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.