert's Cafe wasn't worth 4 hours.  Maybe 2, possibly 3 even, but not 4.  Not whenever you have a baby that doesn't like car rides.  The food, on the other hand, was delicious.
6.  My good friend Adam let me borrow the entire run of a Daredevil comic series, Volume 2, spanning over 130 issues between 1998 and 2009.  I only know the barest minimum about the Man without Fear, but he assures me that they're brilliant comics (though he said the ending was terrible).
7.  Skyrim progresses slowly but surely.  What a massive tale...
7b.  Not sure if I'm alone here or if this is normal, but a dragon totally landed inside the College of Winterhold, right in the quad, and the fight was pretty cool.  I also had a dragon fight with some mammoths nearby, and apparently the mammoths were peeved at the dragon, cause they took over and slew the dragon.
8.  Our annual class service project comes up this weekend.  Much to do.

I've much to say, and yet I'm blank.  Too scatterbrained at the moment.  All the best!

The Voice NT, a Review

I'm not sure if you've noticed, but oftentimes, the bible can come across as stuffy.  Especially if you're reading an older translation.  Conversely, there are many translations that are paraphrases, and while these are beneficial at times, they are also problematic, too.  The Voice is unique in that it's a translation, not a paraphrase, and yet it reads similarly to a paraphrase.  Or, as the publishers would put it:

While care has been taken to accurately translate the individual words from the original texts, careful attention to how the idioms of the original languages are understood in English has also been taken. But it doesn't stop there; The Voice considers the narrative links that help us to understand the drama and passion of story that is present in the original languages. The tone of the writing, the format of the page, and the directness of the dialog allows the tradition of passing down the biblical narrative to come through in The Voice.

I took a liking to The Voice when I was reading Chris Seay's Gospel According to Jesus.  In that book, all of the quoted Scripture came from The Voice.  I'd never heard of the translation before, but I loved the way it sounded.  Now, as it turns out, Chris Seay is among the many contributors to the translation.  In short, the allure of The Voice is that it's a translation made from a diverse group of translators, as opposed to wizened scholars who spend all their time in academia.  In addition to scholars, translators include poets, musicians, story tellers, and other forms of art.  These individuals all seek to maintain the original feeling of the Word, and in my opinion, The Voice reflects this passion.

One interesting formatting choice particularly caught my eye with The Voice.  Whenever anyone speaks, the columns break like a script.  We're given something like "Peter: ......"  This works very well when you have a group people going around, back and forth.  Typically, from my experience, most translations don't necessarily follow the "One Speaker Per Paragraph" rule.

Another interesting gem with this bible is that there are numerous study notes interspersed throughout the text.  Some may be personal challenges, applications for life, or maybe just a clarification about something cultural that we may no understand.  Whatever the case, these supplemental notes make The Voice even more practical for reading.

Similarly, there are also many supplemental words added to the main text as well.  These words are indicated with italics and are added to help the Reader understand the events even better.  On one hand, most of these italics could be treated as parentheticals and skipping them would not generally affect understanding.  On the other hand, these italics are an integral part of what gives The Voice its identity.  Some traditionalists/purists may scoff at these additions, claiming that the translators are adding to the Word.  I don't think this is the case, but the possibility does exist.

Another thing I really liked was the word choice translators used for certain words.  One example is logos.  Typically, we read John 1 as "In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God."  While those behind The Voice appreciate this, they also feel like translating logos into Word doesn't quite grasp the full mmmph behind it.  Many in our culture are desensitized, and something was chosen more active than Word.  So we've got Voice.  Christos is another great example, especially when you consider that so many people think Jesus' last name was Christ.    

Currently, only the New Testament is available in this translation.  It's a cheap paperback you can pick up at your local bookstore if you're interested, or you could also order online.  Furthermore, if you're interested in sampling The Voice (and I think you should at least sample it), you can download a free chapter from the website (here).  The entire bible will be available next Spring, and hopefully I'll be able to get my hands on a review copy.  In the end, The Voice has not supplanted my beloved ESV, but it's definitely taken a spot within easy reach.  It was designed to be read aloud, and this is obvious and useful for when Keisha and I do any reading.  

FTC Thingy:  This book was provided for free by Thomas Nelson Publishers via Booksneeze in exchange for my honest-to-goodness review.  No moneys were traded.  No stocks.  No socks.  No rocks.  No gym memberships.  And despite my constant pleas for accompanying cookies--oatmeal with raisins sounds good right about now--I've yet to receive any.  One of these days...

A Photo-Story of Travel

See Daddy, Mommy, and Baby.

They dress funny on Halloween.

There's Mommy and Baby who always seem to match...

And then there's sweet Daddy who makes your eyes need a scratch.


Baby is so happy; Baby is so swell...

Just look at her hair, growing so well!

The Family traveled to the Orchard of Great Apples.

And the Family tripped to the Pumpkin Patch in the Fall.

The Family watched Clint play football with tackles!

Daddy took Mommy to the Place of Engagement--a bench in a mall.

Travel makes Baby sleepy.

Listy Things

1.  Oh Shenandoah!  I am your daughter.  Prior to that, the prior pontificated the perfect diatribe against mean Mr. Mustard.

2.  Having recently experienced funerals, this story about a funeral mishap had me rolling.  Quite funny, quite short, and well worth the read.

3.  Vacation creeps in on little cat's feet in just three more days.  Not many plans but Skyrim, family, and a day-trip out to Missouri to eat at Lambert's.  We've ne'er been there, but hear wonderful things.

4.  Radiohead has a song called "Creep."  According to my latest tweet, I "snagged some #Radiohead tix for the St. Louis show on 3/9/12. Color me ecstatic."  I can't express how excited I am, as a Radiohead concert is one of my "dream concerts."

5.  The previous point contained three sets of quote marks / double apostrophes.

6.  An apostrophe is also a figure of speech that's best explained by referring to Point 1 (particularly the first six words) on this list.

7.  I'm entertaining the idea of next year reading only books on my TBR and/or books I own and/or can get from the library.  The only exception would be something drastic.  I shall think on this more, and if I decide to do so, I should add some more books to my TBR 'ere December's end.

8.  Christmas tree and decorations are going up ever-so-soon.  I can't wait to see Avonlea's eyes soaking it all in.

9.  I think I've mentioned it before, but not certain, but just to be clear, I completely deleted my Facebook account a few weeks/months ago.  Tired of it and the mostly useless newsfeed, I now use G+ and, on the rare occasion, Twitter.

10.  Realized last night that we've taken well over a thousand pictures of Avonlea since her birth.  Wow.

11.  Why does looking at pictures of food make you hungry?  Wouldn't it be great that if looking at the bible we had the same feeling?  I love reading the bible and thinking about its truths and having my mind exploded by God.  More and more I realize how little we are, how tiny, how insignificant, and yet God still loves us and gives us significance.  God, you are amazingly, indescribably, unfathomable, and I am so glad you are.

12.  See what I did there?  That's another example (cf. Points 6, 1).

13.  I'm simultaneously reading a lot of different books at the moment.  I am a multiple-book-reader-a-time, but this may be my record.

First Impressions: Skyrim

[Warning: This could possibly be the nerdiest post I've ever written.]
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Oh, but how beautiful it is!  The ragged peaks, the deep valleys, the shimmering falls.  Everywhere you look in Skyrim you see the beauty of nature.  But wait, is that a dragon?  Oh lordy lordy.

So I wasn't planning on buying the fifth installment in the Elder Scrolls series, Skyrim, which released last Friday.  Instead, and smartly, I went to the Redbox and actually rented the game.  Whet my appetite, enjoy a weekend with my little brother-in-law immersed in a new game.  Little did I know that the masters from Bethesda Studios were so devious.

