Oh Ho!  Post number two.

After slogging in the trenches all day, I come home through a miserable cold rain, in the dark, and can't find my way into the Blog to make a new post.

The old online interface that worked for Post 1 wouldn't let me back in... hummm.  Couldn't call myself a techie if I couldn't get back into my own Blog.

But I'm here.

Watching Storage Wars, which takes place in sunny Southern California, and wondering what the heck I am doing wrong.  Not only is the weather miserable, the grand daughter has a cold, the days are a whopping nine hours long, being late November, and I'm not having nearly the kind of fun they are having buying other people's forgotten treasures.  Which is always fun, if you've ever been to an auction.  At least it's not snowing.  Thank you Global Warming.

My theory on that is that the world was too small the very first day that some human being decided it was too cold for just the firs on her back, and got her man to light a fire to keep warm.

Sure, fire had been around for a while, for roasting meat, protection, singeing off your eyebrows and lighting your enemies on fire, but the moment it was used for keeping warm, the world was too small.

Thus, its been a long slide into the shitter ever since since.  I dare anyone to prove me wrong.  To all the nay-sayers, there are two simple words:  peak oil.

But we shall preserver.  Read A Canticle for Leibowitz.

Gotta do some more writing.  I'm bogged down telling Laura's story.  This damn novel is driving me nuts.  I want to get it done so the trilogy is wrapped up but its starting to sprawl.  Not 2611 pages or anything...but I need to see the end.

Chao for now.

Post Number One

Hello cyber world!
Welcome to my blog.
How are you doing?  Well enough?
At least well enough to be reading this, so the juice is still flowing.

Why read these musings?
Well, any answer will make me appear either to have a truly inflated ego or an enormous inferiority complex, or both, or something...so I'm sayin' nothing.

Then again, whatever I write could be different, subversive, or even diverting, so who knows?

A hint:  some posts will likely be chunks of a novel.  Not polished stuff either, but raw, rough stuff.  Prose you can chew on.

Here is an example...well, just a little bit polished:

The Soldier looked in the mirror and for the briefest moment did not recognize his own face. 

At first this was disconcerting, but not as alarming as he had once anticipated.  In his youth he had expected that someday he would do this:  Look in the mirror and find out his mind had left him behind.  Of course, he had told no one.

All children discover that no matter how hard you try, you cannot see your own eyes move in a mirror.  But his eyes moved, looking out at him with a comforting, benign expression, and though startled, he was almost relieved that he didn’t feel particularly unhinged.

Once, he had been on a sound stage and seen his eyes move in the Assistant Director’s monitor, and this had been absolutely terrifying.  The camera had followed him as he moved way off scene, still saying his lines, to where he was able to see himself onscreen and he flinched and choked on his words. 

“CUT!”  yelled the Asisistant Director, pulling off his headphones.

“That took me off guard, I suppose,”  he explained, pointing.  “You know, we actors wear it all out on the sleeve.”  Or something like that.

The AD had said, sternly, “Richard.”

“I saw my eyes move.  But you can’t see your own eyes move. ”

“Oh yes,” the Assistant Director had said, already distracted by some other detail of import, turning half away, “Sometimes you can.  Something to do with servers sort of misfiring.  Makes a fractional delay as the feed goes through some circuits.”

“Oh.”

“So don’t look at the monitor, which you have no business doing.  And bear up.  Lets try it again, everyone, shall we, humm?”

“Places!”  someone yelled.

And then the AD’s rah rah boy jumped in, script in hand, to focus his mood or some such shit.

But this time, in the tiny lavatory, in the early morning with the hot sun rising over the desert, there was no electrical wizardry.  The circuit misfiring was inside his brain.