My history with RPGs goes back to when I was a wee lad first discovering FFVII, which led to an unhealthy habit of staying up very late and saving/destroying imaginary worlds.  This habit thrived throughout adolescence and the teenage years, and I spent a lot of time with them.  Then came college and adulthood, where I (mostly) learned to relegate my time and act responsibly.  Sure, I might have blown off a class or four whenever KotoR II came out, and Fable held me spellbound for way too many hours, but by and large, I was getting out of my RPG phase.  My tastes were changing to something more active, less expansive, less turn-based.

The shift in preferences came with Fallout 3, a game my best friend purchased.  I loved the open-world, non-linear style it offered, and behold, a new obsession was found.  But it could last only so long, and soon college days ended and we moved several hundred miles apart.  And a year or two passed without me playing much of antying.  I bought FFXII, but only spent an hour or so with it.  And all was well.  Then along came a game called Oblivion, from the same company that made Fallout, and again my preferences were tingled.

I put a lot of hours into Oblivion.  It was humongous, but it had its flaws.  Fastforward to Fallout: New Vegas, which was/is definitely fun and immersive, but not as much as its predecessor.   Fastforward another year, 11/11/11, and Skyrim is released.  I'd read the buzz.  Followed the videos.  It looked great, but I didn't have the ummph to spend $60 on a new game, plus the time I knew I'd spend in it.  So I rented it and kept it for two days.  And in those days, escapism reigned, heroics flared, and Keisha tells me that I was smiling like a little kid.

I made myself a Wood Elf, complete with pointed ears, a thin nose, a dirty face, deep eye shadows, one dead eye, and oily, black hair.  Named him Clögan Darkhair (original, I know, but Clint+Logan can only yield so much). I've a fondness for Sneak, Stealth, Theft, and the general skullduggery of a petty criminal when it comes to these games, yet I don't (rarely) kill innocent civilians. Still, the dark look suited us, and we were off.

The opening scene was wonderful, and I loved how you get the vantage point from the headblock after watching a fellow criminal get beheaded. I've been mesmerized by the enormous size of the world, made even more so by the 3d elements of mountains and caves. It's definitely the biggest game I've played, and likely the most beautiful video game world ever created. I've already done several side quests and feel like I've not even put a toe in the water yet. The game is much less glitchier than New Vegas (one of its major weaknesses), and so far I've only had one instance of freezing. The giants are intimidating, and I've foolishly fought and died many times over because of them. (Anyone (Dave, I'm guessing, is the only one down here) actually killed one yet?) Trolls are somewhat of a challenge, too, but I've got a slash-block-flee combo down that proves mostly effective.

In short, Skyrim seems to take Oblivion and put it to shame, and pretty much treats almost every other game similarly.  I've never been more impressed by a game in all my years, and that's saying something.

I took Skyrim back to the Redbox yesterday. While at Walmart, I purchased a copy of the game for myself. I'm on vacation next week, so I'm hoping to get some time there, but Real World still takes priority. I have a lovely and wonderful wife that supported my decision in buying the game (Thanks!), and a beautiful daughter that still gets all my love. Still, Skyrim won't save itself.

Anyone else get this game yet?

Aftermath

Monday brought with it heat and sun, despite it being November.  Inside the funeral home it was simultaneously cold and hot.  Family arrived an hour early.  The parlor was opened and we were led inside.  The body was in a casket at the front, clothed in simple, every day clothes.  A thermal John Deere shirt.  Jeans.  A bandanna around the head.  He looked good, and it was the first time I'd seen him since February.

The feeling of nothingness pressed on.  I stood at the coffin and stared absently.  Throughout the evening, many friends and family members showed up to offer condolences.  For once, I was the recipient of awkward conversation and empty words.  My life was instantly in dichotomy.  One part of me was engaging in normal conversation with familiar people; the other part of me was slightly aggravated/annoyed.  Still, I'm thankful for all the people that showed up.

A funeral is rarely pleasant, and this one was about as pleasant as a dentist's trip, just worse.  I feel for ministers.  Having to stand in front of a grieving family and others and make a eulogy has got to be hard, especially for people who die without knowing the Lord.  For I believe with all of my heart that if someone does not have Jesus as their Savior then they are doomed to eternal hell.  I have no idea the condition of my dad's heart before he died, nor can I begin to fathom how longsuffering God is.  I do know that he was saved at a young age, but he lived a life of drugs and rebellion.  What does that mean?  I have no idea.  The only comfort here is that I know that I am saved through Jesus' sacrifice and that I won't have to spend eternity apart from Him.

A dead body is cold.  It's something any lover of fiction knows.  I've been to many, many funerals, but never once have I touched a corpse (at least not to my knowledge).  I hadn't planned on touching this one, either, and I resisted the urge until the final time I saw him.  We all stood around the coffin, people crying and sobbing.  My typical stoic demeanor dissolved at some point.  Compelled beyond reason, I patted his crossed hands.  Bone beneath loose skin.  Dead muscle.  And cold.  Unnatural.

We all exited and waited in our vehicles until the coffin was loaded into the hearse.  The cemetery was a few miles away.  It was sunny and windy.  A few final words were spoken and that was that.  People scattered, and a few of us went back to Nana's house to eat and be together.  While there, I leafed through a dozen photo albums and pulled out baby/kid pictures of me and Jake.  I have seen very few pictures of our childhood, as most of them burned up when our house burned down, so this find was wonderful.

Now it's Thursday.  I'm back to work again.  It's good to be back to routine, but I'm exhausted.  It's been a taxing few days, and I suspect I'll be tired for a few more before I balance out.  I've got in a little reading time of late, but nothing substantial.  I've also edited a flash fic piece and submitted it to an online 'zine.  And I discovered a 4 volume, 8 cd set of great music at the library called the Anthology of American Folk Music, compiled by acclaimed folklorist Harry Smith.

I'm amazed at everyone's support.  For the most part, I don't know any of you.  Still, it's indescribable how loving and supportive the blogosphere is, and I thank every single one of you for the kind words/thoughts/prayers sent my way.  Seriously.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled programming.

My Dad is Dead

My Dad is dead.  His body is laying in the basement of the local funeral home, going through the process of embalming and preparation for burial.  Tomorrow, an 8'x3' hole will be dug in a tiny cemetery atop a tiny hill to bury a 6'-5" man.  Well, he won't be buried until Tuesday, but I'm guessing the hole will be dug early.  That was  my responsibility.  Going to the cemetery with the graveyard keeper, marking the plot, staking the ground.

I'm not sure how I feel.  My relationship with my dad was pretty much nonexistent, and has been this way for the last few years.  In the greater scope, it's been this way for most of my life.  He and my mom divorced when I was but a babe.  So I grew up without my "real dad" an active part in my life.  We--my brother (Jake) and I--would go over nana's and see that side of my family every few weeks, but most of those memories are vague and blurry at best.  I distinctly remember being disappointed in his usual absence whenever we were out nana's, but I also distinctly remember his usual presence whenever we were out there, too.  He would go around singing or humming, hilarious, fun.  Making sweet tea.  Playing chess.  Reading comics.  These things, these positives, I have clearly inherited from him.  I sing/hum almost constantly.  I'm told that I'm a rather funny person.  I (used to) make sweet tea (until my taste buds switched to preferring non-sweet).

But by and by, for most of my life, I've thought of my dad as a man who squandered what he had for drugs and alcohol.  That was why mom and him divorced.  I can remember him being buzzed, eyes glazed over, lethargic.  He sometimes looked skeletal.  These aren't things I like thinking about, nor do I necessarily like revealing them to the Internets, but they're truths that are responsible for me being the man I am today.  From early on I resolved to be a better man than my dad, and now that I have a baby of my own, this ideal has been practiced for five-months strong.

I always intended to see him more.  More than just Christmas and Thanksgiving and the occasional summer time, but I never got around to it.  I could have called or visited, but I suppose that door swings both ways.  Still, it is what it is.  I was trying to think of the last time I saw him, which I guess was back in February, when we got together for Christmas at nana's.  I don't remember anything special sticking out.  Avonlea wasn't born yet.  And that's another thing that's sad.  He never met Avonlea.  Ciara (my sister) showed him pictures of her on Facebook, and he loved looking at them, but in flesh & blood, the two never met.

It was odd, going out there.  I got the call last night about 10pm.  Nana was somewhere a few hours away, on her way home, asking me if I would go out to his house and wait with Ciara until she got in.  I changed clothes and hurried down there, making the forty-minute trip in less than forty-minutes.  There were two cops there when I pulled up, a white van belonging to the funeral home, a neighbor across the street, and my sister and two twin uncles.  I hurried over and got in talking up the last few details with the funeral director.  (Did we want him smooth-shaved?  What time did we prefer to meet and go over the arrangements?)  And we stood around in a huddle in the cold wind, dark night, confused, silent.  Ciara said the cops wouldn't let her touch him.

Soon, the two funeral directors brought out the body.  It was on a stretcher, covered with a brown, squared, simple quilt.  I never saw his face, and I still haven't.  I watched them roll him to the van and put him in.  The cops came up and told us to lock up the place.  Everyone left and we went in.

It was the first time I'd ever been there.  A simple, old, dirty single-wide trailer.  Aluminum foil in the windows for insulation.  A weathered-but-comfortable couch.  It was definitely the home of a bachelor.  Pill bottles lay around, mostly empty.  I gathered that more than a few people had been trying to get him to quit. I soaked it in, still feeling blank inside, headache pounding away.  What am I supposed to think?  How am I supposed to be feeling?  There is no norm.  Every situation is unique here.

Now, after a day of dealing with cemeteries, morticians, and family, everything is slowly settling in.  Even so, I'm still confused, still uncertain.  That's why this post exists.  Writing, and blogging by extension, is the simplest way for me to put my thoughts to focus.  It's personal, yes, but I'm an honest individual that believes transparency is healthy and good.  And when you've stood in a room full of coffins, filled from wall to wall, all different but all similar, your thoughts are bound to be scrambled.  It's late.  I'm tired.  There's still lots to do.  Lots I don't know about.  I do know that my dad loved me, and I think he knew that I loved him.  I know that it hurts knowing that I didn't put forth more of an effort, and that's something I have to live with.  I'm still working on me and this, and I'm sure I will be doing so for a while.  Everybody has daddy issues, and they're influential in personal development.  It's pure coincidence that I started a book last week on becoming a better father/husband and that my mind has been thinking about my dad more than normal these last few days.  I was excited that Thanksgiving was coming up because he was finally going to get to see his only granddaughter.  Not anymore.

I loved my dad, even though I was an absent son, even though he was an absent father.  And now the potential for change and for a relationship is gone.

Flash Fiction Friday: Frost - A Myth

(This one doesn't quite fit the Flash Fic definition, but it's close enough.  Enjoy.)
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     “It’s called hoarfrost,” Gwyneth said, scraping at the flakes between her lithe fingers. Fragile as cobweb, the clumped glob turned into powder at her touch, flitting through the garden air into oblivion. 

     “Whore’s frost? Is their ma’am a nightlady or summin?” 

     Gwyneth rolled her eyes. “Hoar. H-O-A-R. It means old, grey, white. The oldfolk thought the stuff looked like an old hag’s hair.”

     Beatrice scratched at her moustachio, trying to look like she was in deep thought. If Gwyneth knew her twin--and she most certainly did--then she knew the girl wasn’t burning any brain cells. She was very likely thinking on roast pig and jammed tarts and spiced beers and boiled potatoes and most definitely not etymology. But like a good sister, Gwyneth suspended her disbelief for the sake of love. Just like she did about the girl’s unfortunate lip hair.

     “Ah,” said Beatrice, smiling wide. “Cause she’s got the dandyruff. Makes sense.”

     “Yes, sweet one, it’s the dandruff.” A wicked thought began pounding in her head, and before she knew it, Gwyneth was spilling lies. “Frost hasn’t always been white, Beat. You know that? No? Used to, back in 1603, I believe, frost was a brilliant gold color. Every morning men and women would wake up to a light dusting of gold, just lovely in the sunrise, and it was warm to the touch. But one day, Sir Edward Florent of Flora and his squire Peeping Joe from Boston went out and changed everything.”

     “You’re lying.”

     “Am not. GOD’S HONEST TRUTH IN ALL CAPS AM NOT. If I’m lying then He can just backspace and erase me out of existence and right off this page.”

     Beatrice wrinkled her brow so heavily that Gwyneth thought the poor girl was turning into an ogre. Her eyes crossed and Gwyneth had to fight every urge in her body to resist slapping her simple sister. Not everyone understands meta, Father had said one night after a rousing game of lawn croquet. They were in the den, sipping on cognac and eggnog, enjoying stimulating conversation and dabbling in the meanings of it all. Beatrice had tried to keep up, but as always, her sister was ever so slow and Gwyneth had soon lost her patience. It was then that Father requested her out in the vestibule for a private conversation.

     “Go on, then,” Beatrice said, enchanted. They sat on their favorite bench, its wrought-iron sides twisting and spiraling in no discernible pattern. It was one of the few things that they shared an interest in. Gwyneth fingered the tiny gargoyles perched on the armrests, collecting her thoughts. 

     “Okay, but only because you’re my sister. So, Sir Edward and Peeping Joe set out on a grand quest to find a mystical fount, the Font of Cheese or somesuch name, not really sure. Anyway, this fount was supposed to give all who drank from it a boon of unimaginable proportions. Many had quested for the Font, but none had ever found it.

     “They traveled long months, over hill and under water, through cave and desert, until finally they happened upon an oracle. This oracle pointed them in the direction of the Font but sternly warned them not to ask for a boon, but only drink from its waters. They promised, but their fingers were crossed, so it didn’t really count, but the oracle didn’t know this, so she let them go. Then, two hours later, they found it. The Font of Cheese.

     “It was massive. A hundred times larger than Fathers fondue, sweet, golden water flowed everywhere. And there at its mouth stood the hag. Bent with age, fattened from cheese, and uglier than the toadfaced boy, the hag scowled a one-toothed grin at the riders. ‘What brings ye here,’ she asked.

     “‘We’ve come for the Font,’ said Sir Edward. The hag nodded. Why else would they’ve come? She knew what they were after, but for traditions sake, she had to make sure they were telling the truth. Honesty and all that. 

     “‘Aye, and you’ve found it, but stay the night first and in the morn I shall take thee to it.’ So they agreed, both being wearied from the road. And that night the hag--”

     “Aha!” Beatrice interrupted. “So she is a nightlady then!”

     Gwyneth gave her twin a thump on the thigh. “I’ve already told you no. No, she’s a hag, and an ugly one at that. She was a lady of ill repute, so to speak, just not like that.”

     Beatrice winked at some imaginary joke. “Okay, Gwyn. Okay.”

     Gwyneth sighed. “Don’t call me that. My name’s Gwyneth, not Gwyn. Do you want me to finish this story or not? I can just stop there if you’d rather.”

     “No, no, go on. Sorry.”

     “Good.” Gwyneth coughed. “Anyway, that night, while the two men slept, the hag wove a spell over them, and when they awoke their vision was changed. Instead of seeing the old woman, a beautiful and nubile maiden stood before them. ‘Erm, who’re you?’ asked Peeping Joe, stretching out the ache from his joints.”

     “‘I’m Ilia, sir, guardian of the Font of Cheese.’

     “‘What about the other woman?’ inquired Sir Edward, donning his cloak.

     “‘Other woman, sir? There’s just me.’

     “The two knights looked at one another and then exploded in laughter. ‘Aye, sure,’ said Peeping Joe. ‘Now you’re a wagonload better than that old ugly hag that met us here last night, I say. Wonder where she got off to?’

     “The maiden shrugged. ‘Would you care for some breakfast?’ The two men were in a hurry to get to the fount, and Sir Edward thanked her kindly, but refused.

     “‘Our breakfast will be from the flow of the Font, if you don’t mind.’ said Sir Edward.

     “And so Ilia led the two men up a winding trail and to the outflow. All the while, Peeping Joe continued to ridicule the hag from the previous night, claiming he’d suffered a night terror on her account. To his credit, Sir Edward remained silent. At the banks, Ilia moved off to the side and rummaged around through an Amish cedar chest that just so happened to be there. Finally, she withdrew two ceramic mugs. On one, the mighty house seal of Flora was emblazoned, a one legged chicken atop the shoulders of an angry werebear; on the other, as proud as its partner, was a single birthday candle painted in pinks and baby blues. Silently, Ilia gave each their respected cup and motioned for them to dip and drink their fill.

     “The two men knelt and dipped. The golden water filled the mugs, and each man quaffed the liquid. All at once, the veil lifted from Sir Edward’s eyes and he saw the hag for who she really was. Peeping Joe, though, remained under her spell, for his rudeness in the morning had irked the witch. ‘And now you each have a boon,’ said the hag. 

     “‘Mine’s simple, m’lady,’ said Peeping Joe. ‘I’d ask to remain here with you for all eternity. Your radiance is as glorious as the sun, if I may be so bold, and I’d be content just to remain here and to hold.’

     “Sir Edward glared at his squire, troubled by the man’s sudden rhapsody of poetry. Poetry was nothing to trifle with, Sir Edward thought, though he did not correct his squire. Ilia nodded, smiling that horrible one-toothed grin. ‘And you?’ she asked, turning to Sir Edward.

     “‘I’ll have your head, witch!’ And in a flash his sword was in his hand, steel glinting like fire in the golden light of the water. Peeping Joe bellowed a Noooo! The ceramic cups shattered on the cobbles. Ilia cocked her head and snickered. Sir Edward flew through the air, slashing wide, tearing through the hag’s aged neck. Off rolled her head, grin still on the face.

     “Peeping Joe stopped, suddenly confused, for the witches spell ended as her lifeblood spilled out. Water bubbled and churned, and in the quiet morning a faint whisper fell from the bodiless head.”

     Gwyneth stopped. She could almost hear Beatrice’s heart pounding. She licked her lips, suddenly regretting her lack of foresight. In the wintry air, her lips would be chapped for certain. After a respectable moment, Gwyneth continued.

     “‘Accursed. A cursssse. A cursssssseee.’ And then she died. Immediately, the Font of Cheese lost its radiance, and the head again transformed, only now to that of an even more beautiful maiden than before. Filled with remorse, Sir Edward turned to his heartbroken squire.

     “‘You must go and tell the world this tale, Peeping Joe. The consequences of my actions will be most severe.’”

     “‘And what about you?’ asked the squire.”

     “Sir Edward held out his soiled longsword, staring at the black blood on the blade. ‘Me? I shall bear my burden until I die. The Font is mine, and I must guard it. Now go.’

     “And so squire Peeping Joe of Boston fled from the Font. The waters were white and silver now, their gold color long gone. He rode all day and night, stopping only when he couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer. And when he awoke the next morning, the frost was white.”

     The two girls sat in silence for a second. Gwyneth smiled at her fancy. Beatrice was frowning, rubbing at her moustachio again. “Who was the nightlady?”

     “Ah, see, Beat, now hers is a tragedy. She was once the fairest maiden in all the world, but a small-minded and heavy-handed stepfather put a curse on her, changing her from ideal to hideous. She ran away from home and lived alone all her years. Eventually she learned she, too, could do magicks, but by then she’d forgotten what her true face looked like.”

     The Ten O’Clock Gong reverberated above, deep and sonorous. Beatrice shot up like she’d been struck by lightning. “Brunch, sister! I wonder if we’ll have poached eggs and marmalade pecans?”

     “I don’t--” but Beatrice was already zooming down the hedgerow, moving as fast as her pudgy legs would carry her. Gwyneth yawned, rolled her eyes, and took off in pursuit.

-----

An attempt at humor, plus a fun myth for your weekend.

there's a monster in my belly, a poem

there's a monster in my belly,

it's colored black and brown.

and every time i'm up about

i think it goes to town.

its claws are sharp and hairy,

they scratch around inside.

poke! screech. twang! snip.

they shear away my pride.

its eyes are always open,

like mine, they're green and blue.

they soak up their surroundings,

and take especial note of you.

its teeth are razor blades and thorns,

made for chomping right through stone.

i've been bitten a time or twelve,

though it's never hit a bone.

from time to time it travels,

but never far it goes,

just up the spine to my brain

or slithers way down to my toes.

i wish, i wish, i wish times three,

that this monster'd leave and let me be,

that it'd sneak off to a closet or under a bed,

and let me sleep and rest my head.

-------

My stomach hurts.  Chronically.  Keisha fell and hurt her neck a few days ago; she's been hardly able to turn her head.  She chiropractered it up yesterday, and is going back again today.  Hopefully she gets well soon.

Halloween was a success.  Avonlea was most beautiful, I must say.  She went as an artist.  She even painted her own pieces, though she was no fan of dipping her hands or feet in the paints.  Still, Mommy & Daddy insisted.  We then framed each of the pieces on some colored poster boards.  Then we took a black drape and taped up all the artwork.  We created a sign that said "Museum de Avonlea."  Keisha dressed up as a museum curator.  I dressed up as an avant-garde art critic.  I splatter painted a onesie and Avonlea wore it, black pants, a beret, and a penciled moustache.   She was quite adorable, though she was not a fan of the 'stache being drawn on.  All in all, Halloween was a success.

Happy Movember to all participants, as well as NoShave participants.  And super happy NaNoWriMo to those brave souls.  Perhaps next year I'll jump aboard again.  We'll see.

Dream Lover, a Review

One of the best things about blogging is the community.  From my experience, most of the bloggers I've "met" are all friendly, professional, and bloody brilliant.  It seems that everyone is erudite and capable.  It's fun vicariously exploring different talents through the blogs of others, whether it's as a stay-at-home mom or an emigrant living in a haunted house somewhere in Scotland.  You get all kinds of differences, and that's half of the beauty of the blogosphere.  

In particular, I've mentioned fellow blogger Mattson Tomlin a time or two here on Rememorandom.  The lad (I can say that, as he's four years my junior) attends SUNY Purchase for Film (according to his IMDB page), where he's finishing up his junior or senior year, I can't recall which.  Anyway, I've been following Mattson for a few years now, and watching his films and ideas develop on his blog has been a real treat.  His posts often seem like "behind the scene" special features on DVDs, and when you watch this stuff prior to watching a film, it gives one a completely different feeling.

Mattson used a Kickstarter project to fund the short film called Dream Lover.  I kicked a buck, willing to support someone else's dreams, and then followed the many status updates Mattson posted intermittently.  Then, to my surprise, I received an email yesterday telling me that Dream Lover was up and available to watch.  So last night I lounged on the chaise, turned off the lights, put in earphones, and let the movie take me away.

To attempt to describe what Dream Lover is would be, in essence, like asking you to describe your dreams.  While that may sound simple enough, then throw in the challenge of not only describing, but also conveying your thoughts and feelings during your dreams.  Explain the why, the how.  Heck, sometimes even the who and where is beyond words.  This is a glimpse of Tomlin's 16-minute short, and I feel like the director/writer has done well in capturing a dream.  It's ethereal.  It's bizarre.  It's ever-changing.  There's horror, sex, death, and many other commonalities of Dream.  Scenes are quick and fluid, and transitioning between them is handled with grace and feels natural.

All of that still does not describe what the film is about.  And here's the dilemma.  Like with anything worth value, there will be different interpretations, and Tomlin's Dream Lover is no different.  People are definitely going to react differently, to get different things out of it.  One may feel pity for Anderson, the lead actor (and played by the dapper Adam Griffith) who has either moved on in a relationship or not, while someone else may find him skeevy and calloused.  Then there's the spurned-and-devilish Selene (played by Maria Rowene), the other main POV.  Her development is as beautiful as it is frightening.  And the third main player is Hera (Jenna D'Angelo), though she's more of a secondary character.  Throw in the actual Greek myth of Selene and Endymion, and the film can take on a whole different meaning.  

The sound effects of Dream Lover are perfect.  They've definitely been loved on and tailored to each scene.  The camera shots are all very-well done (I particularly liked the wide-angle shot of Young Anderson hiding under the bench), and even the sex scene was done with skill.  The accompanying score at the end provided a haunting tune to close out the credits*, wrapping up a stirring little movie.

So the real question is what's to do now?  I could talk about my thoughts, my feelings, but I also don't want to cross into spoilery.  So instead I'll strongly recommend that you go to the Dream Lover site (here) and watch the film.  It's 16-minutes long, nothing too taxing.  It's free, too.  (If it asks for a password, use "sweetdreams."  And don't worry.  Mattson wants as many people to watch it as possible; it's password-protected because of film festivals or something.)  Furthermore, if you like it, be sure and let Mattson know, as well as any other people you'd care to share it with.  Dream Lover is a great exploratory film about dreams, love, loss, and many other things, and you'd be sore pressed to miss it.  It's also a perfect conclusion to this year's RIP, as horror is definitely present (a la monsters and confusion).

I believe in Mattson Tomlin.  I've watched everything he's made available, except for Pit.A.Pat, whatever that is, and I see him going places.  His vision is great.  His skills are tremendous.  His passion is obvious.  So here's to you, Mr. Tomlin.  Great work on Dream Lover.  Now, I can't wait to get to the feature film of Solomon Grundy...

-----

*Yep, my name is in the credits.  I'm assuming its the Kickstarter donors list.

In Your Head, In Your Head, Zombie

[Note to the Reader: I recommend you clicking on the video first, letting it play while you read only if you've seen the video before.  Otherwise, I recommend on watching the video with the song.]

Oh man, this song wedges itself down in there deep, nestling right in between "Mana Mana" and "Do Wacka Do."  The Cranberries.  What a killer song, and a traumatic video, too, I daresay.  Plus, it's fitting for the season.  The video definitely captures the violent history of Ireland.

I love the viral lyrics, especially how Dolores O'Riordan sings them.  The heavy, steady bass-line pushes on continually, which is a metaphor all in itself.  As for the simple electric riff at the intro, solo, and outro, it's effective and lingers long after its finished.  And then there's the drums, beating and clashing, a perfect reminder of gunshot and clamor.  Yes, this song is monumental and powerful, but its also got a super catchy rhythm that definitely gets stuck "in your head, in your head."

I finally finished A Dance With Dragons, and now I'm debating whether or not to review it.  Is there a point to review Book Five of such an enormous series, where every word I say will be some type of spoiler for the previous four books?  No, probably not.  Dave is the only one who'd care.  In short, though, I enjoyed the book, just not as much as the first three.  Truly, it and AFFC could have been combined (as was the original plan) and condensed and the series would have been stronger for it.  As it stands, I'm slightly disappointed in the way ADWD ended.  Here's to hoping GRRM doesn't take as long with the next installment.

RIP VI is drawing to a close.  If you've not done so, go check out Carl's RIP Review site (here) and browse through the 600+ reviews.  I've put a few up myself, and should have one more before the thing winds to a close.  RIP is a great place to find new blogs, new books, and read some great reviews for the RIP season. Many thanks to Carl for continuing to host this event.

Avonlea's first Halloween aproacheth.  I shall endeavor to capture some memories with my memory capturing device.

Zombie. Zombie. Zombie-ie-ie-ie-ie-ooh-----

Nosferatu, a Review

Nosferatu is widely acclaimed for being one of the scariest films of all time.  With its iconic screen-shots, recognizable villain, lack of speech (i.e., a silent film), and word-of-mouth praise, I had some pre-conceived ideas about what to expect when I put the film on last night.  Sadly, my expectations fell flat within minutes of the film's exposition.  There are spoilers for those of you unfamiliar with Dracula or any other vampire story.

Nosferatu is essentially Dracula, though for legal reasons at the time, changes were made to avoid being sued.  Chiefly, Count Dracula is now Count Orlok, a creeper that lives off in the "land of ghosts and thieves."  A young real estate agent, and the film's protagonist, Hutter, has been given the task of securing deed work from Orlok to purchase a "beautiful and abandoned house" in the town.  Hutter leaves his beloved, Ellen, and sets off.  Needless to say, things go about how you'd expect, with only one additional plot element that I didn't see coming.

First off, before I begin deconstructing this film, an apology: I obviously am not the targeted audience and I've been too exposed to modern cinema to enjoy this movie.  Others (perhaps fans of TCM and Expressionism) like and appreciate this movie.  I don't.  And I'll explain why.

To begin with, I'm not a fan of Expressionism theater*.  I understand that it may have been useful for early 20th century folks, especially when so much was relied upon conveying through movement, but to me, it's just ridiculous.  I can't fathom why the folks of the time cared for it, either.  Real life is not Expressionistic.  The over-exaggerated movements and absurd facial expressions belong in a comedy, not a horror.  Most of the time I wanted to punch Hutter in the face for being so idiotic; I wanted to wipe the sycophantic smirk off of Knock's face; I wanted to slap some liberation into Ellen.  Even Count Orlok, while relatively reserved compared to the rest of the cast, fell to this form.  And as I said, this does not perpetuate horror, but comedy.

The next thing, and perhaps my biggest annoyance, was the score that accompanied the film.  We watched the Netflix Instant version of Nosferatu, and the film had a slide at the beginning that said the score was added in 1991.  I'm not sure who composed or played here**, or how this score compares to Hans Erdmann's original, but it was awful.  It basically sounded like a young musician learning about synthesizers and keyboards decided to tinker around.  Music rarely fit the scene, and half of it grew tedious after a few seconds of listening.

The third (and for brevity's sake, final) problem was the character's themselves.  Hutter was an idiot.  I don't know why he chose to act the way he did, but his actions were totally unforgivable.  Consider the following:

At Orlok's eerie and abandoned manse, Hutter is cutting him a slice of bread.  He cuts his finger accidentally.  Immediately Orlok is at the man's side and attempts to suck the blood from his finger.  Disturbed, Hutter backs away.  All the way to a cozy chair beside a fireplace.  Orlok, seconds later, suggests they sit and chat a while, and Hutter agrees.  The idiot falls asleep.  Then, the next day, he frolics around the estate, where he happens upon Orlok's sleeping body, that so happens to be in a coffin.  Horrified, Hutter runs away to the safest place possible: his room, where he puts a cover over his head and cowers in terror.  Good thing Orlok decided to leave for his new abandoned mansion, else I might have broken my tv.

What person is their right mind would do something like that?  It's so bad that I had to offset the whole paragraph!  Is Hutter supposed to be an imbecile?  And another thing.  Hutter brings a few books with him to read.  They're necessary plot devices, and when he picks one up, a slide comes up to show the Viewer what he's reading.  At one point, Hutter finishes his book and he slams it shut then hurls it to the floor.  For no apparent reason other than to persuade the Viewer that that's how one ought to treat a book.

I could go on and on about my problems with the film, but I'll stop at three.  There is a few commendable features, chiefly Orlok himself, that I found slightly enjoyable and somewhat creepy.  Max Schreck played his part well, and the vampire's movements & actions were the only part of this movie that could qualify as horror.  I particularly liked his slow walk and his disfigured face.  

In the end, Nosferatu was a worthless movie to watch.  Perhaps had I watched it fifty years ago.  Perhaps had I muted the tv.  Perhaps had I gouged my eyes out.  But alas, I did watch it, and I can't really recommend it to you unless you're a silent film fan, or simply curious to see the seminal vampire movie.  That said, there are other versions besides the one on Netflix, and mayhap they're better.  I won't be investigating, though.

---------------

*Though it does often work well in a comedy.

**A Google search says there are two Netflix versions.  One has a score created by the Silent Orchestra, which I believe is the one I watched.  The other apparently is no better.  [Source: here.]

Flash Fiction Friday: Medical Log Entry #16

Medical Log Entry #16
Patient: John Doe

You would think that in the midst of certain Armageddon--global thermonuclear war, devastating pandemic, cybernetic revolution, and the African continental plate disappearing, to name a few--that one would be accustomed to expecting the unexpected. I, for one, am no stranger to the bizarre. After my stint in deep space, my mind’s been programmed to think well outside the bounds of normalcy. Add that to the thirty-one years with the Force, I’ve seen it all. But when Nilo called me up and told me I had to hurry home, that I just had to see this, I could tell from the tone of her voice that something unique was waiting for me.

Nilo and I first met at UMBRA back in 0-13. I was newblood, straight from the uni’s proud and ancient halls. Still had the naive shine in my eyes. Still thought the earth tilted at twenty-three degrees. Nilo was already an old hound by the time I showed up. She’d been immersed in the strange for half a millennium. Everybody who’s anybody knows who Nilo the Cyrene is. Her fame is known from here to the outer sectors. She practically wrote the book on modern criminal psychology, as well as how to deal with the ramifications.

Needless to say, I boarded the next transport home. Of course, home was currently over two hundred and forty-nine million miles away, past Mars, past what’s left of Moon, back in tiny little Harrison, Michigan, United States, Earth. Traveling near Mach 100, the trip would take over a third of a standard year. That’s a long time for someone to wait, I had told Nilo, but she assured me I would be fine as long as I left soon.

It was day eighteen when it happened. Our transport was careening at speeds approaching oblivion (though nowhere near the higher realm of the mighty c), but inside the Argo everything was relatively calm. I excused myself from a fascinating conversation about fungus with the delightful Dr. Dame Wolffa and made a bee-line for the privy. It was there, standing in front of the mirror and watching the recycled greywater gush from the faucet, that the Argo experienced turbulence. I staggered. My head hit the counter top. Something massive crashed into the transport and the entire world around me shook violently. I heard a few gasps from outside, but the door on the privy was sealed shut and refused to open. I banged, as if expecting that to do anything, and again the world shook. It was as if an earthquake was loosed upon us, though, as I said, we were many million miles away from Earth.

The interior lights cut off, plunging me into sudden darkness. A moment later the emergency lights flashed on, a bright orange EXIT sign illuminating above the door. “Not hardly,” I said, pulling again at the latch. Open sobbing now sounded from without. I heard prayers and pleadings. Then the shuttle shook again and something massive crashed into it, grinding it and everything within it into dust.

Everything turned into colors. Sounds. Tastes. Smells. Indigo from a rainbow. The shade of dead wheat.  Mist from a waterfall.  The brightness of Sun at daybreak. How keystrokes sound at high WPM. Iris milky white. Bland oatmeal on a summer’s luncheon. Nilo’s perfume the night we went to Cloisters. The saffron hue of her lipstick. Darkness, encircling and pulsing, my body spinning in a billion little pieces, each turning and rushing along with whatever carried it away. An old dirge of trumpets and cellos. The grey of sepulchers and the gold of crowns. Salt on springmelons. Her laughter at the cine. Her hand inside mine. Dark blood red after a gunshot. Sand grains beneath fingers within cake upon grass under covers pork insulafoam bone masks joy inside you ache love numbers algorithms infinitely complex knowing knowledge knowing nothing spinning spiraling spewing splicing splaying splintering fragmentslightblackhopelostfoundyou...

Life coalesced; meaning reared its head; every road I’ve ever traveled was before me; every choice I’ve ever made; every possibility of everything, past, present, future. I was dead, and I wasn’t. There was still work to be done. Something remaining for me. All of this and more I knew, as if the Almighty chose to give me a glimpse into His mind. There was terror and there was certainty. Above all there was love.

I awoke here at St. John’s Hospital. I’ve no idea of the date. Every time I ask I’m told something about something called “January,” whatever that means. The orderlies all shun me. I see hate in their eyes. Distrust. There is one I may be able to persuade to join me, for I see sympathy in him. Still, I am lost without my Nilo. No one claims to know her, and I’m beginning to question her existence myself. I am no longer confident of anything. They asked me to write this all down, and looking back at it I can’t discern fact from fiction. They are trying to help me, so they say, but to me it’s more like an interrogation. Nothing makes sense. I am confined but for my writing arm and my neck. So I write, day in, day out, hoping someday that I can look back over this and find the truth. I know it exists. I had it in my grasp as I rode the comet back to Earth. But eternal fire is not meant for human minds, and I now must pay the cost. One day I will recover, and when I do, I will flee from this place and find Nilo. Until then, I must have patience.

-----

Word Count: 938

-Written as an exercise in futility, plus, it's been a while.

Reconnaissance

Monday morning.  5:15am.  Cool.  Sleepy.  I go through the motions of my daily waking ritual, only now an hour earlier.  I take up my travel gear, kiss the sleeping ones, and hit the road.  Coffee, black, two creams, loathsome from McDonalds but open and cheap.  I pull into the office at 5:50, unload and re-load into Mike's. We're on the road by ten after six.

---

The trip is shy of four hours.  We drive in early morning bleariness.  Traffic is dead.  I may as well be.  We hit a rest stop halfway to our destination.  Temperature's dropped.  I see my breath in the air.  The road rumbles on as we roll west, away from my family, my home, and everybody I love.  It is the first time I've left my daughter for this long, and I miss her already.  But there's work to be had.  We're explorers bound for a brave new world, or at least a different world than home.  The Arch appears in the smoggy distance.  East St. Louis, we have arrived.

---

I am no stranger to urban life.  For five years I lived in Louisville, a relative metropolitan with a population in the millions.  I had a few different residencies, one being in a house dubbed the Old Skank.  The heat barely worked.  Water was so hard that it was almost white coming out of the faucet.  The cabinets were tilted and doors would close/open as per gravity's whims.  To get in the tub you had to step over a two-foot wall.  My car was broken into here.  An attempted rape was stopped on the front porch just houses away.  Yes, I know the seedy parts of the city, but all of this had nothing on our corner of heaven in East St. Louis.  Windows and doors were barred; scores of houses were condemned; everything was in disrepair.  But we weren't house hunting; no, we were looking at drainage structures, trying to see how the water was flowing in and around the intersection for our new project.

The stretch of road isn't very far, just a simple interchange with a bridge.  There were around 30 culverts to inspect.  To do this, we found these structures on our maps, then took pictures of them.  If anything of special interest caught our eyes, we'd jot notes down, though this usually consisted of whether or not an inlet was grated and/or clogged.  Occasionally we'd find some crazy outlet conditions, and one culvert took us several hundred feet into a mysterious woods filled with eroded banks and lethal briars.  Ah, but it was nice to be outside, and Monday proved warm enough to need only short sleeves.

We worked hard, and by six o'clock, we were both tired.  The hotel called; supper beckoned; sleep scratched.  We relented.  I brought my computer, aiming to get in some good writing time.  I brought some books, eager to read.  Alas, I was too sleepy.  By ten-thirty I was out, missing Avonlea, missing Keisha, missing Kentucky.

---

I had a nightmare, for the first time in ages.  I woke up at 4:40 with goosebumps.  Someone was standing over me.  I dreamed of demons, but I know not why.

---

6:30am.  41 degrees.  Raining.  I'd slept with the air conditioner on, so my room was icy.  I hurried and dressed, packed, and headed down to see how awesome the breakfast would be.  There was a waffle maker, so it was at least palatable.  We ate breakfast and went over the plans while reruns of Charmed played across the screens above.  There were a few more culverts to inspect, and since it had been storming, we'd look for some of the pipes we couldn't locate the previous day.

We worked through the rain, and by lunch my feet were thoroughly soaked.  Tennis shoes were a bad idea, but I have no boots other than steel toes.  Wet, cold, and hungry, we finished our reconnaissance.  For lunch, Cracker Barrel had the fireplace lit.  I changed clothes and cozied up to the flames.  A hearty meatloaf later, we were on the road, returning home.  Four hours later, the car was emptied, Rosebud was re-loaded, and I was home.

The collected data will be useful, as I'm starting on a new project.  Basically the site visit makes our 2-d maps much more useful, especially now that I have an idea of how the water will flow after a rain event.  When drawing drainage areas for watersheds, the USGS quad sheets are generally helpful, but aerials and real-world shots sometimes give a different result.  Next comes the actual drainage analysis, the studying of ditch flows and culvert discharges.  Should be interesting to see this go from start to finish.

A Night of Blacker Darkness, a Review

"Do you ever wonder," said John idly, "why we call buildings 'buildings?' Are they in a state of constant construction? We should call them 'builts.'"

--- 

"Not like that," said John. "More tuneless, almost melancholy--like the whisper of a dying candle."
"I think it's safe to say that no one in this room knows what you're talking about."

A Night of Blacker Darkness, being the memoir of Frederick Whithers, is exactly what the subtitle says it is: a memoir.  Who, you may ask, is Frederick Whithers?  Mr. Whithers was a simple man of the early 19th century, who lived quite a simple life prior to his death, at least according to Mr. Bagsworth III's introduction.  According to official records, Whithers died of consumption while serving a prison sentence for forgery.  But if the memoir is to be believed, he faked his death, rose from his coffin, was spotted by a group of vampires who immediately proclaimed him the Great One, and had an unusual few days of pure  farcical madness as he tried to lay stakes on a ninety-thousand pound inheritance.

To expound on this madness would, I fear, spoil the brilliance of Mr. Whithers' memoir.  There is a great mystery lurking in the plot, drizzled with some fantastic humor so thick that one's willingness to suspend disbelief is almost challenged.  Murphy's Law prevails often, it seems.  The story is hilarious, and I had to stop reading a few times just so I could finish laughing.  John ____* may be one of the funniest characters I've ever read, and his dialogue/musings always cracked me up.

I became aware of A Night of Blacker Darkness just a few weeks ago.  While browsing Kindle book deals, I was looking through favorite authors, and this book came up.  And being a fan of Dan Wells, the mastermind behind this fictitious memoir, and furthermore intrigued because this book is only available as an e-book, I decided to give it a go.  I assure you, it's well worth the $5.

So what more can I say about this book?  It's very well written, though there are a few errors throughout the pages, but not enough to derail the story.  It's definitely macabre, as Frederick's post-prison journey takes him to graveyards, mortuaries, charnel houses, a ghoul's lair, a basement full of vampires, and many other random places throughout Bath and London.  And while the story never crosses into all-out horror, there are traditional elements of horror present.  To me, though, the delight came from the mystery mixing with the antics.  Wells makes use of a few familiar tropes and creates a gem.

I could say much on this read, but so as to not potentially ruin anything, I'll say little else.  If you have an e-reader, you really should read this book.  It's short and can be read in a lazy afternoon.  It'll have you laughing and have you intrigued.  I can easily recommend it to genre fans, literary fans, people that like to laugh, people with e-readers, and fans of Young Frankenstein or Dracula Dead and Loving It.  Better yet, go to Amazon and read the free sample (here).  I heartily enjoyed A Night of Blacker Darkness, and I eagerly look forward to seeing what else Dan Wells has to offer.

-----------

*This surname is intentionally blanked out by me, not in the book.  

General Updates

i see your bet and i raise you fifty more.

It's hard to believe that Avonlea is now over four months old.  She had her appointment for shots and stuff on Monday, and it possibly was the most heartbreaking thing I've ever seen.  The first round of shots from last month had nothing on this batch.  After a general check up from the pediatrician, the nurse came in to give the immunizations.  The first shot went in, Avonlea went from happy to total betrayal shock then to momentary silence to all-out screams in two seconds.  Then came the second shot in the other leg and the poor baby somehow became even more pitiful.  I really thought I was going to cry.  There's something about that defenseless mewling that destroyed a small part of my soul, but I know it's for her good.

Prior to all of this, she was weighed and measured.  Avonlea now weighs 9 lb, 6 oz, which puts her in the <5% on weight for babies her age.  This is congruent with her 3 month weight, as well as birth.  Length she is now in the <10%, so that's some improvement from the previous two measurements.  Foreverthemore, the good doctor said she looks great, acts great, and is perfectly healthy.

We're expecting her to start picking up some weight, since we began supplementing her with actual baby food a week or two ago.  Avonlea, like her daddy, loves green peas, though she's a touch messier than I am when she eats them.  She's not overly fond of bananas, but carrots are proving delicious.  The brown rice cereal is neither here nor there, but it's definitely filling, as evidenced by her sleeping through the night.

Sunday also turned out to be a wonderful day.  I lazied on the couch all afternoon, watching the Colts screw up and lose, and Avonlea lay right there with me.  This is a milestone, as Avonlea generally does not enjoy napping  by daddy and usually begins crying almost instantly.  (Oddly enough, she loves me rocking her to sleep and curls right up in my arms and drifts off pretty quickly.)  Still, she fell asleep on my chest and it was perfect.

Saturday night was The Well.  It was our first gathering.  A group of us really just want to get deeper in our relationship with God, deeper in our worship, in our praise to Him, and more in touch with our brothers & sisters.  We sang some songs, studied some Scripture, and glorified God in our quest to breathe His Word.  It was refreshing and intentions were met.

at mom's house.

I've also been working on a short story that I plan on putting out here as a Writing Wednesday post.  I have another one finished (though unedited) that is part of something much larger, something that's been in the works for a while now.  NaNoWriMo is next month, and while that's the perfect catalyst to force me to spew some words and thoughts, it's also too hectic an event for me to commit to, especially now that we have Avonlea.  I wish we had some sort of writer's group here in OBKY, or just some sort of pen pal like person that I could bounce ideas off and get my stuff ripped to shreds.

I'm finally starting on a new project at work.  After two years of tweaking a project down at the Land Between the Lakes, it's nice to finally be staring at something new.  What's more, this project is located in Illinois, relatively near St. Louis.  Because of it being in a different state, there's a whole new set of guidelines to follow for design work that's different from Kentucky.  While interesting and insightful, it's also tedious.  Soon, though, I'll be into the work and eager to start.

Lot's going on.  Maybe a book review Friday, and if not, then probably Monday.

In Cold Blood, a Review

Holcomb, Kan., Nov. 15 [1959] (UPI) -- A wealthy wheat farmer, his wife and their two young children were found shot to death today in their home. They had been killed by shotgun blasts at close range after being bound and gagged ... There were no signs of a struggle, and nothing had been stolen. The telephone lines had been cut.—The New York Times

I'm hesitant to review Truman Capote's seminal true-crime novel In Cold Blood.  How does one begin to review non-fiction, let alone true stories?  I see the vanity of my opinion on the situation and want to run screaming the other way.  But that curious part of me, that part buried in a metal box in the middle of my heart, twitches and pines for things it ought not.  As I've mused time and again, I am inexplicably drawn to these things.

In Cold Blood is the account of the Clutter murders.  The book is broken up into four sections and told through numerous Points-of-View.  We watch Herb Clutter, kindly and genteel, make his way around Holcomb, conducting business for his family farm.  We see sixteen-year-old Nancy Clutter's budding relationship with her high school boyfriend.  We struggle with Mrs. Clutter and her bouts of depression, and son Kenyon (15) and his aspirations.  We're told about the small town of Holcomb and its caring citizens, where Church is society, the diner is always busy, and idle talk spreads fast.

Beyond this, and the more intriguing parts of the book, we travel with Dick Hickock and Perry Smith, two parolees who ultimately murder four innocent people for the hope of a chance that Mr. Clutter kept a safe in his house, filled with at least ten thousand dollars.  We learn of each man's upbringing, of their choices that landed them in jail, of their plans and goals, of their bitterness, and of their deaths.  It's easy to pity them, to wish things better for them, but from the onset we're aware of their deed and their execution.

Capote is brilliant in building dread and suspense.  Scenes change quickly, and since this is a journalistic approach, we see various sides of people/events.  There is much to be said about the crime, the victims, the criminals, and the aftermath, and Capote adroitly handles it all.

Strikingly, the brutality of the crime (as well as the executions of Hickock, Smith, and some other men on Death Row) is done in a matter-of-fact way.  Capote presents the scene with little fanfare, and this minimalism is chilling.  The Reader is left as dazed and confused as the townsfolk of Holcomb were, and one can't help but press on to discover the true motive.  Why? continually comes to mind.  Emotion is poured into the book, though often it is reserved and professional, and this dichotomy makes for an oddly disturbing read.

In Cold Blood has been on my TBR shelf for a very long time, and I'm glad it's finally gone.  I wanted to read it for RIP this year because this stuff is what truly defines horror to me.  It's real and 100% possible, not like some phantom killer or haunted house.  I tend to think that we've created ghost stories as an escape, preferring the supernatural to the perfectly natural.  Because there are killers out there.  People that torture, kidnap, rape, murder, assault, harass, antagonize.  And who knows when someone could simply snap and massacre a shopping center or bookstore?  It's scary enough to make me want to take my family and live in a bomb shelter, buried and out of sight, safe and secure.  And when my mind starts roaming these uncomfortable corridors, I have to ask myself one question: what if you're the one to snap?

And it stops me.  Cold.  Because I'm human, just like Dick Hickock, Perry Smith, Herb Clutter, and everybody else.  I'm no killer, but I could be.  We all could be.  We all have the potential.  What keeps us held back is our self-control, or maybe our fear of prison and death.  What keeps me back is my love for people, my love of life, made possible by the gospel of Jesus Christ.  Without Him, I think I'd be some kind of messed up person, but I trust Him and His word that He'll never leave me or forsake me.  But really, when you think about it, if you stand two people side-by-side, one a killer, the other not, and put them in identical clothes and ask someone to pick out the killer, there's no difference.  Both are just simply people, and that's the most terrifying thing out there.  We don't really know anyone...

[Note: After re-reading this, I realize how disturbing this post is, and I've considered simply deleting and starting over.  But, as a purist, I find that path treacherous.  Instead, I'll echo my previous line.  I am enslaved to God and committed until I die, therefore I do not keep myself restrained from going out and murdering somebody.  Instead, I deal with the more insidious sins, things like when Jesus said that being angry with your brother was basically wanting to kill him, and inward lust was the same thing as adultery, and pride--oh how I loathe thee!--that snakes its way into every aspect of my life.  Yes, friends, I am perfectly sane (to my knowledge).  Just trying to make my way in the world the same as the rest of ya.]

Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark, a Review

Perhaps the reason I've an affinity for dark & twisted art lies with a trio of books I read as a child.  Alvin Schwartz is most known for his collection of folktales marketed towards children.  His most famous books--Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark, More Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark, and Scary Stories 3: More Tales to Chill Your Bones--were some of my most favorite reads as a lad, and when I recently happened upon my personal copy of SS3, I couldn't help but dive in.  I went to the library and checked out the first two volumes (not sure why I only have the third?), then promptly drove home and leafed through the pages.

It's impossible to continue without acknowledging Stephen Gammell's defining artwork.  In fact, I'm going out on a limb and saying that it's Gammell's work that makes this collection so cherished (and challenged*, for that matter).  I love the loose, spindly, flowy lines that add an ethereal feel to each work.  Everything has the tone of something horrific waiting to be loosed upon your mind.  I would love to see Gammell do some Lovecraftian illustrations.  Yes, it is Gammell's work that shines in these books, and they've no doubt affected my subconscious.  

Allow me to wax on here.  The illustrations are grotesque.  Magnetic, whereby they repulse the reader, but attract as well.  I feel as if Gammell has somehow captured the essence of a nightmare (or some hell) and then rendered it on us, and, in particular, young minds.  Frankly I'm surprised these books are read by kids, as I can easily see them getting utterly creeped out and running for Mommy in the dead hours after midnight.  Moreover, as I was rocking Avonlea to sleep the other night, I was reading the books and left them beside her crib after she went to sleep.  Keisha brought them to me later as I was brushing my teeth and said, "You can't leave those in there. If I look over there and see 'em in the middle of the night I'd be freaked out."

I guess I would, too.  I have this fleeting fear whenever I wake up during the night.  With the thick shadows and eerie softglow lights, coupled with the fact that I'm not wearing my spectacles, everything is blurred and skewed.  My mind deceives me.  My eyes tell untruths and distortions.  I see monsters and things unknown in the darkness, sinister and evil, things that would fit perfectly alongside these horrors Gammell's illustrated.

Still, there is more to these books than just the art.  Schwartz writes in an easy to understand form, especially for children.  To my understanding, the intention is for these things to be read aloud, and working with that assumption, these stories all do well.  However, if one looks too closely as the sentences, well, one gets disappointed in the simplicity.  It's anticlimactic at times, coming across as uninspired and flat out boring.  This is not prevalent, nor is it epidemic, but the way these stories are told is very weak when compared with other folktales.  (This seems fickle, as I'm comparing a children's book to adult, scholarly things, but what can I say?)  Nevertheless, I did feel like Schwartz dropped the ball several times throughout these three books, but if you're reading them aloud, it's not too bad.

If we look at the folktales and urban legends themselves, then these three books are a treasure chest of them.  Each tale spans from 1-3 pages (most falling at just over a page) in length, and because of that, there are a multitude of stories.  Many are familiar things, things we all know, things our grandparents swear are true.  But there are more than enough unfamiliar ones, too.  And to me, digesting a "new" folktale, especially one that's been around for years, is like cream cheese icing on a carrot cake.  Delicious.

I appreciate Schwartz listing a bibliography at the end of each book, as it's nice to be able to dig deeper (or see different tellings) for a story.  When things are from oral tradition, Schwartz lists people involved, too, or areas he collected from.  I also like how there are "alternate endings" or miscellany for the stories listed.

These three books are delightful little reads.  There's no doubt that they're heavily responsible for my taking to folktales, as I read these books for the first time in elementary school, but they're also probably responsible for my weakness for dark art.  I'm glad to have stumbled on my copy of SS3 the other day, and even more glad to find the library's copies were in the stacks and not checked out.  Halloween is the perfect time to read these books, and the RIP challenge just makes it more pleasant.  If you've never read the stories Schwartz tells, then you're missing out.  But even more, if you've not had your heart stopped by Stephen Gammell's horrid illustrations, you're really missing out.  I strongly recommend remedying this as soon as humanly possible.

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*Not only was this series the most challenged during the 1990s, it was also the 7th most challenged between 2000-2009.  I'm assuming